'True Love Won't Find You in the End'

"How about that" she said under her breath.
And he sat there, numbly saying nothing.
It was the first time he had ever really told his story aloud to anyone. It had been rolled over and over in the churning tumbler of his brain countless times before, but until now had been only a collection of images, sensations, disconnected patches of emotions--nearly all of them wordless and without any sort of real organization. This was the first time he had attempted that difficult transition of stored memories to dry, breathy words and the exchange had left him less sure of himself and of his story. Just hearing the words dissolve into the air had made the images and events behind them seem less substantial. He was worried that she hadn't understood and that she wouldn't understand when he continued. His tongue still felt stiff and his throat was dry and he heard himself mumble something about a drink of water.
"I'm sorry, what was that?" she asked.
"Water" he said.
"Sure. I'll be right back." she replied as she slowly got up from her chair.
He wondered again if he should have said anything at all. Perhaps it would have been better had he kept his mouth shut and kept her out of it. Then again, he thought, who better to tell?
He felt her hand on his shoulder and realized that he hadn't noticed her return to the room. She handed him the glass, which was already sweating, and sat down again.
"So," she began "What happened next?"
He hesitated briefly and considered fabricating the next part. He could make something up--anything to save himself from the shame that would come next, from the look she would give him after he was finished, and most especially from what it would mean for the both of them. But the air in his lungs exhaled on their own and something in his mouth formed the words and strung them into sentences without his volition. Part of his mind wandered away for that part. A small piece of him sat outside and listened while he told her what he never thought he could tell.
After that, they both sat in silence. After a few moments when the echoes of what he had said stopped ringing in his ears, he became acutely aware of the steady ticking of a clock above the mantel.
He looked up at her for the first time in what seemed like an eternity. He searched her face for any clues as to what she might be feeling, but her eyes were still searching the floor as though she might find the meaning hidden somewhere between the woven patterns in the rug.
After a time, her eyes slowly found their way up from the ground and stared back into his.
She may or may not have said something at that point, but he couldn't remember either way because it was all he could do to keep from being swallowed by the depth in her eyes.
"We'll talk more about this in the morning." he finally managed to to whisper.
But he knew full well that they wouldn't, he knew that this was the last time they would ever speak of this. It was in fact, the last time they would ever speak to one another at all.