"I don't forget about things. I forgive them, sometimes," she offered, looking past him, at the tangled greenery. Deja vu. She was back in the library at the door, admitting that she might be coming back. Why could she never be sure about anything?
She went through the door to stop herself from saying anything else, to keep his presence from affecting how she felt any longer. It went without saying that though she forgave sometimes, whether or not this would be one of them was still up in the air.