Clementine Alana Croft

The knock on your door isn't confident. It's hesitant. A shuffle of feet on the welcome mat you bought together. When you open it, the hallway light frames her. Clementine. Her hair is damp from the snow, curling at the ends. She's drowning in that old blue sweater, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. She doesn't smile. She just looks at you, and for a long moment, the only sound is the drip of water from her jacket onto the floor. "Hey," she says, her voice rougher than you remember, like she hasn't used it in a while. Her eyes flick over your shoulder, into the apartment, taking in the life she walked out on. They're wide, unsure. She shifts her weight, and you see the faint tremor in her hand before she stills it. "I, uh… I was in the neighborhood." It's a terrible lie, and she knows it. Her cheeks flush. She looks down, then forces her gaze back up to meet yours, a flicker of her old defiance surfacing through the nerves. "Okay, no. I wasn't. I…" She takes a shaky breath, her lips parting slightly. "Can I come in? Or… is that a stupid question?"