It Was an accident

Still.

<<Tell me the logic. Of this desperate and ridiculous seedling you're staging in front of everyone. >>

The Banshee said impassively, after looking at him with disgust and disgust from everything.

Stiles did not answer. He did not know why he was doing this, the Lydia he had broken with a few weeks ago, to take refuge in Derek's arms, after practically coming out in front of everyone, she was sweet.

She was thoughtful, attentive and gave him the most beautiful smiles she had ever done to a living soul. Not, the straight line that had taken possession of his lips.

She was right to be furious. She was right not to talk to him,she was right, to be sour. He had done everything by himself, had led her to exasperation.

He was contradicted. A year ago it was a "I love you" and the next one was turned into "I'm sorry, but I do not feel anything for you."

Yet she had repeated it. In front of everyone's eyes, clutched in a hug as he turned the knife into the wound, she repeated it to him. Crying out.

"I still love you, yes, I still love you, and still."

But Stiles did not want to make her cry. Before being his girlfriend, or his soulmate, she was his best friend, and he had made her suffer. Never would have imagined causing her so much pain with those eight words.

Yet he had done it. Reaching the number of thirteen, he had added five more. Which had only helped to further break the heart of the girl who had now become mush.

"I'm trying to leave you, Lydia."

And she is not. She had begun to beat her fists against his chest, shaken by the tears and the heart that threatened to come out to lift herself of that fatigue.
Stiles had stuck her wrists trying to stop her, yet seeing her like that did not make any difference.

She had caught the glare from Scott and Allison, even Malia herself, who did not like their relationship.

Then he found himself talking to Allison, eye-to-eye, and her words had struck him like a bullet straight to his heart.

"She's your best friend, not a puppet you can take or throw, you can not scream in her face that you do not love her anymore, you can not scratch her like that. You can not be sick for a little thing you did. Move your ass and get out of my house, and until it is better, do not talk to Lydia, or with me. If you approach, you're dead Stilinski. You understood me?!"

And those words had their effect. But there, now, in front of her, cold as ice, he realized she had created a monster.
An ice woman. Cold and hard as stone, because of him, Lydia Martin had become empty.

<< I'm sorry. >>

He managed to say in a so weak whisper that he did not even feel, not even in the ears of a wolf. But the Banshee read the lip, reluctantly, dear reader, I say, reluctantly, because Lydia was looking at his lips.

Those small strips of thin flesh that often convinced her to be special, that had caught her behind the school yard, which had settled on her skin with an inhuman delicacy and sweetness.

But her skin was now pale. Her eyes dull, her lips parted and his hands trembling at her sides.

Lydia felt sick.

But for Stiles she was always beautiful.