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[poppycock]

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[poppycock]

[ he doesn't have to hear the waver in her voice, the pauses in her words and the silence before them, the swallow of her hopes and fears to know them. it's a strain to his heart, attached so inextricably to her: what he has confessed has anguished her in ways both terrible and beautiful. it anguishes him but before and mingled with that anguish is the roar of his agony:

he does not want to do this. not for her pains and hopes, not for the selfish desire he holds for a friendship, not for the ease in which he can guard himself from the abhorrent and baleful stares he has always expected and incurred and weathered and feared.

he is not afraid of being alone, not solely, not most importantly. (he has always been alone; it is not a new nor impossible terror.)

he is afraid for his daughter, his little girl, all else that is good and right in his world—he is afraid of leaving her alone. he is afraid of failing her as he has failed not only marcel but all others who have counted on him, who have looked to him, who he should have loved better; done better for.

(he is a broken, lacking thing. his love has always been incomplete.)

he does not want to do this for his daughter. the tears welling in his eyes blur his vision and his jaw tightens against their falling. (he is not alone. he does have her. he knows, just as she knows, what he should do. what he has to do. to be worthy of his daughter and for his daughter both.) he shakes, the phone trembling in his hand with how hard he clutches it. his voice is full and heavy; he promises. ] I'm not leaving you. [ not here, in this world. not now: this conversation is not over. but: ] I have to handle this on my own. [ he pulls the phone from his ear and hangs up. ]