She was not a coward. She knew that.
She was just tired.
Over the years she had grown to hate the way being tired made her feel. Most of her marriage to Paul, she was tired. When children, Richard's rebelling, his anger, his word-twisting, would bring about a steady flow of her father's stern examples, lectures, his strong sense of uprightness... it had always wearied her, though she wore a smile and was there for both of them.
Before today, Jack had never made her feel tired. Happy. Soft, maybe. Softer, sweeter. But never tired.
Nights spent along a pier as far from D.C. as they could get, listening to the sounds of rolling waves, or days spent having lunch downtown then taking the metro wherever it would take them; all of it made her feel awake like nothing else ever had.
Their connection was attraction and a search for something that quieted them, calmed them, and reminded them that they were alive. Something enough and meaningful and more.
She hadn't known what it would turn into. She hadn't known that she would love him. She hadn't known that he would love her back. And she hadn't known that his sacrifices would gnaw and chip and break her soul in so few hours.
She hadn't known she'd be this tired.
The End.