It had been two years. But, to him, it had been a never-ending ordeal and had no visible horizon. It felt like months only, even days. She would claim it had been an eon, and that she did not even remember his name. But that would be her mind seeking to silence her heart once more, to adhere to what was expected of her. It had only been a few weeks since she had attempted to sic her ill-informed messenger on him, and, before that, it had been less than a year since she had sent him the most perplexing missive and a symbol generally regarded as signifying love. But there was still silence, always continued silence. It was exasperating for him, as there was no seeming reason behind it. But it showed an unspoken exasperation on her part as well. No one, no one who claimed what she claimed, no one who really believed her own story would have held on for so long. He would have been a distant ghost only, if anything. And, with those silent acts, she made an admission to herself of that truth, though she rationalized it away as something else, as she always did. 

He had come to hate her, stuck in her obstinacy and dishonesty, so it made little difference either way as what was was what was going to be permanently, and she had chosen it to be that way. However, he knew that she simply did not have the will to oppose what she had been told to do, what was expected, however stupid and self-defeating. She did not have the courage to buck her circle in an fashion. And she clung to her faith to excuse her, fully knowing that her faith bid her to follow her heart, not their expectations, and be where she wanted to be. And he knew that she would convince herself that her heart was telling her the opposite of what it was screaming at her. 

No one, not one person in existence, would have held on that long for no reason. And that was all the proof she needed for herself that she had made the wrong decisions, though she railed against the reality, trying to cavalierly brush it off as nothing, being blase and telling herself she was just being kind. No, no one would have harbored the impetus to keep him alive in that way, unless he meant something, something in her heart that would not let her relinquish him. There were few if any connections like that in the world, and it did not matter if they arose from good or ill. When they existed, they were all that mattered. But she was afraid, not afraid of him, though she told herself she was. She was afraid of judgment, and not her god’s … the judgment of the world in which she lived, and she would not allow herself to have what she wanted if it meant she might lose their respect, respect based upon nothing, upon a story she had invented and now had to live for the rest of her time. She would die unhappy before challenging that judgment. If only she had had the will to level with herself, to accept what her heart said and make good on it, to let herself be what she wanted to be and with whom she wanted to be, regardless of their opinions. But she had never had that ability, and it was not going to magically appear. 

He could have assured her that, if she had just opened the door, everything would quickly have righted itself, been just like it had been when they shared their thoughts, and even better together. Honesty was all that mattered and would have healed all wounds. But it was too late. She let others dictate her actions, control what she thought, mocked him as they demanded. She had wasted her time, and she would waste the rest of it on what didn’t matter at all, trying to make herself believe it was all that did.