This is unusual for me, it really is. It is sad and it just wanted out. Wrote that by hand one night in my cold kitchen. That is all there is to say really. Do not hate me after it, please? :P

I do not own anything. All I have is my wonderfully twisted mind, my refuge. It is inhabited by all kinds of creatures others invented that I borrow to play with. In all kinds of ways :D

I sit in the kitchen, holding on to my cup of tea. It's still early, the mansion is asleep. All but two residents. My morning routine involves getting up before dawn, get dressed and watch him leave for his morning run, anxiously timing it-the longer he stays out, the sooner he will leave. I picked up on the pattern right away, but at least he always returned. Not so sure this time. I'm not blind. He keeps staring at the portrait of Jean, it's a miracle he's still here at all. The leaves have fallen, only few are left, turning the woods from a wonderful range of colours to a sombre brown, it is getting colder every day-matching my feelings on the inside perfectly.

I still have both hands wrapped around my cup, enjoying the warmth flooding through my bare hands. It's been months since I took the cure but I'm still not used to it, still haven't been able to let anyone touch me. I've seen him crumble under the weight of his memories and I wish I could take some of that off him, my newfound freedom takes a backseat when I look at him suffer. And that he doesn't, though nobody seems to notice that. Just because he doesn't break down crying doesn't mean he's not suffering, who would know better than me?

I can't eat. I can't sleep. I keep seeing his empty eyes, his face void of any emotion, a ghost of the man he used to be. The gruff man I fell in love with.

Sometimes he joins me in the common room, quietly watching a movie with me, or one of the shows I like. I'd like to think he enjoys The Simpsons the most, he watches me giggle and sometimes smiles when I look over at him. He needs that, maybe he doesn't even know he does. But he keeps drifting towards me like a lost satellite.

He'll just never need me the way I want him to.

Slowly the tea warms me up, chasing away the cold that crept into my body as I sat by the window. It's been over an hour, he'll be leaving any day now. I know he stops by the tombstones before he comes back inside, sitting down on the bench next to them, dwelling on memories, talking to her, asking for forgiveness he will never get. She wanted to die because she knew that she couldn't live with the dark personality in her-and it shows how much he really cared about her that he took it upon himself to kill her.

It must be wonderful to have him love you like that. He cares a lot about me and that feels amazing. I can't imagine how it would be if… But it's useless to think such thoughts. I am the girl he saved because he promised to protect me. She is the woman he let go because he loved her. I can't compete with that.

A part of me hates her for not loving him back, for rejecting that precious gift he offered her. And that it is. He's not a man that gives his love away like others might do.

I see him jog towards the gates and get up, turn on the coffee machine, get the bacon and eggs I had already set out and put them in the pan. He only needs ten minutes to take a shower and get down here.

And I will be waiting with his breakfast.

The silly little girl in me keeps telling me that he needs me, that if I'd do enough he won't be able to leave me. But the woman in me doesn't want it to be like that. I don't want him to use me as his maid, as a crutch to get over Jean and I don't want him to pity me and stay for that reason.

But I am able to put my feelings aside for now. He needs me-as a friend.

A glance at the microwave, according to it's clock he entered the mansion ten minutes ago and as if on cue he walks in. I fill a plate with his bacon and eggs and he grabs my wrist.

"You don't have to do this, Marie."

I could tell him that it's nothing, that I don't mind. But the truth is, I do. And we are not only talking about me making breakfast for him, we both know that.

I want to stop hurting for him, want to stop being jealous of a dead woman-a woman that killed people and yet remains flawless in people's memories. But I can't, and he knows. At least he suspects. His hand still holds my wrist and I will never forget that haunted look in his eyes. And for the first time I understand, fully understand. Jean was to him what he is to me.

"I just want to help you get better."

It's barely a whisper. He looks like I just slapped him.

"I know. But what I need right now… I won't take that from you."

His eyes drift towards the window. He will leave. He needs to fuck around, drink, fight until the pain is gone, that is his way of coping. And I take comfort in knowing that he won't use me for that. I am important enough to him that he won't do it-even though he could have it.

"You're leaving."

It's not a question. I know. And his silence is all the confirmation I need.

He pulls me into a tight hug, and again I know that he is not comforting me but himself, He is holding on to me so desperately my heart feels like it is going to stop beating any minute, Like he is drowning. Anybody who knows him understands how much this means, he would never show so much emotion, let anybody know how much he hurts.

Maybe, one day, we will get our chance. After he gets over this pain. After I got over it. After I found out just how true it is that others can't compete with him. After I had my share of experience with others-enough to convince him that I know enough to make an informed decision. Because I know that I will always love him, no matter what. He just needs to see that, too. Even if we never get to be together, there will always be the shadow of the only man I loved with all my heart, unconditionally. Enough to let him go – and I do.

He doesn't have anyone but me now. The woman he loved, the faint hope of her returning his feelings – it is gone. And I know that if I asked him to, he'd stay. But I also know that it would be the death of him, even though he might not be able to die physically-his spirit can. It nearly did. What it needs to heal now is freedom. And time. Adventure. Everything he can't have here. If he stays there will be responsibilities. Ororo wants him to be team leader – who else is left, really. He is nowhere near ready for that. He can't stay just because of the only person he has left that he cares about, just because he doesn't want to lose me to. But he never will and he needs to know that.

"Go, Logan. Do what you need to do. I'll let Storm know, she'll understand."

He just looks at me. I wish he would stop, I don't know how much more I can stand.

"What about you?"

I know what he means, but I choose to misinterpret that.

"I won't be here much longer. I am not a mutant anymore and college is waiting."

He looks like he is about to say something and I am afraid it might be something we will both regret later.

"No need to stick around because of some promise you made. I'm a big girl now. You can come and find me in a few years."

"What if I don't come back?"

There are no dog tags he can collect. The thought alone hurts, but I won't let it show. This time he is the one taking something from me. But he will come back. I know he will. It is what keeps me breathing.

"You will. You have something that is mine. Take it with you and return it some day. It's up to you to decide what you do with it."

Saying those words cost me a lot of nerve-and strength- and I turn around. I can't stand to face him after that, I am already crumbling, shattering to pieces. He lingers in the kitchen for a few more moments that feel like hours to me. Then he leaves.

I lean my forehead against the ice cold window, My tea has gone cold, too. I feel cold, on the inside and out. It is spreading across my body.

When I hear the engine of a motorcycle I turn away, I don't want to watch him leave. His breakfast is still on the counter, untouched. A single tear rolls down my cheek, marking a path for many more that are to come.