Ezra was aware that it had been a long time since he'd said anything, and even longer since he'd said anything meaningful (maybe ten months, in fact — it was debatable whether either of them had said anything meaningful at all during the course of this interaction). He had handed her the conjured glass and then moved to the farther edge of the bench — not sitting, for fear of being too close to her, but hovering around the edge of it. He wasn't watching her to see if she drank any of the water; he'd gone back to looking off at the upper corner of the terrace area, around where he'd been focusing before when he wanted to avoid looking at her. She'd thanked him and he'd said nothing, and then he had gone on saying nothing. He felt like he should say something, if only to fill the dead air, but where to even start?
If he'd been aiming to reconcile he would have said I miss you, but he wasn't sure he was aiming to reconcile. Not that he had considered the possibility and dismissed it... rather, he had never considered it a possibility, or at least not since it had truly sunk in that Rosalie had left him for good. In the confrontation itself he'd disbelieved his own senses, and even after he'd realized his memories of the event were correct — or at least, he had no reason to doubt them — he'd still been in denial about what it meant. He'd thought she would change her mind, or write, or at least come talk to him at some point for some sort of closure. Even if that was a confrontation, it would have been something. When days turned to weeks and it became clear that she wasn't going to reach out to him, any hope he'd had for a future with her — whether the one he'd envisioned originally or one that they pieced together from what was left after the argument — died. He hadn't considered reconciliation since then, because it had seemed entirely impossible. A lot of his thoughts had been fatalistic at that point, stark black and white extremes with no tolerance for gray — or they had become fatalistic at some point, and now looking back it was hard to remember where the transition had happened. He'd been as convinced that Rosalie was lost to him forever as he had been that he was going to go mad, or that he was soon going to die... and after a certain point, he'd stopped caring about any of them. It was pointless to agonize over the inevitable, the immovable, the facts of life.
His sister, pulling him forcefully out of the grave he'd been perfectly willing to lie down in, had managed to convince him that neither going mad nor an early death was inevitable after all. She had never attempted to persuade him to reconsider his assessment of a future with Rosalie as a lost cause — so he never had. And so what was there to say? They had no future. They did not have a particularly compelling present, if their conversation so far was anything to go by. And it would serve neither of them to talk about the past.
"I don't actually mind," he said eventually. "You dancing with Mr. Delaney. Or — you know, anyone. In case it — sounded like I did." He didn't know how he had sounded a moment ago when he'd said he hoped Mr. Delaney was a good dance partner, because he wasn't sure why he'd said it in the first place. And he did not actually know whether what he'd just said, about not minding, was the truth or not — but it felt like the sort of thing he shouldn't mind, given everything. And if he found that he did, that was more his problem than hers.
If he'd been aiming to reconcile he would have said I miss you, but he wasn't sure he was aiming to reconcile. Not that he had considered the possibility and dismissed it... rather, he had never considered it a possibility, or at least not since it had truly sunk in that Rosalie had left him for good. In the confrontation itself he'd disbelieved his own senses, and even after he'd realized his memories of the event were correct — or at least, he had no reason to doubt them — he'd still been in denial about what it meant. He'd thought she would change her mind, or write, or at least come talk to him at some point for some sort of closure. Even if that was a confrontation, it would have been something. When days turned to weeks and it became clear that she wasn't going to reach out to him, any hope he'd had for a future with her — whether the one he'd envisioned originally or one that they pieced together from what was left after the argument — died. He hadn't considered reconciliation since then, because it had seemed entirely impossible. A lot of his thoughts had been fatalistic at that point, stark black and white extremes with no tolerance for gray — or they had become fatalistic at some point, and now looking back it was hard to remember where the transition had happened. He'd been as convinced that Rosalie was lost to him forever as he had been that he was going to go mad, or that he was soon going to die... and after a certain point, he'd stopped caring about any of them. It was pointless to agonize over the inevitable, the immovable, the facts of life.
His sister, pulling him forcefully out of the grave he'd been perfectly willing to lie down in, had managed to convince him that neither going mad nor an early death was inevitable after all. She had never attempted to persuade him to reconsider his assessment of a future with Rosalie as a lost cause — so he never had. And so what was there to say? They had no future. They did not have a particularly compelling present, if their conversation so far was anything to go by. And it would serve neither of them to talk about the past.
"I don't actually mind," he said eventually. "You dancing with Mr. Delaney. Or — you know, anyone. In case it — sounded like I did." He didn't know how he had sounded a moment ago when he'd said he hoped Mr. Delaney was a good dance partner, because he wasn't sure why he'd said it in the first place. And he did not actually know whether what he'd just said, about not minding, was the truth or not — but it felt like the sort of thing he shouldn't mind, given everything. And if he found that he did, that was more his problem than hers.
![[Image: 5WWaDR1.png]](https://i.imgur.com/5WWaDR1.png)