Disclaimer: White Collar and all of its characters do not belong to me. This story does.
A/N: So basically I've been going through White Collar withdrawals since the S1 finale and since S2 is so close, I decided I'd celebrate with a little oneshot collection. This first one is pretty serious and somber, but I've got planned for lots of lighthearted stuff. If you have any suggestions for a one shot or drabble that I could do for this collection, let me know in a review or you can just message me your idea. :) Enjoy the story, and please leave a review if you liked it!
To the woman I once knew,
Though my hand shakes and tears dot this paper, these words must escape the captivity of my pen. Most nights I close my eyes and all I see is smoke and fire, so I open them only to see your face- a faint outline on the ceiling that lingers for just seconds before gently floating away. I reach out to touch you but am always too late.
Reminders of you sit all around me. I can't turn without seeing another. I hear your voice in the hallways and am always crushed when I turn around quickly and find that, of course, it is not you. And that is always when I wonder- did you ever think about this way? Did you lie awake at night, confining yourself to one side of the bed because you were so used to having someone next to you? Did you walk along the street and absently reach to your side, hoping to find yourself gripping mine? And if you did and only felt the breeze lacing between your fingers, did tears ever prick at your eyes because I wasn't there?
I wonder if your heart ever fluttered at the sound of my name. I wonder if, when we were always separated by that plastic wall and you pressed your hand hard against it, you really wanted to touch me. I wonder if you really meant it when you told me that you loved me.
No matter what your answers are, I know that I loved you once, and I love you still. Nothing in this world could change that. But my heart aches when I think that there may be a possibility that you might not have felt the same way about me. I know that you would try to convince me that that isn't true. I wish I could convince myself of this. But I can't.
I think it was your eyes. Something about the look in your eyes when I saw you last. They weren't bright, like I am so used to seeing. You were smiling at me, but they weren't. They were just looking, blankly, at me or maybe even through me. It was if you saw and, at the same time, you didn't. You knew I was there and yet couldn't tell who I was. I was just another person, any other person, about to climb aboard with fly away with you. I was distanced from you, in every sense of the word, and there is not a thing in this world that could even begin to close that distance.
We both changed, for better or for worse. Whoever you used to be is lost somewhere amongst oil portraits, torn manuscripts, and broken wine bottles- souvenirs of a life lived by someone else. Whoever I used to be is back there as well. Who knows, maybe those lost scraps of our former selves are there together, still holding hands and telling jokes and whispering sweet nothings. Maybe they'll stay that way forever. You and me, however, have moved on from that place. You will certainly never go back, and I don't think that I could handle the journey.
Some nights I wish I could reach to my side and feel your warm skin under my hand. Some days I wish I could see your smile in the sun. I suppose, though, that I will just have to accept that you're gone. The you I didn't get to know is gone. And the me you'll never get to meet will keep on going, walking, breathing-living.
At least one of is.
Sincerely,
The man you'll never meet
Neal took a slow yet shaky breath as he set the letter down on the polished mahogany table before him. He leaned forward, elbows pressed against the table, thumbs rubbing his temples. He sighed deeply, shook his head. His hair, still wet from his shower, was plastered against his skin. With a trembling hand he lifted the flimsy paper again. He was all at once aware of the weakness of the paper, the uselessness, the insignificant of something so small and simple in a world so wide and full.
Slowly, he crushed the letter between his hands, rolling it up into a ball. Neal rose from his seat, the liquor coursing through him pushing his body from side to side before he gripped the table to steady himself. The made his way to the fireplace at the other end of the library, which he asked June to keep lit for an hour or so longer than usual, as he enjoyed the warmth. He lowered himself to his knees, feeling the heat of the flames as they struggled to reach him.
"Goodbye, Kate," he whispered. He dropped the little ball of paper into the hungry flames, watching as they quickly devoured it. Suddenly, his last conversation with her was nothing but a pile of ash.
