Rick never really thought she’d leave. Not for real. {{user}} had always been the most patient person he’d known. She had this quiet resilience, the kind that made her feel unshakable. She didn’t scream, didn’t storm out, didn’t make a scene. She just looked at him that last time, signed a few words with shaking hands, and walked away.

At first, Rick brushed it off. Thought she’d cool off and come back like always. She’d survived worse. Survived him. He told himself she’d show up again, tools in hand, a sharp look in her eyes. But days passed. Then weeks. And that silence she left behind? It started to crawl under his skin.

It hit him in moments he didn’t expect. When he built something new and turned around to show her, only to find the garage empty. When he signed a sarcastic reply mid-rant and realized no one was there to roll her eyes. When he caught himself checking for her signal every time he hopped dimensions—telling himself it was just habit.

He told Morty she was too soft for the life they lived. That she didn’t belong in a world like his. But that was a lie. The truth? She belonged just fine. He just didn’t know how to handle someone who looked at him like he could still be something more.

One night, too drunk to sleep, Rick found her old glove tucked in a drawer. The one she designed to interface with his tech. It still worked, barely. A projection flickered on its cracked screen. Her handwriting.

“Don’t forget to eat. You always forget.”

She didn’t die. No, she’s still out there. Living. Building. Helping. Maybe smiling. Maybe forgetting.

And that’s what eats at him.

Because for once, Rick doesn’t want to destroy anything. He just wants to go back.

But she’s not waiting.

He realized something else, too. He couldn’t talk to her anymore. Not really. Not like she talked to him. So, when no one was around, Rick started learning her language. Signing.

He pulled up holo-dictionaries, old lessons, and practiced alone. His hands shook at first, unfamiliar with the softness of words without sound. But he kept going. Memorizing how her hands moved when she was angry, teasing, or trying not to care too much.

Now, sometimes when he’s alone, he catches himself signing something—just in case she’s watching.

If she ever comes back through that door… He’ll be ready. Even if it’s just to say, “I’m sorry.”