It's possible to bleed without being physically hurt, you know. I figured that out a while ago. Probably back when I was in Baltimore working Homicide. But like all of life's other great lessons that one should learn, it never really hit until I least expected it to sink in. All my years as a cop, and it never hit me until that night.
I knew why that was. It was like life was deliberately trying to prove that no relationship of mine would last. There we'd been in the squad room, mourning the loss of an ADA, a colleague, and a friend. But there had been more. Between her and I, anyway. I'd felt numb, then. But I felt even more so a year later, when another case led back to her.
I'd stayed away of my own volition after finding out. Part of me wanted nothing more than to push this until I fell over with my own exhaustion. The other part of me yelled that it would hurt too much. I wanted answers, but was afraid of what I would find. So I stayed away. And it was then that I started bleeding, so to speak.
But I didn't know it until I saw her. She'd managed to get away from her protective detail, and had come to the first place she could think of. My apartment. I'd opened the door to find her standing there, and suddenly everything I'd been feeling for the past year came flooding back, full force, and there was nothing I could do to make it stop.
So instead of trying, as I normally might have, I ignored it, drew her into my arms, and held onto her, not wanting to ever let go again, but knowing that I would have to. It was bittersweet, honestly, but I would take what I could get. She seemed content to stay there in that position, standing in the entryway, face hidden in my shoulder. I didn't have the heart to move at first. But we did after a while.
She spent the night with me, and we talked. Or rather, she talked and I listened, silently marveling at her nerve. It had been a dangerous move for her to come and see me. But she'd done it. She had come in an attempt to mend the so-called broken heart she'd left me with, but when she went away this time, she would leave a bleeding one. It was a small price to pay, I thought, as I held onto her; finding out that she was…still alive, well…it was definitely worth it.
I took her back to the hotel as the sun started to rise. We sat outside and watched, just like we used to do. And when the sky was finally lit, and the first signs that the city was waking came along, she turned to me. Touched my face, and told me she loved me; that when it was over, she'd come back, and maybe, just maybe, if we were lucky, we would end up together again. She leaned over, and kissed me on the cheek, and then she was gone.
I went home that morning in a daze. Wondering if this was all some elaborate dream that I'd wake up from. But it wasn't. I knew it wasn't. And there was something else that I knew, too, something I figured out as I sat there in my empty apartment later on, staring off into nothingness, not bothering to wipe away the tears on my face.
It only ever really hurt when I bled.