It's been weeks since we've been together.
I don't know where she lives now. I don't know when she works.
I don't work with her anymore.
Those are the rules they established after everything blew up in our faces.
The Chief said I couldn't see her anymore. That I couldn't be with her anymore.
Not if I wanted to keep my job.
Not that I have a career anymore. It's all consults and paperwork. I don't operate. I can't.
They won't let me.
She wouldn't let me make the decision.
I would've chosen her.
I would have.
Now I sit in my apartment.
It's sterile.
It's lifeless.
I don't like being here without her.
I quit cleaning.
I quit doing dishes. There's a mountain high pile in my sink.
I quit doing laundry, and it's tossed all over my apartment.
I quit organizing my journals and they're strewn about.
I quit making the bed.
It makes it seem like she's still here.
I would have chosen her.
A/N: Just a depressing drabble. The show is getting to me.