It started harmlessly at first; what it seemed was a conversation between friends, some catching up, an exchange of lively banter, like they used to. It was harmless, for a while.

Then, probably, as fate would have it, they treaded on dangerous grounds, their conversation brought them to a long buried past, to truths they denied, even to themselves. Yet no amount of such precious truths can deny that they spoke too late. Too late.

An exchange burned in her memory:

"Why didn't you tell me?" she had asked him so many times. "I was afraid," he said. "Fear is a monstrous thing..."

And so, she realized, that whatever he had been to her, and however much he had loved her, he hadn't loved her enough to fight for it. She didn't hate him for it, but she was still very sad, and thought she probably always would be, whenever she thought of him.