A/N: I definitely know I have to thank Chelsea Oz for this. First of all, she is simply a wonderfully encouraging person—but her most recent one-shot and our (very brief) conversation about this kind of sparked the writing bug in me again (for a brief second). I definitely want to continue "You Were A Photograph" but to be honest I actually need to re-read everything I wrote to even begin to think of where I was on that story. I'm weirdly fascinated by Jack's love for Jean, so here is yet another story about them b/c let's see how many times I can beat a dead horse. Also this was written in like forty minutes with minimal proofreading so it's probably not the best. [Also, in my typical fashion the title is from a song that I don't own/didn't write].

-o-o-o-

Certain things brought her to his mind: the scent of rain, red hair, a crude joke, a dramatic pause in conversation. These little things, which may seem like nothing to many, brought on an onslaught of memories.

Exuberance was her hallmark. She talked loudly, she laughed loudly, she lived loudly. He never needed to ask where she was at a given time for he could simply hear her. Whether she was talking animatedly, her hands thrown in the air as she recounted story after story, or whether she was merely walking – her hard-heeled shoes slamming against any and all possible surface. She was everywhere at once, almost as if she wanted the entire room to feel her presence.

But it was hardly overbearing or overwhelming. In fact, people were drawn to her like flies to honey. Maybe it was the way she shrugged her shoulders when she had gossip someone wanted to know. Or maybe it was the way her eyelashes batted attentively whenever someone else was speaking. Or maybe it was simply the fact that anyone who fell within her orbit could never be released, almost as if she had some sort of enchanting effect on them.

He certainly knew that she had an enchanting effect on him.

"I want to see everything," were the first words she had said to him with a shrug. Her hands had been folded within her lap, but now she was tossing them about as though she was attempting to swat a bug away from her. "I want to see beyond this town, beyond this state, beyond this country, even. Hell, I want to see beyond this world."

"I'd take you wherever you'd like to go," he had replied, a grin growing on his face.

She had believed him enough to stay, though it would turn out he wasn't telling her the truth.

He loved her, he really did. Or perhaps, in fact, he loved the idea of her. At this point it has been took long for him to be able to tell. All he did know was that her magnetic personality made him want to be around her at all times. It was almost as if he was obsessed, trapped within some sort of spell that couldn't be broken.

And it seemed as if she loved him back. At least, that's what he told himself in the beginning when everything went wrong and he was trying to figure out why. She loved you, he told himself, though with the passage of time he wasn't sure if he believed it anymore.

If he was sure about one thing, though, it was that they had fun. They went to parties, they traveled, they saw bits and pieces of America through train windows and hotel rooms and they laughed and they sang and they talked. They talked about themselves, their families, their futures, their dreams—they talked about everything.

But one day, she grew quiet.

"Don't you want to marry me?" She asked one day, her voice soft, her hands firmly folded in her lap. "Don't you want a family?"

They had never talked about that.

That wasn't what he had wanted; that wasn't what he planned for at all. He was young, but he had already imagined that the rest of his life was going to be simple, with his two constants being her and practicing medicine. He didn't want to complicate it with marriage and children and the baggage that came along with it. He liked their freedom, he liked being able to do what they wanted. He was selfish and wanted it to be just the two of them. Marriage would complicate it and children would need her more than he did and some small voice in the back of his mind attempted to convince him that she would understand—that when he gave his reasoning she would return to being her vivacious self and things would go back to normal.

"No," he had said slowly. Her eyes had filled with tears.

And the next day she was on a train for Montgomery.

-o-o-o-

When somebody dies, it's easy to ask what they would have done with their lives had they lived; what kind of impact they would have made if they were just given a little bit longer.

But he couldn't help but wonder what she would have done with her life when she was still alive. He didn't care that this was what she wanted—married life just wasn't for her. She wasn't meant to be confined in some house with some kids tending after them until they grew up and left her. He had asked if her she was happy once, to which she rolled her eyes and responded: "of course I am, Jack. Don't be a fool."

He didn't want to believe her.

It had caused him great trepidation when she married his brother. He wanted to be angry, but couldn't. How was she to know? Montgomery was small and Maycomb even smaller; it wasn't as if she'd see that many new faces. However, the entire engagement seemed to make her feel even more uneasy than he did. Maybe it was because she still loved him, or perhaps she was merely uncomfortable at the prospect of her future of awkward familial encounters.

With time, however, her anxiety eased. She married his brother, lived behind a white picket fence with a porch swing and a maid, had daily teas with the ladies in her neighborhood, and bore his brother a son and a daughter.

And died.

He had known about her weak heart. What seems now to be centuries ago, she had told him stories of her mother's death, her grandmother's death, and even more before then—all stemming from the same reasons.

Weak hearts.

At the time, he remembered laughing despite the seriousness of her story. "Why honey," he said, nudging her with his elbow. "You don't need to worry about that, you've got more heart than anyone in the world!"

She had laughed in response, but he had a sinking feeling that he had caused her discomfort. If only he had taken her more seriously back then. If only he had taken her seriously at all.

Soon, his thoughts morphed from wondering what she'd be doing had she not married to what life would have been like if she had married him. Would he have been able to give her that white picket fence? Would she have enjoyed her life?

Would she have lived?

Certain things brought her to his mind, though he wished they didn't. With those memories and small tokens of her came the doubts and regrets, and his imagination ran wild. With those once pleasant memories came a barrage of thoughts he'd rather not have.

And he supposed he'd have to live with those for the rest of his life.