AN: been asked (nagged at) to re-write an old fic of mine. I was young, naive, and had appalling bad spelling then, so needless to say a myriad of changes have been made.

Prologue

"Our song's playing, Naomi"

Emily looked down in bewilderment at the words she'd written on the page, as if they'd appeared by magic. "The underlying assumption of Bowlby's Maternal Deprivation Hypothesis," was what she was meant to write, "is that continual disruption of the attachment between infant and primary caregiver". As the songs notes floated through her immaculate dorm room, weaving in and out of all the pages, discs and clothes that fabricated Emily's identity, she found herself slowly turning the page of her notebook.

"Our song's playing, Naomi, this is the first time I've listened to it since she left. I want to hear it now, the memories comfort me now. It's funny Naoms, how it's only now I've realised that you were right. I would never admit it to your face though. If I did your lips would curve into a smile and let out a laugh that's effect on me cannot be described with words.

Trust me, I've tried.

I don't want you to laugh at me anymore. I've grown and become someone you wouldn't recognize. Ramble, in only the zealous way you can, about women's politics, cabinets and human rights, and my eyes won't glaze over.

Instead I will stare and wonder about the workings of your mind, and the things that gave you this appetite, your hunger for life.

You are my muse, my outlet of creativity for which I can explore the depths of my passion and talent, you knew as you took my tender hand and dragged me from super noodles and tabloids that you were going to shape me, bewilder me and care for me like no one before.

Just like he did to you.

You aren't my everything anymore, I can't feel your ache in my chest. Only your thoughts, always leading me in different directions and teasing my conscience.

I'm older and wiser now, I don't need your sultry hand to guide me through the delicacies of life. Maybe one day my hands will be marked and learned enough to show another how to live, like you did to me all those years ago.

I walk these crowded Brighton streets now as you did before, although probably not as convincingly. I can glance at rustic bars and silent street corners and tell amusing stories of humiliation, or kisses with past lovers. I can tell heart-wrenching stories about her, the one that no one talks about. I can finally accept that you're merely a story now, a story that I tell –in parts- to people around tables and bars where we all share a laugh at my embarrassment or mistakes that then seemed like the end of the world.

I guess for some they were.

Because you have given me a story, a tale that twists around my tendons and moulds my morals and virtues, I'm going to write to you. A page a day, in the hope that one day your eyes will grace my pages, and you will fondly remember your Emily.

Just as I remember you.

I'm looking out my window, and just like every time, I can see your eyes. Your beautiful, inexplicable eyes. The dazzling blue that I spent more years then I care to admit hunting for, hoping that one day I might find that colour again, and marvel at its splendour.

And now I've found it in the ocean, my ocean, my home. So the you I remember can stay with me always.

I would give all my knowledge to fools to have you as my home, so I could savour your wisdom, read the pages and eat the meals that, no doubt, have continued to shape you.

But you are too married, altogether too married.

I see how he is a part of you, his light shines from within you and makes you alive.

Together you will travel the world, devour the world, whilst I lounge on my sofa and try to create my own world with my words.

I'm sorry I didn't realise you were right.

I'm sorry that she had to suffer for me.

But really, what I'm most sorry for is the fact that you will never see these pages."

Taking a deep breath, the petite redhead flipped another page. She closed her eyes and absent-mindedly ran her hand through her hair, slowly rolling her shoulders to ease the ache that only a student can feel. Putting down her pen she glanced around at the organised notes she'd prepared for her psychology essay.

She continued to write. Every so often she would stop, gaze outside the window and just remember. It was time for her to remember.

She wrote all night, all day, until she had nothing left to give.