Here.
In this space, we existed without the rest of the world. Here, where the air rushes up, where this hospital breathes, where we are always laughing and smiling and where we are most in love – it is here that I miss you most. It is here that I picture your sleeping face and crave the warmth of your skin. It is here where I feel the rush and the loss all at once.
You were the kind of beautiful that demanded eyes. An audience. I was never not looking, never not watching. You exuded confidence. Talent. You were a wonder, a surgeon with a smile so perfect, sometimes so rare, that it stopped my heart every time I teased one out of you.
We lived in a firehouse. We had a bed across from the kitchen but we made love on the floor more often than not. You, lying in the half-light, your naked body glowing in the last strains of sun. Maybe the first strains; we kept strange hours, rarely got nights home. Time was a secondary thing with you, a rule we didn't have to follow. You were a force of forever. Your body, your lithe, ballerina body, sun-splashed and spent. I miss that. Can picture it so vividly I can smell you, the last of your perfume and the sweat still shining on your skin. I sometimes wake, confused, and search for you like this, run my hands out alongside me and am surprised to find feather-soft bed, cotton sheets, no floorboards, no you.
No firehouse. No half-pulled blinds. No you. No you. No you.
I come here almost every day. I feel the wind rush up from beneath my feet and I'd like to say I feel some sort of something. All I do is miss you. Ache. Stand still and feel my heart beat, steady and slow, and imagine you are somewhere, oceans away, listening. That you know. That you can feel it beating your name.
Cris- tin- a.
Cris-tin-a.
Cristina.
Cristina Cristina Cristina.
Woosh. You were a wonder. I could not take that from you, or let you take it from yourself. My white coat billows around me. My eyes are closed and I can hear your laugh in my head, your voice whispering my name with a fondness you reserved for only me. Let me go, Owen, you say sometimes. I pretend I don't hear you. I can't.
You took the air from my lungs when you left. I do not miss it as much as you, warm and soft, against me. I do not miss breathing nearly as much as I miss you.
-x-
A/N: Just finished season 10 and am mourning the loss of Cristina and the finality of CristinaOwen's ending. She got one of the best send offs Grey's has given anyone, but something will be missing from my netflix binges now.