The Whys of Us

45

Rhysand can't sleep.

He's been staring at the ceiling for two, three hours, and his legs feel cramped, but it's not just the couch, Rhysand could care less about the couch—the fact that Sanford is just in the next room, sleeping soundly, without him—it physically hurts.

But—but he's wrong.

She's not sleeping, at all, because the door slightly creaks open, and Rhysand sits up, eyes blinking against the darkness.

"Oh," Sanford says, blinking, pressed against the door. "You're—you're awake."

"You are, too," Rhysand says, just as softly.

She winces. "Sorry, is the couch too—"

"No," he answers, shaking his head. "No, it's fine. I just—I don't know. Do you—" he pauses, taking a deep breath. "Do you want me to leave? So you can get some rest? You have work tomorrow."

She purses her lips. "No," she whispers, and Rhysand's heart pounds loudly against his chest. "No, you—you should stay."

Rhysand swallows and nods. "Okay."

Sanford stares at him, fiddling with her fingers behind her back. "Can I—" she stops abruptly, face heating. He's always—he's always loved the color on her cheeks when he made her flustered, or—or happy, or nervous—the good kind of nervous. "Can I sit?"

Rhysand scoots over. "It's your couch."

Meekly, she walks the few steps from the hallway to the living room, and she sits on the far end of the sofa, tense and incredibly rigid.

Rhysand clenches his hands into fists. "How is school—"

"Do you hate me?"

Rhysand whips his head around to look at her, drawing his eyebrows together. They spoke at the same time, and Sanford blushes, looking away. "What?"

"S-sorry," she stammers. "You go first."

"No, no, I want to know why you asked me that," Rhysand says, face set into a frown. "Have you been—is that what's been on your mind this whole time?"

Sanford's hands ball into fists on her lap, too.

"Why would you even think that?" Rhysand demands, suddenly annoyed. "Why would you—I don't get it—"

"Why don't you hate me for leaving you?"

She—she asks this so quietly, so barely above a whisper. She raises her head, and her jaw tightens, like she's trying to keep her emotions in place. Rhysand knows her best—her heart is always on her sleeve, and whatever she feels, Rhysand can see in her eyes.

And—and right now, her eyes are shiny with tears once again.

Rhysand answers, "Because it was my fault that you did."

Sanford swallows the lump in her throat. "No, I—"

"Because you said you needed to face this on your own," he continues, inhaling deeply. "And because you wanted me to choose my music."

"I left without a goodbye."

"I wouldn't have let you go if you stayed."

Sanford pauses for a moment, just staring at him. "I knew that," she says, lips pulling up into a small smile, and Rhysand—Rhysand sees his sunshine. "I knew that."

Rhysand searches her face.

"When I heard the album, your songs," she murmurs, and she's crying again, and Rhysand resists the urge to wipe her tears away, "my heart broke."