Perhaps it's short-sighted not to expect her to get right to the point. Perhaps he should be relieved that she does. Any smalltalk right now would be stilted anyway, and though he would never outright say so, not in so many words, he doesn't want her here. It's too hard to be around her. The sooner she says whatever she came here to say, the sooner she can leave and he can get back to licking his wounds in peace. It catches him by surprise even so, the echo of what he said in the elevator during those awful few minutes, words that have echoed in his head in the days since. They still feel true now. The mistake was his. Had he kept his feelings to himself, had he never admitted to her what he'd known for months prior, had he not let himself believe that those feelings might one day be reciprocated, none of them would be in this mess. Anya would be with Dmitry, not stuck with a choice she should never have had to make and that seemed a fairly self-explanatory one from the start, and he wouldn't have lost anything. They would all be better off that way. Maybe he would even be happy for her.
It ought to be a comfort to hear her say that he wasn't a fool, but caught off-guard and already exhausted as he is, Gleb winces anyway. Revisiting that conversation in any capacity is nothing he's remotely interested in. Were it not for her reminding him that he once told her he would never turn her away, he thinks he very well might have tried to insist that she go, much as he never thought it would come to that. It cuts as deep now as it did then; it doesn't change the reason why he said what he did in the first place. He won't dispute that she spoke out of turn, less than pleased to have so many things decided for him at once, so many words put in his mouth, but she must have had a reason for it, and he doesn't see how it could be anything good.
With that seeming like the best place to start, he's about to try to say as much when she gets to the last thing she adds, and he goes still, staring at her with unmasked devastation. It isn't fair to hang that over his head again. He hadn't thought she would be so cruel, even unintentionally.
"Anya, I..." Trailing off, he turns his gaze down to his feet, uncomfortable with such open vulnerability. "I have never stopped loving you," he says, quieter this time. It's just the two of them now; there's no audience. He can say the things he didn't get to that day, too, even if he doesn't quite know how to. "I couldn't if I tried." One corner of his mouth lifts just slightly, a bittersweet, rueful expression. "I don't know why you think I wouldn't love you enough to want... a future with you, but if it was anything I did, then I am sorry for that."
He takes a deep breath. There's no way to avoid this entire conversation being as awkward, as uncomfortable, as the last time they spoke, but at least he can do so more openly now. "And I was a fool. I should never have said anything about how I felt. I... I wish I hadn't. Then this would be easier for all of us."
Maybe Anya loves him — and cruel to mention it or not, he can't believe that she would lie about such a thing — but telling him that is a far cry from telling him that she wants to be with him. She loves someone else, too, who's already made clear that he won't be with her if there's anyone else in the picture. After everything, it's hard to believe that whatever she feels for him now could override that.
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It ought to be a comfort to hear her say that he wasn't a fool, but caught off-guard and already exhausted as he is, Gleb winces anyway. Revisiting that conversation in any capacity is nothing he's remotely interested in. Were it not for her reminding him that he once told her he would never turn her away, he thinks he very well might have tried to insist that she go, much as he never thought it would come to that. It cuts as deep now as it did then; it doesn't change the reason why he said what he did in the first place. He won't dispute that she spoke out of turn, less than pleased to have so many things decided for him at once, so many words put in his mouth, but she must have had a reason for it, and he doesn't see how it could be anything good.
With that seeming like the best place to start, he's about to try to say as much when she gets to the last thing she adds, and he goes still, staring at her with unmasked devastation. It isn't fair to hang that over his head again. He hadn't thought she would be so cruel, even unintentionally.
"Anya, I..." Trailing off, he turns his gaze down to his feet, uncomfortable with such open vulnerability. "I have never stopped loving you," he says, quieter this time. It's just the two of them now; there's no audience. He can say the things he didn't get to that day, too, even if he doesn't quite know how to. "I couldn't if I tried." One corner of his mouth lifts just slightly, a bittersweet, rueful expression. "I don't know why you think I wouldn't love you enough to want... a future with you, but if it was anything I did, then I am sorry for that."
He takes a deep breath. There's no way to avoid this entire conversation being as awkward, as uncomfortable, as the last time they spoke, but at least he can do so more openly now. "And I was a fool. I should never have said anything about how I felt. I... I wish I hadn't. Then this would be easier for all of us."
Maybe Anya loves him — and cruel to mention it or not, he can't believe that she would lie about such a thing — but telling him that is a far cry from telling him that she wants to be with him. She loves someone else, too, who's already made clear that he won't be with her if there's anyone else in the picture. After everything, it's hard to believe that whatever she feels for him now could override that.