Can't Remember What I Used to Fight For

long story short

Fatefully
I tried to pick my battles 'til the battle picked me
Misery
Like the war of words I shouted in my sleep
And you passed right by
I was in the alley, surrounded on all sides
The knife cuts both ways
If the shoe fits, walk in it 'til your high heels break

"You're unhappy."

It's this little observation, made while they are waiting to go on set for an interview, that causes her to squirm uncomfortably.

It's not unlike Bradley to provide quiet, off the cuff remarks like this, based on a slight shift in a facial expression, a change in the octave of her hello that no one else could have possibly picked up on.

The problem is, he's usually right on the money.

She's adept at putting on masks. It made life substantially easier, it made people worry less about her. Today's special is "happy, calm, and interview ready." Her make up is flawless, her hair perfect, completely coiffed and ready to talk about the film.

But with a single comment, Bradley removes it and gaping, she takes him in; dapper in a suit jacket and pressed slacks, his eyes shining as blue as his button down.

There's a comfort in his presence that hasn't diminished since shooting, before that, really. He'd extended his hand to her and she grabbed it and that was that.

So, when he tells her he knows she isn't happy, she doesn't bother to correct him. Anything to the contrary would be a bold faced lie and she had never so much as told him a fib. It wasn't how their friendship worked.

As it turns out, she doesn't have to say a word because he reaches for her hand, giving it a fleeting grasp. "I understand."

Somehow, he did, though not the extent. There were certain things she told no one.

How she cried herself to sleep at night.

How she couldn't leave the house for ten minutes without her phone going off...ten, twenty times.

How her fibromyalgia consistently flared because of how tense she was.

How she felt as though she were being buried alive.

She can only give his fingers a squeeze, her mouth forming a thin line before they are being mic-ed and ushered onto set.

The interview itself is fine, mostly because the second she feels herself remotely start to crumble, he senses it, reaching for her hand, rubbing his thumb over her knuckle, jumping in to answer when she stumbles.

After, he follows her back home, cooks her lunch, moving smoothly around her kitchen as though he lives there. He doesn't press her to talk, doesn't ask questions.

She sits, knees drawn up to chest on the floor, running her toes across cool marble, burrowing a little deeper into the Phillies sweatshirt he'd left there one day that she'd claimed as her own.

The meal is simple; caprese salad, a few pieces of imported salami, bread. Bradley's next to her and his long legs look ungainly, stretched out in front of him. He mops up olive oil from the salad with the Italian bread, more a slab than a slice and she can't help but smile.

"Good?"

"Very."

It feels nice to just be quiet, especially after talking non-stop all day. He seems to know innately what she needs and it shouldn't surprise her anymore but it still manages to catch her off guard.

The ping of her phone sinks through the peace and when she pulls it from her back pocket, her mouth puckers.

"He knows I had stuff going on today," she mutters under her breath.