Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

All the world’s a stage,

And all the men and women merely players;

[…]

- from ‚As You Like It‘ by William Shakespeare 

Andrea Sachs is nothing like you. 

At least that’s what she tells you the first and last time you kiss. 

You should have known from the very beginning that it was always going to end like this. With you up on stage, the lights (for the very first time in your life) blending instead of inspiring you. Yours is a story as old as human existence, one neither new nor unique. In your youth, you’ve already seen it play out in its entirety, had a leading role in it even (although you've never stood on this side of the equation). So really, you should have seen it coming. But you didn’t. And now, finally, while you’re up on stage, presenting an award to the woman you love, you do. 

There is a Shakespearean turn of phrase about life being one big performance and all of humanity merely acting it out. You can’t think of it now. More than anything, you wish you’d never glimpsed behind the curtain. Ignorance seems like a distant, merciful bliss. The only wisdom you can come up with is: ‚better late than never‘ - It echoes through your head, bouncing off the walls of your skull in gleeful mockery.

The first time goes like this: 

A hotel room in Paris, right in the middle of fashion week. Only hours ago, Andrea Sachs left you, swiftly crossing the Place de la Concorde never to be seen again. Now she’s back. Marched right past you as soon as you opened the door to your suite. Normally you’d eviscerate her, then throw her out. But it’s been a long, hard week, you’re tired, she is no longer your employee and all you want is a few hours of rest. If this is what it takes to make her leave you alone, you’re happy to let her take care of whatever is holding her back. 

„You were wrong.“, she declares, standing before you, chest heaving in agitation. You know she’s talking about your conversation in the car this afternoon. Instead of replying you just raise an eyebrow. „I’m nothing like you!“, she continues, with vehemence. But her body language tells an entirely differently story. The goal of this statement is not to convince you of its accuracy, but to convince herself. And she’s not buying it. 

Another point in favour: After her outburst, she moves across the room, invades your personal space, glares at you, then presses your lips together. It doesn’t come as a surprise. You’ve been aware of her little power crush for a while now. Everyone who has ever spent more than five minutes in the same room as the two of you probably is. Andrea is the opposite of subtle. And that look in her eyes right before she crosses the distance between you and goes for it is one you’re rather familiar with. One you recognize from years ago when you made a similar decision with similar determination. She’s young and idealistic and you’re old and powerful and you get the allure, you really do. Still, you don’t connect the dots. Right then and there, you should realize that there is only one possible outcome to the story. And yet, you don’t. 

So she kisses you. It’s extremely flattering and surprisingly good and you’re more vulnerable than you’ve been in a long time and this makes sense. It’s easy and straightforward and it makes you feel better. So you kiss her back. Hire her back. Invite her into your bed and then invite her back and back and back. That’s how it starts. 

What exactly defines an affair? Does there have to be cheating involved? Or does any kind of secretive sexual relationship fall under the aforementioned category?

If the latter is the case, then you’re having an affair with your assistant. Have been having one for months now. It’s not that you planned on it going on for so long. It just keeps happening. And since you never talk about it, since you’re not in any form of tangible ‚relationship‘ that could be terminated, there is nothing to put an end to. 

You have to admit that she keeps surprising you in the most pleasant ways. Apart from her temporal lapse in judgement in Paris, she shows herself to be an increasingly sensible, ambitious, intelligent young woman. There is so much raw potential within her that you long to tab into, long to shape and sharpen. But it’s more than that. You make her better. Somehow, your…mentorship seems to bring out the best in her. And, as you are reluctant but ultimately forced to admit, it might even have a few positive effects on your own general mood and wellbeing. 

Then there is the sex, which also turns out to be surprisingly enjoyable. Neither of you lacks (same-sex) sexual experience but somehow you’re more compatible than most partners you’ve been with. You take great joy in her eagerness, her desire to please. Relish being able to reduce her to a begging, whimpering, pliant mess with only your hands and mouth, the power of your words. And she’s beautiful. Young and alive and just the right amount of soft and all around utterly lovely to look at. Andrea, you think, in return likes giving up control. Enjoys offering herself up to you, to have all responsibility taken from her and to have to focus only on your pleasure and contentment. She likes having things done to her. And, however old and wrinkled you find yourself to be upon your daily inspection in the mirror, Andrea seems to neglect growing out of her worshipful attraction.

For some reason, you balance each other out even better than before. As everyone, from Nigel to your children, is eager to point out, you’re apparently well-matched. It’s not like you treat her any differently, now that you’re sleeping with her. Around the office everything pretty much stays the same. You don’t suddenly morph into a gentle, soft, caring person and she still shrinks under your glare. There are no family breakfasts, no daytime hours spent lounging in bed, no meaningful personal conversations. There is only the undefined, raw, sometimes painful intimacy of a fifty hour working week shared with someone who knows the texture of the inside of your body. If it didn’t work out so frighteningly well, you might consider allowing it to last. 

The last time goes like this: 

It’s been almost a year since Paris. Emily is long gone, slowly climbing the ladder at Runway Britain, and so it’s Andrea who accompanies you to tonight’s fundraiser. All in all, you are rather pleased with the evening. Until you arrive back home, Andrea in tow, and suddenly come face to face with the end. It feels like a déjà-vu. Once again, she stands before you, vibrating, simmering, pulsating with emotion. „I’m nothing like you!“, she yells, and this time, she means it. There is nothing but sincerity in her eyes. When did this change occur? Somehow, between teaching her how to edit articles on the sustainability of cotton-processing and slipping your hand into her underwear against the door of your private bathroom, you must have overlooked it. 

Earlier you introduced her to a charming young man. A Christian Thompson type (a little older, moderately handsome, successful writer and journalist, remarkably well connected, clearly interested in your first assistant), but with more class. An ideal match for Andrea. When you first thought of him and invited him to the occasion specifically with this in mind, it seemed like an exceptionally fine idea. Well timed, too. Andrea is beyond ready to move on and up in the world. She dutifully put in her year in the trenches (more, even) and you’ve taught her everything you deemed necessary to make her thrive. The young man (Richard or David or something equally forgettable) would be the prefect partner on her journey to success. You know so because you’ve been in her shoes. Because you’re an expert at playing this particular game. Because you have mastered the art of upward mobility. And, after everything, you’re going to make sure that Andrea will not disappoint you. 

To your satisfaction, the two of them get along splendidly. Andrea seems thoroughly invested in the conversation and there is animated discussion and genuine laughter shared between them. Deeming the evening a success, you leave them to their own devices. But later, back at the empty townhouse (the twins are with their father for the weekend) Andrea’s demeanour changes. All of a sudden, she looks angry and annoyed and disappointed and maybe a little sad. „Miranda!“ Her voice is filled with exasperation. „Please tell me you didn’t try to set me up with that man.“ „Why?“, you retort, „He would make a fine companion. And I got the impression that you liked him well enough.“ It’s an observation, not a question. An angry huff is your only response. „Is it because he is a man?“, you inquired, genuinely curious. „Because as far as I know you were with a man when you first started working at Runway. So I always assumed you were impartial. But maybe I was wrong. Is that it?“ 

Andrea stares at you, stunned and speechless. „You’re really not -“, she starts, „I just don’t understand -“ She seems lost for words. „Why?“ is what she finally goes with. And maybe she really still is that naiv. Maybe you do have to spell it out for her. You hoped, expected even, that you wouldn’t have to. That she grew up after your conversation in Paris. „Because,“, you explain to her, as if you were speaking to a toddler, „to get ahead in this business you need to choose your partners wisely. You’ll always want someone who is just a little more successful than you, a little more connected. Someone who can open doors for you but won’t outshine you in the long run. You do understand that, Andrea? I was trying to do you a favour.“ 

Upon hearing your words, Andrea visibly deflates. Slowly shaking her head, she pushes her hand back through her hair. „God, Miranda. Are you even listening to yourself?“ Her voice is filled with disbelief and pity rather than anger. The comment makes you purse your lips in displeasure but she continues before you can interject. „This is by far the shittiest way I’ve ever been dumped.“ „Language, Andrea.“, you reprimand, deciding not to indulge her childishness. 

For a while, all is quiet, the silence laying itself over the dark, empty space like a leaden blanket. Finally she looks you directly in the eye. „Please hear me.“, she implores, „I don’t want a relationship with that guy from the party. No matter how ‚well suited‘“, you can practically hear the quotation marks around the words, „we are. I wouldn’t want him if he had the power to make me president or the fucking queen of England! I’m not looking for a partner. I already have one.“ When you remain silent, she grows agitated again, raises her voice: „You, Miranda!“, she practically shouts. „I have you. I want you. Is that really so hard to understand?“ 

And that’s exactly what you’ve been afraid of. It’s why you made her promise, in the very beginning, that this thing between you would be purely utilitarian. That she wouldn’t grow attached. It’s precisely why she needs to date someone reasonable and appropriate right now. Someone who isn’t old enough to be her mother and influential enough to ruin her livelihood. Someone who isn’t you. During all these months, she never complained about the sneaking around, the superficial nature of your relationship, your obvious lack of trust, her glaring lack of agency. You assumed it meant that she understood. Now you realize that it is the symptom of something far more dangerous than if she were to push you to commit, to go public: She’s putting your needs above her own because she cares about you. Because she wants to remain close to you in whatever capacity you’ll allow. Because she'll hold on to you no matter the cost. It’s even worse than you feared. You can’t allow her self-respect to get lost in this blatant abuse of your status and power. It’ll ruin her. You will ruin her. Suck up every last bit of kindness and compassion until nothing remains but the empty shell of a woman. She might be an adult and she might find it cruel, might find it patronizing of you to make this decision for her. But you see no other way. You cannot change yourself into a better, less demanding person. Can’t stop taking as long as she continues to give. Thus is your nature. But you will not stand idly by as she contorts herself into whichever shape will satisfy your fleeting whims and wishes, chipping away at her soul in self-denial until there is nothing left of her. You will not allow this selfish, greedy fancy of yours to continue for even a moment longer.

So you try to make her see your point. To make her realize that she has to think of her career, her reputation, her future. Hope that somehow, through all the excuses, she understands what you’re really trying to say. That she is young, with so much life still ahead of her and so little knowledge of what’s awaiting her. And that you are not. You have enough experience to see this affair for what it is: a diversion, a delay, a dalliance. A learning experience at best. A life-long regret at worst. But it’ll be fine. She’ll get over it, get over you, quicker than she’ll think possible. You know, because you’ve been there, been her. This thing between you might seem like a big deal to her now, but it isn’t. Marriage, Family, Children - those are a big deal. And Andrea will have all of these things. One day, when she discovers feelings that go beyond a youthful longing, a primal attraction, a romanticized, blown-up crush, she’ll understand. After all, that’s what you did. 

This is it, the final lesson you’ll bestow upon her, your parting gift, before you release her into the world.

So the: „I’m nothing like you!“ hurled at you like an axe, like a confession, like a command, doesn’t change a thing. „Can’t you see?“, she asks, pressing into you, taking your hands into hers. „We have a connection, something special, something beautiful. And it has nothing to do with how alike we are, with how much of yourself you see in me.“ By now, Andrea’s tone is pleading, imploring, almost desperate. „It’s because of this:“ And once again, she kisses you. But it feels different. The last time she kissed you, she did it like she had nothing to lose. This time, she kisses you like she is on the brink of losing it all, this kiss her last hope of salvation. You let her because you already know that it is the last kiss you’ll ever share with her so you want to remember it as vividly as possible. Attentive as always and wise beyond her years, she senses the finality of the moment. When she pulls back, her cheeks are wet with tears. „I love you.“, she whispers into the space between your lips. „Please don’t do this to me.“

Carefully, gently, lovingly, you swipe the moisture from her beautiful face. Give her one of your rare, genuine smiles. Try to communicate the entirety of your affection and fondness for her with a single look. „You don’t.“ You know these words to be true because you’ve played this part before. Because you’ve made the same declaration, only realising years later that you knew nothing of love when you first invoked it. For this, you will not apologize. It’s the first good thing you’ve done for her since that night in Paris. And you know the words to be true because, despite her insistence otherwise, Andrea Sachs is exactly like you. 

Chapter Text

Almost three years go by before your paths cross again. It’s at the launch party for a new magazine that belongs to the same publishing house as the one Andrea currently writes for. She is a sight for sore eyes. After your confrontation the night of the fundraiser, she predictably quit the very next day. When the request for a reference came through, you did the sensible thing and passed it on to Nigel. Since then, you’ve had no contact whatsoever. In fact, you were almost sure you’d never see her again. It would have probably been for the best. A clean cut. Her departure pained you more than you like to admit, considering you were the one who brought it about. For more than a year, Andrea was a permanent fixture in your life. Someone to hold on to, to sooth your loneliness, to share your isolation trapped in the eye of the storm that is your life. Someone you allowed yourself to rely on when everyone else eventually abandoned or disappointed you. The person who knew you best, not in an emotional capacity, but based solely on the fact that she spent more time with you than anyone else. More time even than your daughters, your own flesh and blood. Nothing happened in your life without her being aware of it, without her somehow being involved. As a result, her absence leaves you with a silent emptiness you try your best to fill with white noise. In your weakest moments, you silently wish you were more selfish, wish you kept her around. You long for the easy reassurance her presence brought you, for the simplicity of the pleasure her words and touch managed to install in you. Miss her ability to shut down your brain with primal, convenient tools. But time dulls all aches. And so, after a certain period, you manage to refocus on other, more important matters. Such are the benefits of a life busy enough to offer plenty of distraction. Nonetheless it’s good to see her. Through your estrangement, her beauty remains undiminished, although not unaltered. More mature now that she’s fast approaching thirty. 

It’s her who seeks you out, who walks over from across the room and initiates a conversation. It had to be her, of course - you wouldn’t have dared. But you also find it oddly befitting. There is a strange symmetry to it: she being the one to open doors, to create connection - you the one closing them, severing it. 

Talking to her is a spark of excitement in an ocean of mediocrity and dullness. Used to being bored by conversation, it catches you off guard how much you enjoy engaging with her. You have only a vague idea of how she spent the time that has elapsed since you last parted with her. The prestigious job, subtle confidence, content smile and attractive woman on her arm prove that she has done well for herself. The new lines around her eyes, sarcastic edge to her tone and guarded politeness around strangers make you suspect that not everything she encountered along the way was easy or pleasant. You are well aware that in this industry - especially as a woman - every shred of success has to be direly paid and fought for. It makes you proud to find that she prevailed. All in all, you are very pleased. This is exactly what you envisioned for her all these years ago: professional success and a secure footing in life, born from experiences good and bad. Watching her interact with her girlfriend - a sweet, somewhat shy but smart woman around the same age as Andrea with whom she shares an easy familiarity - makes your heart warm. You like the person she has become. 

Only a month passes until you next get a chance to catch up with her. Another party, another friendly and enthralling conversation. With no small amount of relief you observe that Andrea seems to hold no grudge, to harbour no lingering feelings of resentment. You’re grateful for it. You’re also pretty sure she never told her girlfriend about you, judging by how open and nice the woman is around you. On a whim, you ask Andrea to dinner. She says yes. Brunch follows. Soon she is a regular in your otherwise strikingly empty social calendar. 

Slipping back into a familiar, relaxed dynamic happens almost without your noticing. The legacy of three years of radio silence melts away within weeks. You’re still able to read each other with ease and your natural, well-attuned back and forth hasn’t lost any of its captivating authenticity. Slowly the trust rebuilds. And from it, a friendship springs. It’s strange: You’ve shared an office, a hotel suite, worked together, slept together, completely bared your bodies to each other, spent almost every second of every day in each other’s company - but you’ve never been friends. It’s new and, even after all the time you’ve know her, curiously exciting. Andrea is still the same but also, somehow, entirely changed. A bit more realistic in her outlook on life, more subdued, more hesitant in passing judgement. In return, she has gained security and trust in her abilities and identity, has become more self-assured.

She is also utterly, uncompromisingly fearless around you. No longer a scared, devoted follower. Finally she has the courage to push back, to say no. Not only to you specifically but to the world at large. This development, as you note with wonder and deep, grateful relief, isn’t accompanied by any losses to her caring and compassionate nature. Andrea is still inherently a giving person. But she isn’t afraid to point out her limits anymore, to enforce boundaries whenever necessary. Her kindness is still bottomless, it just no longer comes at any sacrifice. Whenever you’re late, stuck in some meeting or other, she waits for you and does so without complaint, without holding a grudge. Not to appease your moods, as she is quick to assure, but because she genuinely does not mind. But when a case of minor tardiness on her part is met by icy demeanour and biting remarks on yours, she calls you out on your hypocrisy and leaves the restaurant. The first time it happens, you don’t deal with it well. It doesn’t matter. When you ignore her, she reaches out to you despite the blame not lying with her. She has unwavering self-respect, but no stubborn pride. She is strongly principled, but endlessly patient. As you yourself are perpetually on edge, prone to petty vengefulness and painfully impatient, you have an uncomprehending but profound admiration for this specific character trait of hers. It’s not that you wish you were more like her in this regard - you have long since made peace with all the ways your perfectionism works for and against you - but it fascinates and soothes you. Fills you with hope that this friendship, unlike so many others, may last; that Andrea may persist even in the face of your destructive tendencies and terrible track record. You have to work hard on yourself to get used to the way she holds you accountable. But eventually you do. Because ultimately, it’s what makes this new, fresh chapter of your relationship possible. 

By unspoken agreement, the two of you never explicitly address the past beyond the superficial. Never allude to more than a working relationship. You don’t offer an apology. She doesn’t seem to expect one. Just like when she quit in Paris, there is a silent understanding between you that equilibrium has been restored. And, just like when she quit in Paris, you’re both aware that there is no use in apologizing for something one does not regret, something one is not sorry for, something one deemed imperative. At the time, you strongly believed that it was the right thing to do and even in retrospect, it seems to have been inevitable. You’re sure that by now Andrea understands. Still, it is obvious that her unquestioning devotion to you died on that particular night. While she visibly took some of your advice to heart, other lessons she outright rejected. You do not mourn it. Andrea has claws and edges now that she no longer bothers to hide. She shouldn’t. They suit her.

By grace of either fate or your own willpower, the two of you manage to make it work. Soon you once again find yourself part of an unstoppable team. And somehow, even without a physical component, this new relationship feels a million times more intimate, more meaningful than what you had before. This time around, you get to meet the real woman, the one behind the facade of the cheerful, holier-than-thou assistant. It’s a little unsettling. To be able to call this awe-inducing, open-hearted, brilliant young woman a friend. This woman who is still so very kind to you, who has no qualms handing you back the trust you once broke. It almost feels too good to be true. You don’t allow yourself to question it. 

It starts with a kiss and it ends with a kiss. 

Except it doesn't. Because somehow, even though yours is a story that has been told a million times before, you’ve managed to overlook the most glaringly obvious flaw in your narrative. And what a mistake that is. It’s how you end up on stage with the sudden, overwhelming, horrifying realization that your story is quite a different one from the one you thought it was. Because in focusing on how you’ve played Andrea’s part before, you neglected to take into account who has played yours. And now you’re fucked. Firmly, thoroughly fucked. And this, you now know, is how it was always going to end. 

A year into your blossoming friendship, you’re asked to present an award to Andrea. It’s really more a matter of expertly pulled strings on your part than a lucky coincidence on the universe’s, but you think she’ll appreciate the gesture. When she finds you before the start of the ceremony, you can’t keep the smile off your face. This is one of the proudest moments of your life to date: watching your friend succeed, because and in spite of your influence. 

Andrea is dressed in a gorgeous, utterly fashionable suit that you wouldn’t be caught dead in, which is cuttingly, cosmically perfect in every way. Upon meeting yours, her eyes sparkle with joy and a little mischief, an expression plucked almost from another lifetime. You know how hard she worked for this award, know that she struggled with family and friends over the sacrifices she made for it, know the passion she has for this particular project, even got consulted on tonight’s outfit. As she embraces you, all of this shared experience envelops you like a protective, glowing shield, not making your heart flutter but quieting it, steadying it. You wonder when her touch stopped burning you and started warming you from the inside. When her presence transformed from a raging inferno into a comforting bonfire.

All too soon, she lets go of you. Her girlfriend appears by her side and they greet each other with a quick kiss to the lips and soft, gentle words you strain to understand but don’t. Andrea places a reassuring hand on her waist and the blonde smiles at her in open adoration. They’ve been together for more than two years and it makes this day, this victory, even sweeter: the fact that not only is Andrea receiving professional recognition, not only has she built a successful career, but that she has also found private stability and happiness in a loving, mature relationship. She’s all grown up, all grown out of you. It’s the final proof that you made the right choice, that your sacrifice was worth it, that it all worked out the way you planned. 

And that’s when it hits you. 

You love her. You have no idea when it started, but as soon as the thought enters your brain, there is no unthinking it. No denying the truth. You just know. And isn’t that ironic? Cruelly, painfully ironic, but at the same time so very foreseeable. Because that’s how the story goes, isn’t it? Andrea was young, offered her love freely, you didn’t want it, until you did and by then she had already given it to somebody else. Your one chance of being with her wasted, your one shot at happiness missed. Because she doesn’t love you anymore. And maybe she never did. Maybe you were right when you insisted that she didn’t. Maybe there never was a chance to begin with. You can’t decide which is worse. ‚Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all?’ You’re not sure there is an answer to that question. You’re not even sure the words apply to this situation. And what does it matter, in the end, whether she loved you or not, when the outcome is exactly the same? When it should have been perfectly clear from the very beginning that you were never supposed to be more than a lesson for her to learn along the way? That you were destined to be the one left behind? 

And now you’re too old and too tired and too bitter to get another opportunity like this one. No, Andrea probably was the last great love you had in you. But now it’s lost. A life-line carelessly thrown overboard. An offering foolishly disregarded. And there is nothing you can do about it. You can’t blame her - for did she not do exactly what you told her to do? You can’t regret it - for was it not, unquestionably, the right, the decent decision? What does that leave you with? Wallowing in self-pity? Cursing some nameless, uncaring deity that you don’t believe in? Is that how she felt when you delivered your final, smiling punch to the gut? 

Did you love her then? You think that you probably did. That you might have loved her always. A time before seems utterly unfathomable now. So you must have loved her back when she was the only creature on the planet who saw the pain behind the legend. When you could think of no other way to feel close and connected to her than by physically joining your bodies, mechanically breaching the barrier between your atoms and hers. And you love her now, after you have painfully dismantled decades worth of walls, peeled back uncountable layers of armor, in the hope that she’ll find something, anything underneath that is worth her trust and affection. When you’ve been matched, strike for strike, until you stood before each other completely laid bare and for the first time in your life, your nakedness made you feel not exposed and defenceless but invincible. To make sense of this curious shift in emotion, you think of your love for her like energy - a thing that changes its shape and form but can be neither created nor destroyed. Therefore it must have existed in the universe even before you first met, before you were born, before there was matter at all. 

You wonder if, had you been aware of the nature of your feelings earlier, you would have been able to let her go. Whether you would have let yourself be drawn back into her orbit. It worries you that you can answer only the latter of the two questions with an honest, definitive yes. What kind of person does it make you, if you did the right thing only because you were tricked into it by your inability to correctly identify your own emotions? Then again, what does motive even matter in a world where only actions have consequences, only deeds have an impact. Is it good intentions that make a good person, or doing good things? 

It doesn’t matter. None of it matters. You didn’t know until you did. There is nothing you can do to change it. Oh, how the tables have turned. Now Andrea is all responsible and successful and happy while you’re stuck and lonely and fucking in love with her. So in love it even made you swear. Andrea Sachs broke your heart just like you broke somebody else’s heart, decades ago, just like someone might break her’s one day. In that way, you are, unfortunately, fatally, exactly alike. 

Chapter Text

For the rest of the evening, you’re completely out of it. All through the handing over of awards you run on autopilot, register nothing, smile hollowly, shake hands that might as well be attached to corpses and don’t hear a single word out of anyone’s mouth. You bid an early goodbye to Andrea, congratulate her one last time and hope she doesn’t pick up on your distress. Then you drive home. Keep yourself up with work and a book and emails until you’re so tired, you fall asleep mere seconds after your head hits the pillow.

Trying to avoid thinking about your sorry situation for as long as possible, you turn off your alarm and, by some heavenly mercy, manage to stay asleep uncharacteristically long. The twins are away with friends from school for the weekend and since you only went to bed in the early hours of the morning, you manage to stay there until ten. Ironically, you haven’t slept this long since Andrea shared your bed. Although this time around, it’s not her presence but her absence that tired you out. (Of course back then, by the time you awoke, she was always long gone. For all her clumsiness, she managed to be impressively noiseless in her retreat.) It’s not a great train of thought. You try to drop it. It almost works. Getting dressed, you decide to skip breakfast and start preparing an early lunch instead. Cooking, eating and cleaning somehow manage to distract you until early afternoon when, out of the blue, the doorbell rings. It feels impossible. Yet, when you open the door, there is Andrea.

Five years since she first rushed into a room to put into motion the events that would irrevocably alter your life. Four years since that door closed behind her, pushed shut by your own traitorous hand. Now here she is again and you have no idea why. „Andrea, what are you doing here?“, you ask, weary. She is panting, just like the first time she came to see you. „I’m back.“, the woman in your hallway announces. „I broke up with my girlfriend.“ You don’t understand. There is no mistaking her words, not with your history, not with the way she looks at you, pleading, determined, a little wild. But you still don’t understand. „Why?“, you ask, uncomprehending. „Because I wanted to.“ Slowly she moves towards you, as if not to scare you off. But you’re so firmly rooted to the spot, you couldn’t run if you wanted to. 

„I don’t understand.“, you articulate your disbelieve. „You weren’t supposed to come back.“ „I did.“, she shrugs, as if it could be that easy. (You almost believe her.) „Why?“, you repeat. „I’m here,“ her words are firm and clearly articulated, leaving no room for objection, „because you’re in love with me. And I’m in love with you.“ Her eyes are deep and sincere and you could lose yourself in them. When did she get close enough to place her hands on your shoulders? „Back then you weren’t.“, you feel the need to clarify, not denying the first part of her statement. „No, I wasn’t.“, she agrees. Even though you knew this, the admission stings. None of it makes any sense. Noting your distress, Andrea elaborates. „I didn’t really know you then. I do now.“ Does know you. Does love you. It doesn’t matter. It’s the same. „I do too.“, you whisper into the silence. „I know.“ Her smile is soft but honest, full of love and adoration. „You weren’t supposed to come back.“ Your words make her furrow her brow in concern. „Why do you think that?“, Andrea asks gently. Not an accusation, just genuine curiosity in her gaze. Your reply is almost too soft to hear, no more than a breath. „Because I didn’t.“, you confess.

There only ever was one possible version of this story. One ending and one way to get there. You had to let Andrea go to make her yours. It sounds cheesy and clichéd and you innerly recoil as soon as you think it, but it’s true. Your previous relationship wasn’t sustainable. Wasn’t healthy. It had to end to begin anew. Still, you don’t regret it happening. Without it, you wouldn’t be who you are today: Two people, nothing alike, yet irrevocably tied together. 

The sweetest, smallest laugh escapes from Andrea’s lips and pulls you back into the present. She kisses you, chaste and slow, full of reverence and patience and love. It feels like she has nothing and everything to lose all at the same time. „Miranda,“, she whispers against your lips, „I’m nothing like you.“ It’s not a judgement. Not an accusation. It’s a promise.