The one memory he recalls as he watches Blair walk away?

The limo.

The first time his mouth touched hers, the first time her hand slid across his chest, the first time he whispered into her ear. The way her shaky fingers pressed along his jaw, splayed across his shoulders. How he couldn't contain himself, how something he never knew he wanted had just fallen into his lap, and how he was fascinated with it. How Blair snaked her chains around him, how she trapped him, so quietly and without his knowledge, just with that one kiss, that one touch.

She says that she is no longer in love with him, but all he's hearing is the symphony of their breathing in the back seat of a limo.

He had never known longing, before that. He had never wanted, he had never pined. He remembers sitting in a bar, throwing back scotch as he told her he didn't want her, playing games with her heart because his was so bruised. He remembers hiding behind a stone wall as Blair sat in the lap of his best friend, the look on her face saying he meant nothing to her. He remembers acidic hate that never really felt like hate at all. He remembers so many things, good and bad and wonderful and tragic.

He remembers losing her, so many times over, again and again, but it never really felt like the end. Not until now. Not until she looked at him with no fire behind her eyes, not until she turned away without a backwards glance.

It can't be over, he says to himself. This love is one for the books.

Never mind that Humphrey may be the author behind the pen. Never mind that Chuck may be just a pawn in someone else's story.