She had turned away. He let his shoulders sag more. Alfred didn't know if he was relieved or disappointed that she hadn't asked what it was he'd realized.

"I'm sorry," he said after a long moment. Her earlier remark about not being able to do the endless smalltalk still weighed on him; he hated it too. "I thought we could do this. I thought it could be different this time, since I was married. I just —" he sighed. "I don't know. Maybe I was wrong."

---

Jo was determined to ignore him and whatever excuses he used until the reset. She would have, too, were it not for a singular comment. "What do you mean, since you were married?" Jo asked. He and Zelda were so attached that it hadn't mattered to her what stage they were at, so long as they continued to be that attached. "Why would that change anything?"

---

Alfred raised an eyebrow and shot her a you can't be serious look. "Maybe because my wife had to ask whether or not I was in love with you," he said, fully sarcastic. Maybe he oughtn't to say it, but — well, what did it matter now? This was a goodbye, from the looks of it. She'd said she couldn't do this any more, and he didn't know that he blamed her. And if they were never going to talk again, the chances that this was going to get back to Zelda somehow seemed rather slim.

---

If Jo was confused before, she was positively befuddled now. She knew she had caused tension between them in those months. She knew the letters had confused and ruined things. She knew Zelda was feeling insecure about their friendship. But, somehow, Jo had never considered why Zelda might be insecure. Jo had never considered that Alfred might've had feelings for her that extended beyond friendship. The idea was so outlandish that Jo nearly laughed at the comment. He never loved her, never chose her, never felt anything beyond friendship towards her.

Had he?

Jo felt like he had cast a powerful stunner at her as she took in his expression and demeanor. Alfred was angry - was this it then? Was this what had changed? Did he realize he had feelings for her and had still chosen Zelda? Jo didn't blame him for it, she wouldn't have wanted him to choose differently, but - this was it. This was the dark secret that had caused the rift. This was what happened on Thursday.

"And your response?" Obviously, Alfred had chosen Zelda. Obviously, whatever he felt for her had to have surpassed what he potentially felt for Jo. But still, she had to know. If the moment was to reset, if she was to never have this conversation with him again, she had to have some sort of clarification over what had ruined them. At least then, she might've been able to suffer through the endless smalltalk.

"You chose Zelda, and I would never begrudge you that choice. Never. But please, Alfred, just this once, be honest with me."

---

Alfred shook his head wearily. It wasn't even that, he thought, but he didn't want to try and convince her of anything. He didn't want to be talking about this at all. Yes, Zelda had asked him once whether or not he was in love with Jo, and when she'd asked him he hadn't known the answer. But it wasn't that that had opened up the rift between them. What he'd realized on that day was the lengths to which he would go — would have always gone, would still always go — to keep from losing her. Zelda had never asked him to choose, and up until that day he'd tried to tell himself there was no need to choose, but he'd realized then that he couldn't chase them both, and he couldn't hold on to Jo unless he chased her.

"Jo," he began with a sigh. "Oh, Jo."

And then he was back on the bench, watching the water lap softly on the shore of the Black Lake. "Not that it's necessarily a bad thing," he said — then stopped, blinked. This felt... familiar, but not in a way he could have articulated.

---

Oh, Jo.

It was the pity that saw her turning to him with a look full of rage and hurt. Jo had made missteps with him, yes, but she had never once meant to hurt his relationship with Zelda. She had never gave him a cause to be dishonest with her. Not about this, not about something so monumental that it had fractured the very foundation their friendship was built upon. He was her best friend, the person she thought she could confide in and trust unconditionally. But she had never been that for him.

Jo waited for him to continue, waited for the additional onslaught of misery, only it never came. Instead, in the blink of an eye she was seated on the bench again with him saying the same stupid bloody smalltalk, and Jo almost screamed in frustration.

"Sometimes, I wish I had never met you." Jo told him, not caring that she was now referencing a conversation he could no longer remember. Alfred would forget again in a minute anyway, and they'd be eternally trapped on this bench. She would use the next loop to regain her composure. "That's one of the things I think I would change - meeting you. I - I - " She was crying now, her tears hot and heavy as they streamed down her cheeks. "Fuck. I needed you. I needed you and you let me go. Sometimes, I think that's what hurts more than all the rest of it."

---

Her outburst stopped him from giving any more thought to the feeling of deja vu. Where — where on earth was this coming from? And was she crying?

"Wha – what?" he asked, struggling to get his bearings. She needed him — when? Why? What were they talking about? This certainly didn't seem to have anything to do with September. Had he blacked out for part of the conversation, or was she having some sort of breakdown?

(Could she really mean that? She wished she'd never met him?)

---

"It would've been easier to not have known you than to have lost you so completely. I mean - we're trying to be friends again and it's nice, I guess, to sit and talk to you. But, Alfred, sometimes I want to scream because our conversations are so bland they feel scripted. Like we're sitting in some stuffy parlor and talking about societal nonsense than anything real. And fuck, I miss that. I miss being able to actually talk to you." Jo couldn't stop herself even if she tried to. Her rambles were punctured by sniffles and pauses to bite back sobs. Crying likely would've felt just as good as talking, she supposed, but she was actually saying something meaningful for the first time in months and she simply couldn't stop.

"I think never knowing you would've hurt less than this. So I suppose that's another of my regrets - nevermind that you haven't even mentioned one. But why would you tell me anything meaningful?"

---

Jo was still crying, and now she was cursing, and Alfred couldn't help a quick glance around to see if she was drawing attention from anyone. If she wasn't yet, she would be soon — this was a scene, and he still didn't know what the fuck was going on... which meant he hadn't the faintest idea how to talk her down from it. She said why would you tell me anything meaningful as though he was purposefully keeping things from her, but he had no clue what she was talking about.

"Hey, maybe let's —" shut the hell up for a minute and explain what's going on, but that wouldn't go over well. "— go somewhere else? And — talk, yeah? Really talk, like we used to?" Whatever he had to say to get her to stop crying in the middle of the park.

---

"What does it matter? You're going to forget again in a minute anyway." Jo muttered, bitterly wiping away her tears with the sleeve of her dress. "I'll be fine after the next time through."

---

Alfred had well and truly lost the plot now, but at least she'd shifted from actively crying to blotting tears away. Maybe this was a good sign — maybe the fact that he had no idea what she was referring to wasn't. "What are you talking about?"

---

Alfred wasn't forgetting.

Had it been long enough for the reset yet? It typically always happened within a few minutes, always enough to start on heavier topics but never long enough to finish them. She'd been rambling and crying for some time, but not long enough if he wasn't forgetting. "Give it another minute." Or two. Five even. Jo would sit here for hours until he forgot all that she'd just dumped on him.

---

Alfred still didn't know what she was talking about, but if she'd regained at least some composure he wasn't going to argue with her about it. He took a deep breath, maybe subconsciously trying to help regulate hers by example. "Okay. A minute," he agreed, and set about the task of silently watching her to see if she started to crumble again. Had there been any warning signs before? If there were, he'd missed them — from his perspective it seemed as though this had come out of nowhere. One second they'd been fine, the next she'd been hysterical. And saying things she didn't mean. Things she couldn't possibly have really meant. Some of it he could understand: she hated the small talk, he hated it too. How many times had silently thought I hate this while he was talking to her, since she'd come back to Britain? But that was a symptom of how much he'd missed her. He had never wished they'd never met, and he didn't believe that Jo really could have, either.

He waited and watched her, until it seemed as though she might be... less volatile. She hadn't said anything yet, so eventually he offered tentatively, "I don't know where all that came from."

---

A minute passed and then another, and Alfred still didn't begin again with his line. Jo waited anxiously for it, her tears slowing as her mortification grew. It wasn't possible that Alfred could remember, not when they'd been trapped in the nightmare for what felt like an eternity. She'd been hallucinating or dreaming - it wasn't real.

It couldn't have been real.

"I - I ... we've been having the same conversation again and again. I thought I was hallucinating - I haven't been sleeping, which I told you. And you're not either really." There were other panicked voices filling the air now. Something was wrong, and it wasn't that she was having a nightmare.

---

Alfred looked at her critically. She remembered having the same conversation again and again, and admitted that she thought she'd been hallucinating. Taken at face value, neither of these explained her outburst — but they painted a picture that explained it rather well, all things considered.

"I'll walk you to the hospital," he said, pushing himself up off the bench and then offering her a hand.

---

"No. No. I'm fine, Alfred. I'm fine." She refused his hand but pushed to her feet anyway. Jo didn't need a healer - she needed sleep and perhaps a time turner. Anything to make him forget her outburst. "I'm just - I'm going to go home. I'll see you soon."

Or she wouldn't. Either seemed likely after her outburst.

---