(no subject)

[ooc: Millitimed to immediately after this]

She's dealing with it. She's dealt with it. She let him go.

Or she thought she had.

("Anything about you being or not being together is irrelevant if you still care.")

But this whole thing with Jack and Satine and the still-faceless Christian is tugging at the ragged edges of her wound. Everything had been in order--she was coping and doing it well--and then...

("Love is mutual. If you don't get it in return, it's hopeless. Pointless. You're wasting energy for nothing.")

She doesn't know who she can talk to, isn't sure she wants to talk to anyone. So she sits down and writes one more ( letter )

This letter is folded with particular care before being added to the others. Though she hasn't formally decided, something tells her this will be the last such letter she'll write. It's over now, really over as it hasn't been for more than a month.

She doubts he'll see a one of these letters. The idea doesn't bother her as it once had.

("Is love worth dying for? I think it should be. Real love--whether you get it back or not--is worth fighting and killing and dying for. Because it's yours and nobody can take it from you unless you let them.")

And a thousand worlds away, something smiles without a mouth and laughs without a voice and adds her name to a list.