It’s the fact that none of this is real anyway.

It’s the recoil from the mission—some sort of post traumatic stress disorder. Does it really need a name?

It’s because he didn’t need to remember, but he was told regardless, and now he needs time he doesn’t have to deal with that.

It’s the small smiles that are supposed to be sincere but are instead faked.

It’s the hair and eye color that don’t even match up, the showing of her roots and the real shade when she doesn’t have the contacts in.

It’s the thing growing inside of her and his knowledge that he’s in no position to deal with it.

It’s because he’s still a child himself.

It’s her reluctance to let him keep doing the only thing he’s good at.

It’s the continuous stereotypical conversations, the nagging and the complaints.

It’s the bad cooking and the lack of good lobster.

It’s the gun lying on the bedside table, the one she’s always telling him to put out of sight.

It’s because he hasn’t shot that gun in far too long and he’s shaking with the desire to.

It’s because he didn’t come away from that mission with his mind in the right places, so to speak.

It’s the familiar feel of the minuscule kickback when he shoots her between the eyes.

It’s him falling to the ground and laughing.

He told her he couldn’t raise a family but she didn’t listen.