Barney Stinson didn't have the gift of foresight to see that terrible night backwards, through the future lens labeled bad timing, but rather saw it through the present one, which was just a little bit faulty and one-sided. He stood in front of Ted's dumpster with the bag of rose petals. There were no TVs to smash, and to his surprise, he didn't even feel the need to smash one this time. Instead, he stood there, swallowing the lump in his throat, trying to find a way to blame himself for this, to make this not her fault.

He kept settling on the question she asked him: I'm such a mess. Why do you even like me? Without Barney understanding why, it brought to mind the image of a child sitting in a mess of oil paints, the reds running into the greens, the blues smeared on the child's face, yellows covering her smock, which was already discolored with old, crusty, dry paint. Why do you even like me? He was a kid, too, sitting next to her, in an equally messy smock, which was all tattered and hardened at the edges with years of dried paint like hers. He too, was also covered in fresh paint: brown in his hair, black defiling his white gym shoes, red covering both his child-sized hands. Because you're almost as messed up as I am.

He realized now that was probably the wrong answer. He should have realized it then, but time was moving so fast through those moments they spent alone together he barely had time to think. Truthfully, though, what could he have possibly said? You are the only person who makes me want to be better than I am? You're beautiful and intelligent and you used to be a Canadian pop star? I've known you for seven years and sometimes, it seems you are so integrated into who I am, I can't separate myself from you? Once, I dreamt of you as an old woman and me as an old man and I still woke up wanting you?

He lets out a long breath and feels it again: the hollow aching in his rib cage, the strangled air trapped in his throat, the cloud behind his eyes, and his throbbing head, which replayed that shake of her head while searching for something in her eyes to explain it. To explain this. He tried to get angry, tried to blame her, tried to make this her fault.

But he just kept hearing her voice: I'm such a mess. I'm a terrible person. I'm such a mess. I'm such a mess.

And a ghost of that old Barney passed through him, the one who would interpret these feelings of frustration and rejection as anger, and rage in grief against them. But in the same moment, he realized that he was no longer that man, no longer that paint-specked boy. And it was a good feeling, on top of everything else; a fog light breaking through the dim.

He could not blame her for this. She was still that little girl covered in paint, rubbing and rubbing to wipe it clean, turning her skin pink with the friction, her eyes filled with hopeless tears.

And he was standing there in his spotless suit, looking on and waiting.