the shire is burning [eddie munson x OC]

chapter fifty two

Heartbreak is a fickle thing. Individualistic, too, by nature.

It's never like the movies, though it still finds a way to be loud and unapologetic. It's screaming matches in a friend's driveway, cursed love confessions overshadowed by the words never said - the most poetic sight, the most painful experience. It's memories of late night phone calls where soft jokes are exchanged and midnight baking plans are made, oblivious to the impending doom at the time. It's lonely weeks spent wrapped in your own blankets with best friends who, try as they might, will never soothe the ache. It's the acceptance that it was you, not him. Some might say that most of the time, possibly ninety percent of the time, it's like movies. But it's not. This is not an exceptional ten percent. This is only heartbreak, in all its fickle and individualistic glory.

And Willow Jenkins feels it, the full and unapologetic glory of it all, in this moment. She can feel it in her bones, in her misery. It carries with her as she lets her legs carry her quickly from the school parking lot, across the campus to the football field, until she's reached the edge of the forest.

She's retracing the same path she'd taken four months ago for the first time. It's now littered with broken branches and dried leaves, the trees more barren than when she had last visited. She isn't even sure how she remembers the path in this new November light, but her legs do. She lets them carry her mindlessly, through the sleeping shrubbery and gray landscape, until they reach their final destination: the picnic table.

The pain is still there as she reaches the center of the clearing and rakes her palm over the splintered wood. Her knuckles are throbbing, her lungs are begging for a break, and her head is swimming. But that's not the pain that is overtaking her; the pain that has her in a viper grip is the one in her chest. The one that still demands to be felt. The one that remains quiet and miserable. The pain she used to firmly believe she knew all too well.

She's quickly realizing that there is no way for anyone to become familiar with heartbreak. It isn't the type of ache to get to know like an old friend - it's the type of ache that is ever-changing, that simply cannot stay the same. If heartbreak was something you could get used to, there wouldn't be so many poems, so many movies, so many songs. If it was something anyone could get used to, there wouldn't be so many different ways to write it or describe it.

Willow can feel the autumn air nipping at the tear streaks still lining her cheeks, but she knows her eyes have finally dried. Seeing Eddie again should have her sobbing, screaming, bargaining. But it doesn't. It increases the ache in her chest, convinces her that maybe this isn't heartbreak and instead a broken rib, but her tear ducts remain resilient as she takes a seat at the wooden table.

She can still picture him clearly. The way he had looked the first day they'd met up here, the day they'd agreed to the deal. The day that Willow had sealed their fate in misery, it seems.

"Willow?"

For a second, she convinces herself it'll be him. But she already knew who the voice belonged to, long before Robin emerged from the treeline and into the clearing. The daydream dies long before it has the chance to breathe.

"Here," she calls back softly just as Robin's eyes land on her, putting up a limp hand. It feels reminiscent of the days when a teacher would take roll call in a class.

Class . She still has to see Eddie in their classes come Monday, after the spectacle she'd just made of herself.

Christ, I'm a fucking idiot.

"Hey," Robin breathes in relief, forcing a worried smile in her direction as she takes the tentative steps up to the table, "I just wanted to make sure you were okay."