There was nothing wrong with them--they only had to move one, without one another. That night the look in her eyes was foreign to him in a way that he could hold no curiosity for. Like an absence of light that's not quite black, but perpetually at its bidding/on its track.
All along, she maintained that the things which must be made up of more than one soul--that those things themselves have no true substance. Coldly, she'd concluded that their love was intrinsically reciprocal--so that his (perceived) failure at its altar meant that it had ceased to exist. Poof she'd said, cruelly, denying his eager/own wan apologies.
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