It doesn't matter if it's like getting glasses or if it's like seeing leaves. It's confusing and it hurts somewhat, and you can't shake the odd feeling that you've just done something weird and wrong. You can't decide if it's a cultural thing or if you actually feel that way, but you're pretty sure that your extremely-Catholic family would balk if you told them that your new significant other is a girl.

What makes it worse is that Erica is so excited about this. She's lit up; her blue eyes are animated, sparkling. Her face flushes and she's smiling. It's so strange to actually see her with so much emotion – she has trouble telling you how she feels. She has these odd tics – she'll twist her hands, or wrinkle her nose, and her eyes are always downcast. Always downcast.

Today, however, she's locked her eyes on yours. And there are tears in them.

"Callie . . . why aren't you answering me?"

You can't believe the change in her; how she's nearly waxed poetical about your night together when you feel so strange about it. You twist your own hands, your face feeling frozen, but yet, you can't take your eyes away from hers.

"Um . . . well, Erica, that's . . ."

"Callie . . . ?" Her smile is quickly freezing on her face and you suddenly just want to run.

"I have to go," you say, and hate yourself for what you do to her next.

She looks down, away from you, and her lower lip begins to tremble. Two tears drop onto the blanket, making darker spots where they land. She begins to run the satin fringe of the blanket through her fingers.

"Okay," she whispers. "I'm sorry."

You turn towards the door, but after a minute, you turn back.

"Erica. I'm sorry."

"Don't." Her lips are pressed tightly together but now you can see that her face is streaked with tears.

You walk towards her, hearing your footfalls on the ground like thunder in your ears. She doesn't look up as you come to the side of the bed; she simply continues to run the fringe of the blanket through her fingers. If you had known her as a child, you would have known that this is her way of comforting herself; she would lie in bed as a toddler and stroke the satin fringe of her blanket against her cheek while sucking her thumb.

She's a big girl now, but it doesn't stop her from needing the comfort. And you kick yourself for not realizing that the way you just reacted to her is extremely rude and hurtful.

You know that words may not help right now. You know this instinctively; she's already hurt. So you simply put your hand over her fingers on the fringe, and sit down on the bed beside her, waiting for her own words.

They're not long in coming, fogged by her tears, although they're as sharp and blunt as she's always been.

"I told you that I don't make friends easily. The fact is, I don't do well with relationships, either. They've always been awkward, or unemotional. And maybe you're the first person I've fallen in love with, ever."

You clear your throat a little awkwardly. "I don't mean to be scared."

"It's not about that, Callie. I don't open up well. And when I do, you shoot me down. And it hurts." The tears start to fall onto the blanket again and you put your arms around her. She sits straight for a minute, and then leans into you, almost despite her will.

"This is new to me, too," she whispers, and you nod against her hair. "I've never done this before. But I wish I had done it sooner. I just wish . . . you could show me you feel the same way."

She buries her face in the blanket for a minute and you can see that her ears are blushing red. It's cost her a lot to say this, and you feel even more conflicted.

"Erica, I can't. Not right now."

And with that, you leave . . . and feel horrible for doing so.

//~//

At the end of the day, you don't feel any better. You've slept with Mark Sloan twice (and the good thing about him is that you don't have to care about his feelings; if he gets hurt, he never lets on) and the result was the same. The sex was good, and the pleasure was just as good as sex with Erica. The only difference is, with Mark, there's no strings attached.

However, he did have a good piece of advice.

"Listen, Torres, you're a horrible girlfriend. You're leading that poor woman on and sleeping with me. I can't complain, but you're a cheater."

"What?" You sit bolt upright in bed and feel a blush start to stain your face. "A cheater? Like George O'Malley?"

"Yep." He leans back. "It's not a different relationship by definition when it's with a girl. A relationship is a relationship. If you've committed, then you have. That's not my definition, Torres. That's the way it's always been, and she's been a bitch all day anyway. What the hell did you do to her?"

You move uncomfortably. "I just . . ."

"Torres."

"I ran out after. She started crying and I just couldn't."

"You chickened out?"

"Yeah. I don't know how I feel."

Mark moves in bed, flopping down beside you and sighing in exasperation. "I hate these conversations. Do you care about her?"

"Yeah, I do." You think back to her, the way her tears glistened on her face, the animated look in her eyes. "Yeah. I care."

"Well, Torres? Don't be an idiot. You're throwing this away because you're "unsure?" It doesn't sound that way to me." He flops onto his belly. "Now go away. I'm tired."

She's sitting in the staff room, doing charts, when you come in.

"Erica, I'm sorry."

"How many times are you going to say that?"

"I do care about you."

"That's nice." Her voice is clipped and her pen moves busily over the chart, although if she's writing anything, you highly doubt it, from the way her hand is trembling on the pen.

"Erica." And now your voice breaks a little, even though it has no right to – even though you know you're in the wrong here.

She looks up. "I opened up to you. Twice. And you left. You left and I was crying." Her voice shakes a little. "I wouldn't leave you if you were crying."

"I know." You look down. "I didn't know . . . I wasn't sure."

"I got that. Thanks." She looks down at her charts again.

"Erica, I slept with Mark Sloan." You blurt it out and aren't surprised to see her face totally shut down. "Wait, though, before you get mad."

"Mad?" She laughs a little. "You ran out on me, and then you slept with Sloan. What other wonderful treats of news are you going to bring me before I'm allowed to react?"

"I did it because I wasn't sure. But now, I am. I care about you. And if I care about you, I have to be honest. I slept with him. Twice. And I realized that it might never been leaves for me. Or glasses. It might never be that way with us."

Her face doesn't change.

"But even if it's not a revelation, it's still wonderful. I still care about you. And I want to try again. To make you happy, because you made me happy."

She says nothing, but simply threads the pen through her fingers, until she looks up again.

"Okay."

"Okay, what?"

"Okay. We'll try again. But you're with me. And only me. If you're not sure, back out now. I can't take you doing this. It hurts, Callie."

You bow your head and turn to leave, but she stands up.

"No. This time, you tell me what you feel. Don't just leave."

"I'm sorry. I was awful to you," you whisper, and she stands up, coming over to you and stroking your hair a little off your face.

"Yeah. But you're decent enough to feel that you hurt me. And now, we'll work on it together. It's not going to be perfect, I don't expect that. But I chose you because you're beautiful and caring. I just want it to work, for once."

You put a hand on her cheek and she leans against it, closing her eyes.

"I'll be honest next time. I promise."

In response, she kisses you, her lips feather-light on yours, and you feel a frisson of desire run through your body and you smile.

"It might be leaves, soon."