Hair down, for sure.
I drag it through one stroke at a time. My hair falls past my shoulders, past my collarbones, almost to my waist. I never cut it. Not once in six years, not even when the ends went rough and the stylist tried to talk me into a trim.
Outside, the last lamp catches. The street below goes quiet. The lamplighter’s done.
My hands are still shaking when I reach for my earrings, and this time it’s a lot easier to choose.
Turquoise.
Because I remember another memory—Arkane telling me that’s what my eyes remind him of.
I fasten one, then the other. They swing against the sides of my neck, cool and small.
From somewhere toward the fancier end of Holborn, a string quartet has started up. Faint, muffled through walls and distance, the kind of music that doesn’t play on streets like this one. Somewhere closer, a woman is calling her children in for the night. A cart rattles past on the cobbles.
The candle on the dressing table gutters once and holds.
And now, we’re done.
Hair down. Turquoise pendant earrings. White velvet. I stare at my reflection, but instead of seeing a dolled-up version of me—
It’s like looking into a magic mirror, and all I can see is the two of us from six years ago, and oh God—
Because you love me.
There are times, just so many times like this that my heart hurts because I just had to be so, so stupid that it’s only when it was too late—
I just had to be so, so stupid that I had to lose everything to realize I already had everything.
Because every time his eyes said those words—
Because you love me.
He would slowly run his knuckles down my cheek—
And I love you.
That was what it meant.
That was what he said.
Every time he did those things.
A look.
Because you love me.
A touch.
And I love you.