[ whatever good mood she had been cultivating, it sours in seconds. the corners of her mouth curdle, making no secret of how unimpressive she finds this guessing game. like he's stumbling around in the dark, swinging out his fists with the blind hope that he'll strike her down, until she feels equally helpless.

it wouldn't be so shocking to her, if his only goal is to make himself feel powerful by venting out his impotency on her, making her suffer alongside him. she doesn't bother pointing out what he's failed to see — her years of experience in feeling feeble, feeling powerless. why should she waste that breath, expose that part of herself, to a man that's fooled himself into thinking he knows all there is to know of her?

the accusation only proves how little he's bothered to know her, beyond the image he has of her in his head. she narrows her eyes, accusive in her own right. ]

What would you know about what I want? You've never bothered to ask.

[ would she have wanted him to ask? she grapples with that impossible question. once, perhaps. now, she expects she would shrink away from it like a burrowing mole, afraid of what it must mean for him to want to dig up her dreams. ]

You're wrong, by the way. [ solid. forceful. he's wrong about all of it, if she's being honest with herself — her regret, her wish, having everything she could want. but it's not a desire to be seen by him that has her gritting it out — only the satisfaction of rubbing his nose in it. ] Not that it's any of your concern.