She's lonely.
At night, when shadows take over - and so does fear- she accepts that. She's lonely.
She wants someone, someone who'll love her -like she loves him-.
Unrequited love.
She laughs -not that's it funny- because this got her. After working on her career and her intelligence, love isn't something she wanted -or needed- and it surprises her that she needs it now. She needs it like food, like air. She need him -Owen-.
Her eyes flutter close -maybe that will close out the pain- and maybe a tear leaks out. Because she loves him -so much- and she needs him -always- and oh, it hurts. It hurts so fucking much.
She is Tosh, married to her work and he is Owen, sarcastic and uncaring. Except she isn't married to her work. And he isn't uncaring. She comes in to see him -because she loves him- and to talk to him -because that heals her- and laugh with him and smile with him. She's strong -strong enough to pretend it doesn't hurt- and he's scared - of her?- she can see it in his eyes.
So she works. She types and reads and tunes her ears to pick his movements up. To listen -to his heartbeat- and love it.
God, I'm such a fool, she thinks, her eyes welling up. I'm such a fool for loving him, for loving his so much that it hurts me and oh God, why am I doing this? Because she loves him. It's as simple as that. She loves him, more then Torchwood. More then her mother. More then her friends, her family.
More then herself.
It's hard -near impossible- to stop loving someone. Love is special -she isn't honored by it- and can't be withdrawn. It's love. And she pretends. She pretends that Jack can charm her -she's immune- and that she isn't jealous of Gwen -that girl is strong- and that Ianto isn't hurting inside -because he is. They all are-.
She would do anything -everything- for him. Because of him, of him, why him. Her days consist of him -sometimes, she can't breath- only him. Always him.
Her nights consist of him -sometimes, she can't think- dreams of him, of them, of what they should be.
Her thoughts consist of him -sometimes, she can't see- and a flash of his warm eyes and his cold exterior, wrapped around her. Entangled. Entwined. Together.
And she hopes -oh, how she hopes- that's it a crush. Because she wants it to be -wouldn't it be less painful?- but then she doesn't. Because love is beautiful, no matter how much it hurts. It's love. She can tell. There wouldn't be a sense of sadness, of hopelessness whenever she looks at him. Of suffocation -sometimes, she can't breath- and loneliness and sorrow. And him. Always, always him.
She breaths for him -even when she can't- she lives for him -because with him is when she feels alive- and she dies for him -because she knows she will-.
She loves him. She loves him so fucking much that sometimes, she can't breath.
Let me catch my breath.