(no subject)
Angela honestly doesn't know how many relationships she's ended over the years. She would have to stop and try to count, debate about what does and doesn't actually count as a relationship, debate about what does and doesn't actually count as an end, for that matter.
She's probably covered all the cliches, the suitcase by the door and the note on the table, the tearful departure and the angry storming out, all fifty ways to leave your lover and then some.
And none of them would be even remotely relevant or helpful now, because none of her other relationships have been this relationship, or even in the same league. And none of the other endings have been this final-and-yet-not, it's-over-but-I-love-you, I'm-leaving-and-I'll-see-you-at-work.
The suitcase, this time, is already in the trunk of the car, and there is no note, there's just Angela, sitting on the couch in the living room, waiting for Hodgins to get home and twisting the ring on her finger around and around and around.
She's probably covered all the cliches, the suitcase by the door and the note on the table, the tearful departure and the angry storming out, all fifty ways to leave your lover and then some.
And none of them would be even remotely relevant or helpful now, because none of her other relationships have been this relationship, or even in the same league. And none of the other endings have been this final-and-yet-not, it's-over-but-I-love-you, I'm-leaving-and-I'll-see-you-at-work.
The suitcase, this time, is already in the trunk of the car, and there is no note, there's just Angela, sitting on the couch in the living room, waiting for Hodgins to get home and twisting the ring on her finger around and around and around.