She kisses you the way she kisses everyone, but against your lips it feels different. You know she's not one for big gestures, for saying anything in more words than necessary - she lost that bit of lyricism when you left her. She's older, harder, different now. But she's kissing you, and you can't think of a thing but the press of her on you.

"I'm sorry," she says when she pulls away, even though she never had anything to say sorry about. "I'm sorry that I'm not him and I'm sorry that I couldn't pretend to be."

"Don't be stupid, it was my fault, everything was my fault."

"I drove you away-"

"Give me a little credit," you snap, falling back into the old, familiar pattern. "I can think for myself. I left you, I knew what I was doing."

"Do you regret it?"

"I did."

And you forget her kiss, again, and you leave, again. Because she's not a girl, she's an apology, she's a lost thing in a box.

She cries, quietly, alone. She'll find another to fall for, and irritate, and drive away. But she doesn't know that. She doesn't know she was made for saying sorry.