He read her words like an apology, but she's never been ashamed of the things she's done. Least of all to him. To him, with whom she tried so hard. To him, to whom she gave everything she could. To him, for whom she suffered in silence. He squeezed every last drop out of her heart like it was a dirty rag, and maybe it was, soiled by his filth, his vile and selfish lies.
She reads these words like a vindication, but they're not hers to appropriate. My sympathy is not benediction. If she wants to regain a place in this heart, she has to earn it. Earn it by merely being, instead of trying so goddamn hard.
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