[ His arms tighten and that's how Phillipa knows that Francis has heard her. It makes her ashamed (I'm damaged goods, I know; but I'm not the one who damaged me; I was too young and I didn't know). The sensation crawls up along her spine and spreading — branch-like and ivy-like, ink through clear water — across her back and round her front, the tendrils digging deep into her lungs, threatening to wring a sob out of her though she's determined not to cry. (I'm tired, Francis. I'm just tired, it's okay.) ]
Okay, [ she manages, a little thinly, and it's don't be sorry and I know that you know. And that last point is one of the great comforts of her life (it's also one of the great sorrows). When Phillipa pulls back her face is flushed with the effort of not crying though her brow pinches in a way that makes it seem as if she will at any moment. ]
I'm sorry, I know we were supposed to go out, but— Can we— can we just not and say we did?
no subject
Okay, [ she manages, a little thinly, and it's don't be sorry and I know that you know. And that last point is one of the great comforts of her life (it's also one of the great sorrows). When Phillipa pulls back her face is flushed with the effort of not crying though her brow pinches in a way that makes it seem as if she will at any moment. ]
I'm sorry, I know we were supposed to go out, but— Can we— can we just not and say we did?