idk idk
He sees her sometimes. Out of the corner of his eye, just a glimpse. Like chasing a blind spot, she's gone when he tries to look for certain.
He hasn't the courage to ask Finch, to know for sure one way or the other.
She must be a figment. Has to be, because the thought of her lingering, a revenant without rest, is more of a burden to carry than the knowledge of her permanent death. But surely he would've seen her more often when he'd been drowning in the depths of a bottle, not now, when he's sober and clear-minded.
And if she were a figment, she wouldn't smile at him. An apparition of his own making would surely hate him, offering nothing but an accusatory glare, a silent mask of blame. Or else his self-pity would form her into an angel of forgiveness. But her lips are drawn up neither in mercy nor pity, but simple gladness, a soft joy in seeing him.
Finch would know. And Finch would probably tell him if he asked. But he doesn't. He can't.
He hasn't the courage to ask Finch, to know for sure one way or the other.
She must be a figment. Has to be, because the thought of her lingering, a revenant without rest, is more of a burden to carry than the knowledge of her permanent death. But surely he would've seen her more often when he'd been drowning in the depths of a bottle, not now, when he's sober and clear-minded.
And if she were a figment, she wouldn't smile at him. An apparition of his own making would surely hate him, offering nothing but an accusatory glare, a silent mask of blame. Or else his self-pity would form her into an angel of forgiveness. But her lips are drawn up neither in mercy nor pity, but simple gladness, a soft joy in seeing him.
Finch would know. And Finch would probably tell him if he asked. But he doesn't. He can't.