marvella15:

She knew. His clever Clara. He’d never told her with the right words but she still knew. Later, much later, when the ache in his hearts dulled enough for him to function, to think, he’d find some comfort in that. 

He wasn’t very good at showing it. Never had been. But especially not with this face. Eyebrows too fierce. Body too awkward. So he spent time being against hugging, pretending not to be Clara’s boyfriend, trying to be grumpy. Too much time. And in those last moments, that last embrace, he’d worried. 

He had tried to tell her in his own ways. Used different words because the real ones were terrifying. Asked her to come away with him again because the thought of being without her was too much. Held her hand because he wanted to, needed to. Cheated time and death to come back because she asked. Hugged her because it felt right after all to have her in his arms.

Had he done enough to undo all that wasted time? Had she realized how precious, how important, how essential she was to him? Did she know the depth of his love for her?

Yes, she’d told him. She’d seen. She’d felt. She knew. Oh, she knew. 

edit: [he knew]