It's easier to be certain, to be angry and disenchanted. He knows that it is, because he so often has been; in love and all else. He was certain that this was over, that it was helpless, and not worth any further inkling or feeling of his time. Easier, even, in the interim, to not be around her: to keep her out of sight and out of mind, despite all external and internal reminders.

He wants that armor. He wants it to be easy, but faced with the reality of her in front of him, the look in her eyes, those lips and the sound of her voice; the words she speaks, he cannot help but feel himself bend. Loosen. Remember and feel. What he's wanted. How he's cared. His tongue is still. He does not move it and he wouldn't have the words if he did. Instead he shifts on his feet, lets out a held breath, and drops his eyes to the ground. Looks back up at her, less guarded now.

Go on.