Hiya, all! It's me again, heh. Thought you'd gotten rid of me. And, while I'm not one of the better authors here, remember I haven't graduated yet, so bear with me. Some ideas just won't leave me, so put up with me if I upload something o.o;

Anyways, some constructive comments would be nice. And don't forget the compliments, heh.

Disclaimer: Not mine. But, oh, happy birthday George (yesterday)!


His eyes were pleading as he tried to convince her to stay.

"Sara, you can't just leave and forget about your life, your friends."

She glared at him angrily as she shoved her things into the last box. "I can, and I will."

The smallest bit of sorrow, and even fright, was evident in her voice and in her eyes.

"Goodbye, Nick." She walked past him out the front door, leaving him standing alone in the empty apartment.

And so he had sent her letters. He would write her a letter every week, send her an email, call her. And sometimes, those few, golden times, she would respond. Even if it was just a hello you would give somebody, a hello you would give somebody you hadn't quite known in high school, a hello you would give the cashier at the grocery store.

But lately she'd begun to open up again. He could find in her now longer letters the Sara she had been when she'd just moved to Vegas, and a sudden feeling of dismay swept over him as he wondered if Seattle would be the same as her previous life: something she would rather forget.

Over the weeks and months, they would write more often. He would tell her the good news: He had bought a new apartment, Greg was now a CSI 2, Catherine and Lindsey had made up, and oh, by the way, Cath was dating Warrick.

In turn she would give him her good news: She had gotten a kitten; she was the new dayshift supervisor at the lab in Seattle; she'd survived another birthday.

He sent her the pictures of everyone: Lindsey's seventh grade graduation, Warrick kissing Catherine, Grissom after his surgery, finally able to hear, and at the bottom of the stack, an old picture that broke her heart: she and Nick, sitting in the booth at the café that Warrick had taken years and years ago when they'd celebrated his birthday.

And something that surprised him was that she sent pictures back. Of herself, of Seattle, of her kitten, Snickers. She looked genuinely happy, and he realized that she had just needed a clean slate, a new start. But it was killing him.

Hidden in the drawer in his bedside table was a stack of letters he wished he could send: letters about how he felt. Instead, friendly wishes and smiles that didn't reveal the truth. He felt guilty that he hadn't been able to get her to stay, that things had gotten so bad she'd taken a job in Seattle. He smiled sadly at something he had read in one of her letters: Instead of the casinos everywhere in Vegas, Seattle has coffee shops. They would talk on the phone sometimes, but it wasn't the same.

She would hear a country song on the radio and think of him, talk to her friends and be reminded of him, even in the grocery store; passing the peanut butter she remembered how much he had hated it. The smallest thing could stir up the memories, but instead of doing something, she felt stupid about how shy she was.

And they would remember something:

Absence makes the heart grow fonder.

Or makes you realize it.

And they kept going, taking comfort in letters.