Demetrius

Because when he was there, it was like catching a drizzle, and when he was gone, it was something worse. Emptiness, the kind in a house after the last box has been packed and loaded; emptiness harder than emptiness alone, because it was not truly empty but a quarter full of a dull, achy hurt, just enough to slosh around at the bottom and make some noise. She didn't want it to be that way, but it was. There was something possessing about him, about the way he would not be possessed. Or, at least, not by her. Not that she would give him the satisfaction of open pursuit. She wasn't that far into the forest yet. But the want was undeniable, so she let it sit there, as undisturbed and untended as it was unintended.

Because she doesn't know how to understand him. He's like starting a story in the middle, the first hundred or so pages ripped out or blacked out, redacted, redacted, redacted. His open book is no good to her. She doesn't speak that damn language, anyhow.