Anna hadn't meant to to that. She'd only wanted to hold her hand, perhaps tell Elsa – verbally – how she felt. Ask if it were reciprocated.

She can't look at her on the drive home. She doesn't want to see the way Elsa holds herself; taut, strained, and leaning away.

But neither can she stand the silence, so she rambles on about stupid shit – the weather, dinner, her classes. Anything that comes to mind, because the last thing she wants to think about is what she's just done.

It's a valiant effort, but ultimately futile.