[ For a moment Allison froze, a strange stagger to her thoughts. Where no one has touched her during in the better part of a year, and before that, the better part of half a decade, even Patrick knew better than to touch her, except carefully, like a litmus test on a bomb, if she was angry or hurt.
But Luther isn't Patrick. Luther isn't.
No one on the planet is Luther. No one else. No one ever had been. Could be. Even come close.
She's not sure if it's better, like she can breathe a little deeper, or worse, like she might tear up, again, as he starts talking into her hair in the same second she finally starts to relax a little. Hard is such an understatement. Hard was leaving this place. Hard was coming back. Hard was not talking. And breathing being strange all together now, impossible to take for granted.
Not having Claire? Not even being able to say a single word to her now, when words were all she'd even had to hold her through the last months? Was a constant reminder of how much just living could feel like dying. Hyperbolic, her therapist would say. Stupid, she'll say later. It doesn't change -- even if she lets herself close her eyes against him -- that it feels just like bleeding out on the cabin floor did. Except for every day, without end, without a wound to point to that anyone can see. ]
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But Luther isn't Patrick. Luther isn't.
No one on the planet is Luther. No one else.
No one ever had been. Could be. Even come close.
She's not sure if it's better, like she can breathe a little deeper, or worse, like she might tear up, again, as he starts talking into her hair in the same second she finally starts to relax a little. Hard is such an understatement. Hard was leaving this place. Hard was coming back. Hard was not talking. And breathing being strange all together now, impossible to take for granted.
Not having Claire? Not even being able to say a single word to her now, when words were all she'd even had to hold her through the last months? Was a constant reminder of how much just living could feel like dying. Hyperbolic, her therapist would say. Stupid, she'll say later. It doesn't change -- even if she lets herself close her eyes against him -- that it feels just like bleeding out on the cabin floor did. Except for every day, without end, without a wound to point to that anyone can see. ]