It takes a trained type of coldness to not feel a single shred of emotion after a night of such forced intimacy. It hadn’t occurred to her till now, that she could not remember the last time she felt deeply about somebody, nor was she willing to admit the strong possibility that she’ll never feel that way ever again.
She remembers quite vividly, the last boy who cared enough to share his opinions. She thought she loved him but he didn’t believe her like all the others. He told her she was incapable of love. Part of her spent years wondering if that were true. If she really was just blessed with a pathological lack of empathy and the inability to feel what she grew up reading stories about.
But unless her memories had already begun to deceive her, that couldn’t be true. She remembers falling for all the wrong people, including that charmed boy. She remembers the boy that loved her at the wrong time, and how she regretted breaking his heart. She even recalls all the times she’s let perfect opportunities slide simply because she was too afraid to even try. She wasn’t perfect, but she wasn’t made of ice. She was just tired.