You're a planner. Not one of those "I've got a concrete bunker 70 feet below my house just in case of a nuclear apocalypse" kind of planner. But rather the "I've got my life figured out to the second" kind.

And your plan went a little something like this: graduate college by 21. Be done with law school by 24. Make partner of a firm by 27. Die at the ripe old age of 94. That was it. That was our plan. And you were very content with that plan too. Until it was rocked a little off course when you met a rather dangerously beautiful blonde with a knack for art and getting in trouble.

So of course, with that little tidbit added, you had to adjust somethings. Shift some plans back. Graduate by 21. Be done with law school by 24. Marry Clarke by 26. Make partner of a firm by 27. Have your first kid by 30. Celebrate your 50th anniversary by 76. Die at the ripe old of 94.

There. Perfect. The perfect plan. The irrefutable and undeniable perfect plan.

And well… you got the first four. So perhaps your good karma had been used up, but the dying at the ripe old age of 94 was most likely not going to happen. No.

Instead your plan had been changed. Forced by the hand of Mother Nature. And there was absolutely nothing you could do about it. Which was the part that hurt the most. Because all your life you had decided what happened and when it happened. But now?

Well it went a little something like this: Graduate by 21. Be done with law school by 24. Marry Clarke by 26. Make partner by 27. Die in a flaming metal inferno 45,000 feet up by 28.

That? That was your new plan.

"Clarke?"

You hated it. You hated how needy and whiny your voice sounded right now, but you need to hear her voice one last time. You needed to hear the voice of the woman that had stolen your heart right from your chest.

No.

You shouldn't say it like that. She didn't steal it. You gave it to her freely. Willingly. Because you wouldn't want anyone else to have it. It was hers and hers alone. And it would always be hers to protect.

"Clarke?" you try again, only hearing a terrible, scratchy feedback. Of course now your phone, the one that had cost a fortune because of its supposed better call quality, decides not to work. Normally, you would laugh at the irony. But now isn't really the time for such frivolous activities.

You end the call and in one last desperate attempt try again.

It rings a few moments, a few torturous moments, before you hear the click of the call being accepted on the other line. It's silent for a moment. But a grainy voice calls out your name and you have never heard something quite as beautiful in your life.

"Lexa? Lexa, is that you? Oh God. Please tell me you're okay," the words cry through.

You want nothing more than to reassure her. To tell her that yes, everything is fine. But as you look out your window and see the flames, see the hopelessness in the eyes of the people sitting around you. You know there is no way you can lie to her.

"Hi, baby," you whisper over the noise of the screaming passengers.

There's a sob and you can picture her now. Sitting on her art stool, clad in her painters smock. The ridiculous thing covered in years' worth of paint and ink. Blonde hair tinted white from the afternoon sun shining through the bay windows. Phone pressed to her ear. She looks glorious. Stunning. Other worldly.

What you wouldn't give to see that one more time. And oh how you wish under different circumstances.

"Lexa. Please," she begs, "Please tell me that isn't your flight."

You're silent, knowing full well that she can hear the mantras of 'please save us' coming through the line. So you ignore the question. Because that isn't how you want your last conversation to go.

"Do you remember how we first met?" you ask instead.

And perhaps that wasn't the best way to go either, because her sobbing worsens and your heart tugs painfully to be by her side. Holding her. Comforting her.

But your power on, because you need this. You need her to know. Because you are afraid that you never said it enough.

"It was so cold that night. And I swear we were the only people crazy enough to be out on the streets, yet we somehow managed to run right into each other," you chuckle, feeling the tears well into your eyes. "All I remember was seeing a flash of blonde hair before I woke up in your arms, head pounding with a screaming headache, and your beautiful blue eyes looking down at me. Your smile the only apology needed." You pause and sniffle because, God, that night changed your life forever. "Do you remember what you said to me?"

There is only silence and you fear that you lost her. Lost the connection. But then her ragged breath breaks through and you can almost see the ghost of a smile on her lips, "Are you passed out on the sidewalk or are you my snow angel?" she chuckles, a sad watery thing. Nothing like the warming laughs that you are used to hearing.

"That's right," you smile. Because of all things a woman could say to you after she knocks you over, causing you to hit your head and black out, she goes with a pick up line. You knew you were a goner then and there.

You can hear her crying again, the force of her sobs shaking her shoulders, making her breaths short and choppy. God, you wish you were there. You wish you could pull her in close and kiss away the tears. You wish you could lift her chin and look into her eyes, because they were always bluer when wet. You wish you could whisper sweet nothings into her ear, until the shaking and the shuddering stopped and all that was left a was a peaceful sigh.

But that was not meant to be anymore.

"Clarke," you say again, never tiring of the way her voice feels on your tongue. "Clarke, I love you so much," you say, because the screams are getting louder and the ground so much closer.

"I loved you from the moment I laid eyes on you and from every moment on. Not a day goes by where I don't love you. I just," you stop. "I just really need you to know that."

"I know, Lexa. I know," she sobs, her voice choked.

You raise your voice a little, so you can be heard, hoping to drown everything else out, "Baby," you cry, the tears flushing down your face, "Baby, I'm not going to be here much longer. And there is so much I want to say to you. There is so much I want to do with you. I just want you to know I love you. I love you so goddamn much, okay. I love you."

You keep the phone pressed hard to your ear, her words and her I love you's, drowning out the groans from the planes, the roar from the fires, the prayers of the people.

"I love you, Lexa," you hear her say. No sweeter words have ever crossed your ears.

You close your eyes and think of the face that held your heart. And you think off all the plans you had. All of the plans you had made. And you can't help but think that the best thing that ever happened to you was something that wasn't even planned out. It was random. A fluke in fate. A random passing in the street. A chance meeting. All leading to the best days of your life.

The plain gives one last almighty groan, it's final attempt to keep you afloat, and you hear her words ring loud and clear,

"I love you, Lexa," she says and you know it's true. You know it's true.