All These Sad Goodbyes

by the.eye.does.not.SEE

"So many lives I've lived and died, none so much as the one I lived with you." Post-IHYBMM, Lexie reflects on her life with and without Mark as his draws to a close.

"A Letter to Georgia"—The Airborne Toxic Event

Author's Note: I started this one a long time ago, while I was in the middle of writing IHYBMM, so therefore it's attached in that vein. I didn't want to publish this until you all experienced the happy ending of that story. :) Here, each section bounces around in time (pre- and post-divorce) as well as POV (Lexie, Mark, Annabelle). The bolded italics are lyrics and the regular italics are journal entries or letters. The sections of this story are not written in chronological order, nor does one section lead directly into the next. If anything is unclear, please PM me so I can fix it up.

Warning: This one's pretty damn depressing. (Though I suppose it could be argued that that's par for the course with most of my stories.) It's rated K for lack of explicit and offensive content, but please be aware that the main themes of this story are adultery (did you see that one coming?) and death.

Also: I ask that you please listen to this song before you read, simply because I believe it would be hard to capture the full tone of the story (and the weight of the lyrics) without first hearing the accompanying music. Here is one of my favorite recordings, just paste this half link in after www(.)youtube: .com/watch?v=g275QAyXbrA or type "The Airborne Toxic Event A Letter to Georgia" into YouTube and click on the second video.

. . .

How can I explain to you, the picture of this avenue?

Rain falls on the street outside my window on this Tuesday afternoon—

I sit alone inside, the same four walls I've lived inside.

So many lives I've lived and died, but none so much as the one I lived with you.

. . .

Lexie Grey Sloan is sitting hunched in an armchair, bent over a small leather-bound book. It's barely a month since she found the blank journal in her daughter's guest room, but she's already filled half of the pages.

Mark, she writes.

It's been almost a week since I left Anna's and came home, and I've found that I don't know what to do with myself. I thought it would be better for her, Jeff, and the kids if I came back here, but now I'm not so sure. She and Jeff were tiptoeing around me, I could tell, but at least Kyle and Sam treated me like I wouldn't die at the sound of your name. But they're children. It's different for them. They miss you terribly, though. You made quite an impression on those little boys, Mark. You should be proud. They're good kids, and I hope each turns out just as well as you did.

But even with the boys brokenhearted over your passing, I knew it was better if I left. I was worrying them all, and I think Anna was genuinely frightened of me. Or for me. Either way, she was obviously worried. Jeff, as always, made sure to keep things running while the rest of us were busy grieving. What a bastion of normalcy and reason that young man has turned out to be. I don't know what any of us would do without him.

But about Anna—you told me to find something that mattered to me, remember? Well, Anna matters to me. Our daughter matters to me. I don't want to burden her and I don't want to hurt her anymore than she's already been hurt. So I'm back home.

I'm here, in our house, alone. I keep expecting you to walk inside the door and you never do. I keep waking up in the middle of the night, thinking you'll be there, lying next to me. You never are. I'm still waiting for you to come back, even though I know you never will.

You've been buried. You're in the ground, and you aren't coming back from the dead. (Jury's still out on whether I want you to or not. If you come back from the dead, does that automatically mean you're a brain-eating zombie? How offended Derek would be.) You should be pleased to know that it was a nice funeral. Is it rude to say I thought you looked handsome? You were gone already, dead, but still… Your looks are haunting me from the grave, Mark, how do you feel about that? Powerful stuff.

I took your wedding ring. Anna saw me, but I didn't put it back. I'm a widow now, and I figure widows get to do as they please. It doesn't fit my finger, of course, but sometimes I put it on anyway. That way I can pretend you're here with me, just for a second.

But usually I wear on a chain. Nothing special, just a simple gold necklace that matches the ring. I stare at the twin engravings when I feel you start to slip away.

On occasion, it helps.

But mostly, when nothing helps, I sit in silence. I stare at nothing. I cry. And I write to you.

Can you tell that I've forgotten how to live?

If you could talk to me or write back, I know you'd be upset. But I don't know what else to do.

I still love you.

I'll always love you.

—Lexie

. . .

I see you on the highway, a thousand miles away.

Rain falls through your hair and cheeks, your tears and mascara steaks.

Your face reflected in the glass.

. . .

I remember not wanting to leave. That was always the feeling that stood out: the loss of a place I was never sure I'd be able to come back to. The fear that this time would, finally—once and for all—be the last time. I always knew that there would be a time when we'd finally end. I knew there'd be a time when we both gave up pretending that visiting each other in the dead of night amounted to some kind of relationship or showcased some deep emotional connection.

But it was just sex.

It's just an affair, my mind would remind the rest of me time and time again. It's just an affair and it doesn't mean anything, I'd tell myself. It's not real, so it doesn't mean anything. It can'tmean anything. Not really. Not truly. But those thoughts didn't stop my hands from shaking more and more each time I left. Those thoughts weren't enough to let me get home without having to stop the car to cry where I knew no one could see.

Eventually, I came to terms with the facts: It's just an affair.

But coming to terms with reality didn't stop me from wanting the fantasy. It didn't stop me from wanting us to be so much more than what we were.

. . .

The lines in the pavement go past.

Just like the lines around your eyes,

They held the weight of all these sad goodbyes.

. . .

"Time of death, twelve thirty-two."

Though I can barely see through my tears, I'm able to determine that my mother isn't crying. Her face is pinched and frozen, but she isn't crying. She's leaning forward, on the edge of her seat, as if she was just about to get up and help. She's poised towards him as if she was about to try and save his life.

But I know she would never.

He signed a DNR order four weeks ago, so even if she had tried, the doctors would have stopped her. She was furious, then, I remember. I blink, and for a second I can see her shouting at him, saying he's signing his own death certificate. Yelling that he's taking away what little time they might have left. I blink a second time, and she's bent over in a chair, sobbing, as he tries to comfort her just minutes later.

. . .

I had been heading towards his room, but as I was walking there, the nurses shook their heads at me and motioned for me not to open the door. I desperately wanted to comfort my mother, to help my father—to do anything to repay them for what they've done for me and to find out what they were going through. But from the solemn looks I was getting from the hospital staff, I knew then wasn't the right time.

"What happened?" I whispered to one of the nurses, keeping my eyes trained on my parents. I saw she had left the room just moments before my mother collapsed, so I knew she must heard what happened.

"He signed a DNR and told her what we told him five days ago," the nurse replied quietly. She stared at me pityingly, and I remember feeling my entire body turn to stone—much like it has now—at the look in her eyes. Something bad was coming, I knew it. "He has about three weeks, at the doctor's best guess."

The news hit me like a punch to the gut, and I grappled in front of me to hold onto the counter to support myself. Three weeks? What happened to a year? What happened to six months? What happened to a month?

"You can't be serious," I managed to say. My eyes had found my parents again, and by then, they were both crying, not just her. They were holding each other, and it was like a horrible car crash—I wanted to look away, but I couldn't make myself. I knew that it would be one of the last times I'd ever see my father alive.

"I'm sorry," she replied softly. "But that's the way it is. He's very sick and—"

"I know he's very sick!" My shout exploded from my mouth before I even had a chance to realize what I was saying. "Why the hell do you think we're here?"

"Mrs. Holland," the woman tried to cut in. I could see the worry enter her eyes at my anger, and when she glanced over my shoulder I knew Jeff had appeared behind me. "If you could calm down—"

"Get me the fuckingdoctor in charge of his care and then maybe I'll think about calming down."

"Anna," my husband muttered harshly in my ear as he put his hand on my upper arm.

"Mrs. Holland—"

"GO!" I was screaming, drawing the attention of everyone within earshot, but I couldn't seem to lower my voice at the time. I could feel Jeff's strong hand on my arm, trying to pull me away, but I shook him off angrily. "Find that damn doctor now or I—"

"Annabelle Susan."

I froze when I heard my mother's voice. I'd almost forgotten she was here, in the same reality as me. It was like she was locked in another world with my father, forever orbiting the planet of perpetual grief.

"Mom," I managed, my voice cracking. Tears are still shining on her cheeks, and her eyes are red and angry—she must've just run out of the room to deal me. "I—"

"Stop yelling," she ordered. Her voice was hard and unsympathetic—a tone I've rarely heard in my thirty-plus years from her. "Stop it right now." She waved curtly, curling her fingers towards herself. "Come on."

I shook my head rapidly; I knew I couldn't go in there. Not then. I wouldn't have been able to keep it together. "No," I protested weakly. "Mom, I can't—"

"Come inside," she commanded, "and be with your father."

"Mom, please—"

"This is not a discussion, Annabelle. Come inside now."

I felt my eyes prick as I stumbled forward. A second later, Jeff's steadying hand was on my back, guiding me forward. He left me at the door, knowing without having to be told that this private moment did not include him, despite the fact that my mother usually went out of her way on any and every occasion to make him feel welcome.

Too soon, the door falls closed behind me and I was face-to-face with my father. My mother was somewhere behind me, but I didn't have the ability to turn and look. My eyes were glued to him, camouflaged with a white hospital gown, covered in IV tubes, wires, and hidden under bed sheets. He'd finally become an unmovable part of the hospital he loved so much, but not in the way any of us—least of all, him—would have wanted. "Annabelle," he whispered, having put a faint smile on his lips after spotting me. "Hey, sweetheart."

I felt my mouth quiver, and for a second I remember I tried to hold it all in. I tried to be brave and strong and many other things that I knew I wasn't. None of them worked. It took only two seconds—two seconds—of my eyes being trained on his, and I fell apart. My face crumpled and tears sprang to my eyes. The spilled over not a moment later, falling down my cheeks as they left hot trails in their wake.

I could only manage to choke out one word before the sobs took over and I could no longer speak. "Daddy."

. . .

That was two weeks ago.

We never got the third we were promised, and we barely got the second. We could all tell his time was coming by then; even Mom accepted it. She's known for a long time that he's going to die. I think she's always expected the worst for some reason, and this time, she was right. But I know she would have done anything to be proven wrong.

"I know," she whispers now. I look over to her, trying to open my mouth to say something, to ask her who she's talking to or what she's saying, but I can't get a sound out. But a moment later, it's clear she's talking to the various professionals in the room, not to me. "I know you have to take him. But could you…" She clears her throat, not bothering to lift her hands from his or turn her head to address the people she's speaking to. "Could you wait a moment, please? And give my family some privacy?"

The doctors murmur soft 'of course'-s, and in the silence of the no longer beeping monitors that have been cataloguing every second of my father's life for the past few months, their shuffled exit that follows is loud and jarring. I'm suddenly shocked back into reality at the noise, and when the last doctor exits and the door closes, I know my mother is too.

She doesn't make a sound, but through my own tears, I can see hers roll down her cheeks. They don't start small or end small. Instead, the tears are a constant flow cascading down her face, and as the minutes pass by, I wonder when she'll stop. Or if she can.

Some time later, I manage to get to my feet and walk toward her. I stand behind her chair and put my hands on her shoulders. I can feel them shake beneath my fingers as she continues to cry silently, and I squeeze them lightly, hoping to offer whatever comfort I can. I leave my hands on her shoulders, but as the minutes pass and she fails to acknowledge my presence, I realize that there's nothing I can do for her. So I release her shoulders and make my way back to my chair. After a quarter of an hour, I wipe my eyes and try to compose myself. I get to my feet, pleased in some part of my mind, that my legs are no longer as wobbly as they were before. I look over to my mother, but she hasn't made any such preparations. She's still hunched forward, clutching his hand. She isn't leaving anytime soon.

I clear my throat. "Mom?" I call quietly. She doesn't look over. She doesn't so much as blink or twitch at the grating sound my voice makes when it comes out of my raw throat. "Mom, do you want me to give you some time, alone? Do you want me to…" I trail off, the final word dying on my lips. Her silence is enough of an answer. Go.

. . .

Everybody that I know

Tells me, "Man, just let her go."

You run from everything, they say.

You hurt the ones you love, like me.

. . .

"Mark, I have to go."

"Already?" I mutter sleepily, rolling towards her voice. I squint my eyes open, glancing to the clock on the bedside table as she gets up and begins pulling her clothes back on. "No, no," I say through a yawn, turning back to her. "We have a couple hours—"

She shakes her head, biting her lip. "We don't."

I stare at her, confused. "Why not?" I ask automatically. We have time, I think, my mind racing. There's always more time.

"Because I—I'm moving."

My sharp intake of air is almost audible, and it's a few seconds before I can ask, "Where?"

"Portland." Her reply is a whisper, and even though it shouldn't, somehow even that whisper sounds like a betrayal. From the way she averts her gaze guiltily, I know she was trying to avoid ever having this conversation. No doubt she wishes she'd fled minutes earlier, while I was asleep. But she couldn't have done that. Instead, She woke me up. That means she wanted, on some level, to have this conversation.

She wanted me to try and stop her.

"Portland," I repeat. She nods, and I watch as she swallows roughly. It's just one state away, but it might as well be across the world for all the distance it puts between us.

"I need to go." She stares at me for a moment before turning around and leaving the bedroom. After a second I follow after her. My bare feet make no noise on the wood flooring. She stops just a few feet into the living room, turning around. She closes her eyes when she sees I'm shadowing her. "Mark," she whispers. "I have to go."

"It's two in the morning," I reply quietly. "You can't go now."

"I have to go now."

"No, you don't." I take a step forward, watching as she stiffens at my approach. "You don't have to go anywhere, Lex."

"Yes, I do. I—"

"Stay." I find I'm whispering as I take her hands in mine. "Please." I look into her eyes, and all I see in hers are pity and desperation. "If you truly love me, stay with me. Just for a few hours more."

"Mark." She's trembling in front of me. "Mark, I have to leave. You know that."

"Just for a few hours," I repeat.

"Staying here for a few hours more won't change the fact that I'm moving to another state once the sun comes up," she replies quietly. She looks up, staring at me, and it's silent within my apartment for a few seconds. Gently, she pulls her hands from my grip. Mine fall back to my sides, and I watch, stunned, as she turns away. "I have to go home," she whispers, her back to me. Her voice wobbles unconvincingly.

I take a breath, summoning my courage and swallowing my fear, and I take a couple steps forward until she's standing just inches before me. From the shaky way she takes a breath, I know she can sense that I've invaded her personal space.

I bend down, then, and press my lips against the curve of her neck in a soft kiss. She shivers slightly at the touch, half-heartedly attempting to lean away.

"You are home," I murmur after I lift my lips from her skin. I trail a few kisses up the length of her neck, and she tilts her head away, but we both know it's only so she can offer up more of herself to me. And I take what she gives me greedily, pressing my lips to her skin and whispering words in her ear that will haunt us both once she leaves. "You're home right now, Lex." I rest my hands lightly on her hips, and move them forward to hug her middle, to hold her to me, if only for a moment. "With me."

Now I really feel her tremble at my words, and she can't stop it this time. "Mark." She chokes out my name. I hear her breath catch, and when I look at her face, there are tears springing from her eyes. Her hands fall to her waist, clutching my hands that rest there tightly and desperately.

"Stay with me," I whisper, squeezing her fingers back.

"I—I can't."

"I need you to." I shake off her hands, moving so we're face-to-face. "I need you to stay here with me," I tell her, looking into her eyes. "Please, Lex. For me."

"Stay—staying won't change anything," she whispers.

I brush off her warning. "I don't care."

"But you have to realize that nothing will change."

"I don't care."

"Mark, please," she mutters. "This will just make it worse later, so much worse when—"

"I don't care," I cut in forcefully. I stare into her eyes. "Just give me a few more hours with the woman I love. Please, Lex," I add when I can see I'm getting through to her. "Stay with me."

"T—Two hours," she concedes finally. "I can stay for two hours." I hear her sniff, and from the way her shoulders jerk, I can tell she's fighting back a sob. Her trembling lips only solidify this hypothesis. "But then I have to leave," she whispers, as if I'd forgotten. "Then I have to go."

"Two hours," I repeat. I close my eyes. "Thank you."

When I open them, she's biting her lip, deliberating whether or not to speak. "Mark," she says finally, staring into my eyes. "I—I can't come back after this."

I nod, having seen this coming. "I know," I reply hoarsely.

"If—If there was a way I could stay, believe me—"

I nod again. "I know," I reply softly. "You'd do whatever it took to stay, if you could. I know." I smile faintly a moment later. "I'll really miss that commitment of yours," I joke sadly.

"I always tried my best," she replies seriously. "For you."

"I know you did." I reach out, running my fingers along her cheek before tucking a few stray locks of hair behind her ear. Her body shakes at this tender touch, and soon she's collapsing into my arms and I can do nothing except hold her close.

"I love you," I whisper quietly, resting my chin on the top of her head as she cries into my chest.

"I love you, too," comes her muffled reply. A second later, she lifts her face from my torso, angling it back to look at me.

"Oh, Lexie," I whisper when I see her red eyes and the tears streaming down her face. "Baby…"

"I don't want to leave you," she whimpers sadly. "I'd—I'd do anything—god, Mark, you know that, don't you? I'd do anything to stay with you."

"I know," I whisper, still holding her close. "Don't worry, I know."

"You know?" She questions, obviously desperate for reassurance. "You're sure?"
I tilt my head to look her in the eye. "Beyond the shadow of a doubt," I reply honestly.

. . .

. . .

But here I sit and picture you:

Your fingers worn, your shirt torn through

Your heart so big and broke in two

Your mind drifting through all you knew…

. . .

. . .

Afraid to love, afraid to lose;

. . .

"Mark," I whisper tearfully, "we can't keep doing this."

He nods, and I watch him take a deep breath. He closes his eyes, and from the flare of his nostrils, I can tell he's breathing me in. I bite my lip and look away. "I know."

"This—we need to end it," I manage to say. My voice is nowhere near as forceful or authoritative as I would like it to be, but we can't have everything in life, now, can we? I've been taught that lesson too many times over the years. I never quite grasped it, though.

I hear him sigh quietly a moment later, and I can feel him staring at me. I don't turn my head.

"I know," he repeats quietly. A few seconds later, his fingertips are on my jaw, tilting my head towards him, and I'm forced to meet his eyes when he speaks this time. "I know we have to end," he begins softly, "but do we have to end now?"

I close my eyes, lifting a hand to cover my forehead. "Mark," I whisper, trying to ignore the tears that leak out.

"I know it has to end," he replies. His voice is much calmer than I'd expected. I drop my hand from my eyes. "I know that. This won't last, anyone could see that." He forces a sad half-smile that I clumsily attempt to return. It can't last. But…" He takes a shaky breath, and I feel my body tense up again. Here it comes, I think. "Does it have to stop now? Do you need to leave now? Right now?"

There it is.

"I should," I reply shortly. I know I'm deflecting, but I can't help it. He can't really expect me to give a straight answer, can he? I've never been good at face-to-face confrontations, especially not ones that involve him. And after everything that's happened? I find myself sighing. I'm just about to step away when he speaks.

"Yes, but I didn't ask you if you should," he continues. "I asked you if you needed to." Mark stares at me, holding my gaze. I wonder if he knows how easily he's able to root me to the spot. "We both know what you should do. But I… I want to know what you need to do. I want to know what you want."

I smile weakly at his obvious attempt to back me into a verbal corner. But I close my eyes and let myself by pushed there anyway. "You know what I want, Mark."

"Will you tell me?" He asks quietly.

I nod silently, taking a deep breath. My answer emerges seconds later as a broken whisper: "You."

. . .

Afraid to start, afraid to choose;

. . .

"Mark, I can't pick you! Don't you understand that—"

"No," I interrupt in a shout, "I don't because it doesn't make any sense! You can pick whoever you want! You aren't tied to him, there's no reason—"

Her eyebrows draw together in incredulity. "He is my husband—"

"So?" I cut in sharply.
"So?" She exclaims. "So he—"

"What am I to you?"

"What?"

"What," I repeat coldly, "am I to you?" I point between us. "What is this to you?"
She sighs, tired. "Oh, Mark…" Exasperated. Fed up.

"You say he's your husband," I point out. Lexie looks up at me, and I nod. "Okay. I get that. He's your husband." I stares at her. "Then what am I?"

"You're—" Lexie takes a breath. "You're—"

"What? What am I?"

"You're… God, okay! I don't know what you are to me! I'm sorry I haven't figured that out—"

"Haven't figured it out?" I repeat incredulously.

"Well, if you think you know us so much better than me, then answer me this: What am I to you?"

"You're the love of my life, Lex."

She stares at me for a long minute. During that time I watch her expression change and shift. At first, she shows only shock at my bluntness. I watch as she takes an overly large breath, no doubt to replenish her depleted lungs, as she looks at me. Her eyes roam over my face, maybe searching for a lie or an escape. But when she speaks, I know she'd found neither.

"You're the love of my life, too, Mark," she whispers brokenly. She uses my words, I notice, maybe because she can't formulate any of her own. Or maybe it's the only response that isn't a lie. She looks away a second later, and her hand shoots to her eyes in a flash, trying to wipe the tears discreetly without being noticed. But I noticed. I always notice.

"I'm sorry," I whisper raggedly. "I'm sorry, Lex I—I just—"

"No, stop," she interrupts thickly. "Stop apologizing. Stop saying you're sorry. This isn't your fault, damn it." Her watery eyes settle on my face. "It's mine. I'm the one to blame. I showed up first, I kept coming, I keep coming, I—I can't stop myself from wanting to be with you and—"

"Don't condemn yourself for loving me," I whisper, horrified at the idea. "Please, Lex, don't do that. I don't want you to do that."

"Then—Then—" She breaks off, her mouth twisting in a despairing frown as she stares at me. "Then what do you want me to do?" She cries finally, her voice rising swiftly before cracking and falling back down. "I—I don't know what to do! Just—" Her voice cuts off, strangled, and then the tears start to fall down her cheeks. "Just tell me what to do," she whispers when she regains her voice a few seconds later. "Mark, please," she pleads, staring at me. "Please just tell me what to do. I'll do anything. I'll do whatever you want."

I take a deep breath, forcing myself to close my eyes. Her tear-stained face is imprinted on my retinas, and her voice haunts me even after she's finished speaking. I'll do whatever you want. How is she able to do this? How can she make me so infuriated I'm shouting at her to leave him one minute, and the next, I can't even contemplating asking that of her? I'll do whatever you want. I know that's not a lie. She's telling the truth; she'd literally do anything for me. But that isn't a surprise. I'd do the same for her, and we've operated with that mutual understanding for some time now. That's why this thing between us has gone from bad to worse without actually going anywhere.

I finally force myself to open my eyes, knowing there's only one thing I can ask of her without deepening the guilt. "Stay with me," I whisper, holding her gaze with mine. "Stay with me, just for now."

Her gaze tightens—obviously, she'd expected something far more serious, given our previous conversation. "But you wanted me to pick—"

I shake my head. "I don't care."

"But Mark, you said—"

"I know what I said," I reply, forcing all the emotion that bubbling up into my throat down, deep down, where nothing can touch it. "And I didn't mean it," I tell her a moment later. "If you making a choice means I don't get to be in your life, then I don't want you to make a choice. I want you here, with me, for as long as possible. And if that… If that means that we have to keep this up, well, Lex…" I blink, but am unable to look away. "I'll do it."

"You… will?" She asks incredulously.

I nod. "Of course I will." I pause, looking into her eyes. "I can't live without you, Lex. And if this is the life we get together, well…" I shrug. "It's better than nothing, right?"

Lexie sniffs loudly, looking down to the floor and taking a deep breath. "I'm so sorry it's like this," she whispers, her eyes on her shoes. "I wish—I wish we…" She trails off, shaking her had. She only looks up when she sees my feet have moved closer and are almost touching hers. When she looks up, I stare down at her. I blink, and suddenly the exhaustion hits me like a ton of bricks. But still, I can't take my eyes off her.

"I know," I murmur, tilting my head down to kiss her lips briefly. "I wish we had a real life together, too."

She opens her mouth to speak when I pull back, but the only sound that exits her is a sob. With each breath, I can tell she's trying to say something, but all her words get drowned out in her inconsolable sobs. I wish I could do something besides hold her, but my mind is starting to fall apart just like my life, and I find that I don't have enough willpower to think of anything better to do. So I wrap my arms around her and try my best. Her returning hug feels more like she's clutching onto me for dear life, but I find comfort in it anyway. Who knows how long it will be until we're together again?

"I'm sorry," she manages after the sobs subside. I can tell from her scratchy voice that her throat has no doubt been strangled and stripped raw. "I'm so sorry." Yet she doesn't stop apologizing. "I'm so, so sorry."

"It's not your fault," I reply. I keep my voice low and quiet, since I don't trust it not to crack. "If I had wanted this to end, I would've ended it."

She pulls back putting just enough space between us so she can lift her head to look at me, but no more. Her hands are still clutching my back like she thinks she's going to drown in her own tears. She might. "You don't you want it to end?" She whispers.

I can hear the awe in her voice, and I give her a small smile. "I told you to stay, didn't I?" More like begged you, I reason, but still.

"Well, yeah, but…" She trails off. "I thought when I didn't make a choice, you wouldn't want to see me anymore."

I stare at her, blinking slowly down at her. "You did make a choice," I reply, averting my eyes.

I can feel her eyes on me, but I don't meet her gaze again. Eventually, she realizes she'll have to speak without viewing the window to my soul. If I even have one after all this.

"You think I picked him, don't you?" She asks quietly.

I don't reply.

Her hands disappear from my back. A moment later, I feel them on my cheeks. A split-second later, I'm being forced to look her in the eye. "I didn't pick him," she tells me.

"It doesn't look like you picked me, either," I reply when I can.

She exhales softly, tilting her head to the side. Her fingers stroke the rise of my respective cheekbones, just below my eyes. "I may not be able to pick you forever," she replies in a whisper, "but as for right now, I pick you." She gives me a subdued smile. "Every time I'm here, I pick you. Every time I have a spare moment to think, I pick you. And if it were as simple as just picking the person I love," she murmurs, angling my face to meet hers, "trust me, you'd already be mine."

"I've always been yours," I mumble back.

She gives me a sad, understanding smile. "Believe me," her lips whisper to mine. "I know."

I can feel her tears fuse with mine when our faces touch.

. . .

Afraid to live, afraid to die

. . .

"Are you scared?" I ask as soon as the door shuts behind the doctor and my daughter. I'm surprised to find that my voice is a frightened whisper; obviously, it's clear to everyone that I'm scared. "Of—of whatever's waiting?"

"Scared?" He attempts to scoff offhandedly, but the indifferent gesture ends in a coughing fit and looses much of its nonchalant air. "When have I ever been scared?" He manages to ask me when he catches his breath. I bit down on my lip hard, forcing back the tears that have been threatening to spill out at any moment these past few dats. He smiles sadly, as familiar with my routine as I am, and he reaches out to stroke my cheek gently. "It'll be okay, love," he murmurs softly. "I promise it'll be okay."

"But it won't," I whisper, leaning instinctively into his hand. Cherishing these small moments we have left. "It won't be okay. You're sick and—"

"And I've been sick," he replies tiredly. I try not to purse my lips at his tone. "I've been sick for months; I've been sick since before I got here. That isn't a new development, Lex. It's old news, just like me."

"But… May—Maybe if I could do something," I murmur, staring into his eyes. "Maybe if I could…"

"There's nothing you can do," he replies softly. His thumb rubs against the outline of my cheek, in gently repetitive circuits. "There's nothing you can do, baby, trust me."

"But I…" I close my eyes, taking a breath. "I want to help you. I want to do something—anything—to help you."

When I force my eyes open, I'm once again rewarded with the sight of my husband of forty-four years. He may not be well, but at least he's alive. And he's smiling at me. "You can help me," he replies softly. His hand falls from my face, moving to hold onto mine. I clasp it tightly, telling myself if I'm strong for him now, maybe that strength will keep him alive for a just a few more weeks, a few more days, a few more hours more. "You can stay right here. You being here is helping me."

My lower lip trembles, but I force myself to stay strong, to speak. "Are you sure?" I press. "Because I can get the doctor—"

"No."

"I can have them prescribe you something—"

"No." Mark shakes his head. "No, don't—" He breaks off, coughing heavily. I grip his hand tighter in near-panic, feeling a weak, light squeeze in reply. "Don't get the doctor," he replies after a few minutes. "I'm sure they all have better things to do than deal with me."

"I'll make sure they have nothing better to do," I reply, already thinking about getting ot my feet. "If you need—"

"Lexie," he cuts in quietly, "I'm fine." He meets my eyes. "I'm okay, alright?" I open my mouth to protest, but he beats me to it. "For now," he amends, "I am okay. Besides," he adds with a lighthearted smile a moment later, "I'm sure that doctor has more important patients to deal with."

"I doubt it," I reply dubiously, thinking of my husband's caregiver, Dr. Jake Grant. He's perfectly competent, but he seems to be the type to have some time on his hands, for who knows what reason.

"Okay, maybe he has some better things to do than look after me." Mark smirks, and I catch his eye at the last second, just before the mischief in his amused gaze is hidden away again. "Oh, stop," I mutter automatically, swatting at his arm lightly. But I can't hide a smile at his returning spirits, and it's nice to see him smile back. It's nice to have a moment of normalcy.

"What?" He asks, feigning ignorance. "Grant's a good-looking guy." His eyes flicker to mine. "Who's to say the good doctor doesn't have a few better…things to do?" His obvious emphasis on the word causes me to roll my eyes; it isn't hard to see what's between the lines, especially when Mark was anything but subtle about the topic.

"Not all physicians are as promiscuous as you were, might I remind you," I tell him bluntly. "Some people actually do their jobs at work."

Mark lets out a loud laugh, and I find myself grinning and the sound, savoring it. Who knows if I'll ever hear him laugh again? "Promiscuous?" He questions with a raised eyebrow. "That's a bit harsh, now, isn't it?"

I shrug, putting on an air of indifference. A second later, a wicked grin turns up my lips. "Would you prefer I call you a man-whore?" I ask, unable to curb my laughter.

"God," Mark mutters, drawing out the word in disgust. "That's never going to go away, is it? I'm eighty-eight and my wife still calls me a whore." I cover my mouth to hide my laughter as it crescendos at his bitter complaints. He's glaring at me, but that only serves to heighten the hilarity. "Just be grateful it isn't true anymore, woman," he mutters darkly.

I raise my eyebrows, grinning. "Ooh, I'm scared," I intone.

"You should be."

A smile spreads over my face a moment later, starting tiny in the center of my mouth and then widening until all my teeth are visible. I bend forward, avoiding the IV tubes around his wrist, and presses a firm kiss to his hand. "I love you," I whisper against his weathered skin. He's smiling happily, lazily, when I pull back. He rubs my hand with his fingers gently.

"Love you too, Lex."

There's a quiet knock on the door a second later, and when the door pushes open, both our smiles widen instinctively at the sight of our daughter. "What's going on in here?" She asks, shutting the door before walking to the other side of Mark's bed with a happy grin. No doubt she's as overjoyed to see him in light spirits as I am. "What are you two lovebirds whispering about?"

"Sex," Mark replies without missing a beat. In retaliation, I reach out, hitting his arm a bit harder than before. From the smirk on his face, you would think he didn't even feel it.

Anna just rolls her eyes at us, going about checking over things as she always does. It's actually a bit amusing to watch—she's almost turned into a nurse with all the time she spends checking over his vitals, symptoms, and talking to the doctors. But it's the way she expresses her concern, so I know better than to tease her about it.

"Mom," she begins, directing her concern towards me as she always does, "are you sure you don't want to come home?" She tries smiling; she already knows I'm going to refuse. "Maybe take a shower, eat some real food?"

I smile back as convincingly as I can. "No, I'm fine here, sweetheart, thank you."

"If you want us to come back later and take you home—" Anna falls silent when I shake my head. She looks to Mark, but he knows as much as she does that once I've made a decision, it's a lost cause as to try to change my mind. "Okay," Anna murmurs after a moment. "We're going to go then."
I nod. "I'll be here. Call if you need something."

"I'm supposed to say that to you," Annabelle replies, walking around Mark's bed to my side. She bends over, hugging me tight. When she pulls back, I muster a small smile for her. Anna takes a breath, holding my gaze for a moment, before smiling back and then turning to Mark. "Dad, you going to be okay here?"

"If I had a choice, I would go home right now," he replies. His eyes flicker to mine. "I don't know why she keeps passing you up on the offer."

Anna smiles at him; I can see her lips twitch as she forces to hold it steady. "I don't know either, Dad." She moves closer to the bed, leaning over to hug him too. "And I wish I could sneak you out," she says as she straightens up, "but that might be kind of tough."

Mark smiles, giving her a small wave as she leaves the room. I watch her go, feeling that tug of guilt that I always do when I deny her requests to come home. But I know I would feel so much worse if I left him here alone. I turn back to look at him, a bit perplexed when I notice that he's been staring at me all the while. I'm about to open my mouth to ask him what he wants to talk about when he lifts his hand, crooking his fingers in an invitation.

"Come here," he says softly. I move my chair forward, sliding it across the linoleum floor towards him. "No, here," he corrects, shifting to the far side of the bed and patting the empty spot beside him lightly.

"Mark…"

"Lex, you haven't slept in days." I bit the inside of my cheek, glancing to the floor in guilt. We both know he's telling the truth. I can't remember the last time I had a full night's sleep. "And we both know it's because I'm sick and can't come home to be with you." He sighs. "So if you aren't going to go sleep at Anna's house, come up here with me."

I look dubiously over the wires that crisscross from the machines to his body. I tear any one of them out while I move, and we could have a very serious situation on our old and wrinkled hands.

"Come on," he murmurs softly. "Lie with me, please." He waves a hand to encourage, and I reluctantly get to my feet.

"I don't want to accidentally unplug something," I murmur worriedly, making my way through the cat's cradle of wires carefully, as if any wrong move could set off a land mine.

"It wouldn't matter."
I frown at his dismissal, successfully reaching the edge of the bed without any entanglements. "Some of these wires mean life and death, Mark," I remind him.

"Well… Why don't you lie down with me, then?" He asks. I glance nervously to the wires spread over the bed, gingerly skirting around them. "And if you pull one out," he murmurs, "at least I'll die happy, right beside you."

I don't reply, instead concentrating on climbing as safely as I can into the hospital bed. None of the wires become detached, and after a few seconds, I recline against the bed and relax beside him. He reaches out an arm, slinging it over my shoulders, and gently tugs me closer. I oblige, shifting towards him more readily than I anticipated—I hadn't realized how long it's been since we've been this close. I rest my head on his chest. He closes his eyes when my arm stretches over and wraps around his stomach, a faint smile on his lips. We lie together in silence for a few minutes, comforted by the incredibly close proximity that we haven't been able to share since he was admitted to the hospital.

When I nestle my head more comfortably against him, he lifts the hand that's tucked around my shoulders to reach over and stroke my hair. His large wrinkled hands start at the top of my head, traveling down the path of my white-grey hair to her neck where it stops, cut short just above my shoulders. He repeats the action slowly, again and again, at least half a dozen times before he speaks.

"I like your hair when it's at this length," he tells me softly. He seems to be simply speaking his thoughts aloud, and I smile at the idea.

"You do?" I ask quietly.

"Mmhm." He brushes it with his fingers gently. "It reminds me of when we met. Your hair was short then." He smiles absentmindedly. "And you were so young then…"

I lift my head, staring up at him. "So were you," I whisper back.

He laughs lightly, a smile gracing his face. "Yeah, right."

"What? It's true."

"Sure," he allows easily with a smile. "Nevertheless," he adds after a moment, "I'm old now."

I smile, leaning towards him and kissing his cheek softly. "Don't worry," I murmur. "So am I."

He smiles, bending his head to kiss my lips briefly. "I like you old."

"I like you old, too," I smiles. I shift against him, nestling my head gently against his upper chest again. "You're still handsome as ever."

"Ha!"

I grin at his laughter, but murmur, "It's true," again before kissing his skin. "You're just older. You're a bit wrinkled, and your hair's just a bit grayer, but—"

"—just a lot not there," Mark interjects dryly.

I shrug, staring up at him. "Who cares?" I ask quietly. "You're still handsome to me. And if you weren't, it wouldn't matter. I don't care about the way you look, just as long as you're you."

He gives me a small smile, leaning down to kiss my lips gently. "Thank you, baby." He manages a half-smirk. "You always know how to make me feel better."

I smile back. "That's my job."

He sighs softly before murmurs very quietly, "You're just as beautiful as the first day I saw you." He kisses my hair. "And the night you told me to teach you." My lips curve in an involuntary smile against his chest. "And the day you asked me to marry you, the day you gave me our wonderful daughter…" He takes a slow breath. "And every night in between and after." Mark looks down and I look up, meeting his eyes. "You've always been beautiful to me."

"That's sweet," I somehow manage to whisper. "You're so sweet, honey, thank you." A second later, I can't help it—I bury my face in his neck, letting go. My body wracks with sobs against his and my eyes overflow with tears I can't even begin to hold back. I'm sure my cries have draw the attention of the nurses on call, but hopefully they have enough sense to stay away.

"It'll be okay, baby," he whispers softly into my hair. From the way his voice wavers, I know he's worried he's saying the wrong thing. But what right thing is there to say anymore? I feel my tears drop from my face as he speaks. "It's going to be okay, sweetheart."

"No, it—it isn't—going to be okay," I reply, choking on my own tears. I lift my head to look at him, feeling hot tears fall down my wrinkled cheeks. "You aren't going to get better," I whisper, "and one day I'll wake up and I'll—I'll—" I break off, tears pouring out of my eyes. It's a few minutes before I can compose myself and manage to speak again. I take a deep breath before I do so, never looking away from his eyes. "One day I'll wake up and—" My throat tightens almost unbearably, but I continue anyway "—and you won't be there lying beside me."

"Lexie…" He reaches out to touch my face. His fingertips are immediately covered in tears. "Lex…"

"And I w—won't be able to fall back asleep because I'll—I'll know exactly where you are." I sniff loudly. "You won't be at the hospital, or at Anna's, or at Sofia's, or Meredith and Derek's. You won't be in the bathroom or the kitchen or out on a walk. You'll—" My voice chokes, and I see tears fill his eyes as he watches even more spill from my eyes. "You'll—"

"I'll be dead," he whispers raggedly. My eyes tighten, staring into his, and I'm unable to say anything. "I will be dead, Lexie," he tells me quietly. I sob again, and he pauses. No doubt he's wondering if he should keep going, knowing how much his words are hurting me. But they have to be said. "I'll be in the ground, buried in a coffin in some nice cemetery somewhere around here, and I won't be alive anymore, baby."

"Stop it, Mark," I whisper. "Stop, I'm begging you. Please."

"No," he replies quietly. "You need to hear this." He looks into my eyes. "We've settled everything else. The house, the finances, Anna… We've done it all. But you and me… We've never talked about what's going to happen to you after I'm gone."

"Yes, we have," I reply stubbornly. "I'll stay at the house. We have money saved away so I'll—"

"I meant emotionally, Lexie. I meant day to day." He pauses. "What are you going to do when I'm gone?"

I shake my head, looking away. "I don't need to hear this."

"Yes, you do. We need to figure this out."

"No, we don't." My eyes shoot to his, bright and defiant like fire. "I don't need to hear any of this. I already know exactly what's going to happen."

"Do you?" He questions softly.

"Yes." I steel myself, forcing back the tears and trying to level out my voice. "You are going to die," I tell him, and despite wanting my voice to be strong, it comes out a weak whisper. But my tears seem to have been stopped for the time being, and that gives me enough strength to continue. "Maybe here or maybe at home… Either way, you are going to die. And when that happens, they're going to come and take you away from me." My voice catches here, and I take a moment to gather myself. "They're going to take you away from me, and then I won't see you again, not—not until the funeral. Not until they put you in the ground and then—then I am never going to see you again." I can't hold back anymore, and the tears I thought were extinct have begun multiplying again, falling silently from my eyes. But still, I continue. "Then I'm going to go home to an empty house and an empty bed and an empty life because you won't be there anymore." I take a harsh breath; half of it is a wretched sob that I can't even begin to regulate. "You're going to leave me one of these days, Mark, and then what am I supposed to live for after that? What am I supposed to look forward to if you're gone? Who's left for me to love?" I cover my mouth, but it doesn't stop a second, even louder sob from escaping. I cover my face with both hands, crumpling forward helplessly into his embrace.

"Oh, sweetheart," he whispers. He lifts his arms to wrap around me, and I can almost feel him straining, desperate to hold me with more strength. I remember that first night, and I'm sure he does too: the tight way he held be, the promises he whispered in my ear that everything would be okay. Everything would work out. We had a lifetime together. Instead, he holds me as close as he can in his aged and tired arms, pressing kisses against my head and stroking my hair softly when he can. And it's more than enough. "Little Grey, things will be okay, I promise you." I choke out a watery protest, but he ignores my unintelligible grief-stricken words. "Lexie, trust me," he whispers, "if you got through eight years of your life without me by your side, you can do this. You can get through this last part."

I lift my head, denying it. "But back then I could always find you," I whisper. "I always knew where you were. I always knew how you were." My face crumples again, but I force myself to wipe my eyes quickly before continuing. "Now, I won't know. Now, you'll be gone. You'll never come back." I take a hollow breath of air. "Back then, I—I always knew you'd come back. I always knew we'd be together, eventually, one way or another—"

"And we are together," he interrupts quietly. "We are together, Lexie. We've been together for years. Decades." He smiles. "We have a daughter and a marriage certificate and a home and—"

"None of it will matter when you're gone. Nothing will matter."

"No." He shakes his head. His tone is defiant and adamant, but beneath its tough, hard exterior, I can tell he's deeply shaken and frightened for me. "Something has to matter, Lexie."

"It won't."
"Then you have to make something matter." He looks at me sternly. "After I'm gone, you cannot go around like a zombie. I won't allow it."

"You'll be dead," I whisper. "How will you know? How will you care?"

"I'll care," he replies. "I'll always care. And…" He sighs. "If it makes you feel better, just imagine me looking down on you from somewhere." He gives me a half-smile. "Pretend they started letting whores into heaven."

I stare at him seriously. "You will go to Heaven," I ground out.
He smiles gently, and I know he's humoring me. "Sure I will."

"I'm serious, Mark."

He looks at her curiously. "When did you become religious?"

"When you started dying."

Mark's breath catches, and it takes him more than a few seconds to regain enough oxygen to his system to speak. "What?" He whispers, staring at me.

"I—I needed something," I explain in a whisper, my chin quivering. "They—they said you were t—terminal, that it was f—fatal and I…" I look away, biting my lip hard and trying to forget that particular visit from Dr. Grant that ended our old life as we knew it. A few tears leak out of the corners of my eyes anyway at the memory. "I needed somewhere to put my hope, somewhere to get hope," I continue after a second. I turn my head to meet his eyes. "I needed something to keep me going while you…" I trail off, and he nods faintly, as if he understands.

"So you started believed in God?"

"I started believing in an afterlife," I correct.

"Why?"

"Because." He stares at me until I continue. "B—Because I…" I swallow. "Mark, I just needed to believe I'd see you again, okay? I had to believe that somewhere, somehow, we'd be together again. And if that meant believing in an afterlife or God or whatever, I'll do it… As long as I get to see you again."

"You will see me again."

I take a slow breath, breathing him in deeply. I wipe my face, clearing the tear tracks despite feeling my eyes prick with sorrow all over again at the easy confidence in his voice. When I open my eyes, he's staring at me. "You promise?" I ask quietly, not having anything else to say.

"I promise," he replies firmly. Then he opens his arms and draws me in close. "Wherever I go after this," he whispers in my ear, "I'll wait for you. I promise."

I nestle my head more comfortably against his chest, using one hand to squeeze his shoulder gently. "Thank you," I whisper as he holds me as tight as he can. "Thank you so much."

. . .

Afraid you'll let your days slip by

. . .

"What are we doing?"

Her eyes flicker open, and I watch with forced composure as a lazy smile spreads over her face. She moves forward, sliding across the sheets. "We're attempting to come back to earth," she whispers happily, pressing her bare breasts against my naked chest and dipping her lips to mine. She pulls back after only a second, finding me cold and unresponsive. "I am, at least," she mutters, pushing herself away.

"I'm serious here, Lex." I prop myself up against the pillows, staring at her. "What are we doing?"

"We're… spending time together," she replies slowly, a flirtatious smile creeping on her face.

"'Spending time together,'" I repeat with a dry laugh. I sober a half-second later. "We're screwing each other, you mean," I correct harshly.

She stares at me, smile gone. She's no doubt wondering from where this dark mood has sprouted. "Well I… I would have used different words," she replies quietly, looking away, "but yes, that's what we're doing."

"You're cheating on him," I inform her flatly.

Lexie takes a calming breath, clearly bracing for a fight. "Yes," she replies, looking me in the eye. "I am."

I stare at her, a bit taken aback. For some reason, I never expected she'd have the balls to admit the reality of the situation we've found ourselves in these past few weeks. But apparently she did.

"You've never cheated before," I note quietly. "Have you?" I wonder a second later. Maybe she has.

But she shakes her head, affirming my statement. "I've never had a reason to."

"And I haven't had one, either," I reply. "Not really. Not until now." There's more I need to say, more I need to know, but I bite my tongue. Now isn't the time. When will be the time, though?

"Mark?" She asks quietly.

"Yeah?" I ask, slowly drawn out of my thoughts. She stares at me as I come back to the here and now; somehow she can see through it.

"What is it?" She whispers.

I stare at her, not knowing what to say. Not trusting myself to say the right thing and ignore the wrong thing. "I…" I swallow. "Does this mean something to you?" I ask eventually.

She stares at me, confusion written all over her face. I watch as her lips mouth what I just asked her, as if repeating the words to herself silently might yield some clue or hidden meaning. Just when I'm about to tell her to forget about it—

"You think this means nothing?" She asks. I feel relief wash over me at the outrage in her voice. Good, I think. She's on my side. "You're the one who said we were 'screwing each other,'" she repeats harshly.

"That's because—" I break off, looking down. "I thought that's what I was to you," I mutter after a second. "Just someone to get you off and then forget about." I mean to glance over to her briefly, but when I see the shock on her face, I can't look away.

"What? When have you…" She trails off, shaking her head. Her forehead is pinched down, insulted. "When have you ever been that to me, Mark?"

"Never," I smile. "Or, I hope so, at least," I quality in light spirits. "It's just…" I pause, sliding across the bed towards her. We lie face-to-face, and I reach out an arm, draping it over her side and drawing her body close to mine. I watch a small smile take shape on her lips; I'm happy, she's happy.

"It's just what?" She wonders softly, reaching out and scratching my beard gently.

I close my eyes, tipping my forehead against hers. "I don't think you fully understand what you mean to me," I explain quietly. "And if I mean nothing to you…" I trail off, opening my eyes. "I couldn't keep doing this if it means nothing to you. You should know that."

She stares at me for a long, silent minute. "Well," she finally says. "You have a great way of showing what I mean to you." Her stare turns to a sharp glare. "You called this 'screwing'"—she spits out the word—"whereas I—"

"Well, what would you have called it, then?" I ask, already lighthearted at her denial of my fears and amused at her insulted tone.

She smiles, moving closer until our bare chests are pressed against each other. I can feel her breasts rise and fall with each breath she takes. "I," she begins quietly, reaching out to take my hand and place it on her waist. Hers runs through my hair, cupping my neck and bringing our faces level. "I would have called it making love," she finishes, her voice ever so soft as she stares into my eyes.

My eyes fall closed and I can't help by smile. "Yeah?" I ask, keeping my eyes closed.

Her lips press against mine. "Yeah," she whispers.

I open my eyes slowly, happy to find her grinning over at me. "Why would you call it that?" I ask quietly.

She stares at me, cocking her head to the side slightly. "You know why," she replies.

I nod. I do know why.

A small smile, just for me, graces her pink lips. "Because I love you," she whispers, answering my question. She barely gets the words out before our lips are crashing against one another's, racing to be together again.

. . .

Afraid you'll change or stay the same

. . .

"I'll see you at Christmas," I whisper, squeezing his hand. He nods, staring at me in silence. "I'll—I'll be back," I assure him, half-afraid he doesn't believe a word I say anymore.

"I know," he replies. I swallow when he untangles his fingers from mine. He slips both his hands into his pockets, effectively cutting off all contact between us.

"Are you mad at me?" I whisper, feeling a lump rise in my throat.

"No," he replies automatically.

"Mark," I murmur, knowing he's lying. "What did I do?"

"Nothing."

"What is it?" I press.

"I..." He sighs. "All night, I've been waiting for you to say that. I've been waiting for you to tell me that you'll be back." He lifts his eyes from the floor to stare at her. "And," he adds, "I know I'll be waiting all month for you to stick to your word."

"Mark, I will, I promise—"

"The point isn't whether or not you'll be back, Lex," he cuts in. "The point is, I'm always waiting and hoping that you'll come back. I keep hoping we won't end. I keep hoping we'll keep up this... this affair."

"You..." I can barely get the words out. "You want us to end?"

Mark shakes his head, and I feel my erratic breathing even out. "I wish we had never started."

I stares at him blankly, not comprehending. But a second later, I understand. I feel tears prick my eyes when he doesn't look at me. This is the end. "Oh," I manage after a second, turning towards the door. "Oh, I get it."

"Lexie—"

"No, I understand," I reply, crossing the room as quickly as I can, desperate to leave now instead of reluctant as I was before. "You—You wished this had never happened. You wish I'd never shown up and you don't want to see me again—"

I break off when I feel his hand on my arm. "Not at all," he replies forcefully. I take a quick, calming breath and rapidly swipe at my eyes, hoping he won't notice. When he whispers my name a moment later, I know my actions didn't slip by undetected.

"No," I mutter, trying to ward off his sympathy. "No, just tell me what you meant."

Mark sighs slowly. "All I meat is that I wish we had never come to this. I wish..." He sighs. "I wish I hadn't screwed up what was between us so badly. I wish… I wish I'd been able to get you back before all this." He sighs quietly, sadly. "I wish I had known how to fix us while we still had time."

I take a deep breath, looking up at him. "I do too," I whisper softly.

He smiles gently at me before stepping forward and pulling me against him for one last hug. "I'll see you at Christmas," he whispers into my shoulder.

I force a smile as we pull away. "I'll bring you something nice," I whisper.

He shakes his head, pulling back. "Just be here. I don't need anything else."

"I know," I reply softly, giving him a weak smile. "I said I'd bring you something nice."

. . .

Afraid you'll lose yourself again

. . .

"She's been sitting there all day," I whisper. My voice comes out a nervous hiss. "I don't know what to do! She hasn't spoken to me in days. Weeks, actually. Dad died two weeks ago—"

"She'll talk when she's ready to talk," Jeff interrupts quietly. "But right now I really think she'd prefer being left alone."

"Left alone?" I repeat incredulously, turning to my husband. "Jeff, my father just died—she already is alone!"

"Exactly," he replies patiently. He looks sadly at me for a short moment. "And what can any of us do to make her feel less alone? She doesn't need or want any of us, from what I can tell. She misses your dad and nothing any of us say or do is going to change that. There's nothing we can do to make the pain of losing him hurt less."

"You don't know that," I reply, even though I know he's right. "She might need me." I need her.

"Anna, she would come to you if she needed your help."

"She might not want to ask for it. She's a proud person."

"Annabelle, this is your father we're talking about. If she needed help getting through the grief of losing him, I'm sure she'd ask for your help."

"I just wish she would talk to me," I murmur, staring out my kitchen doorway into the living room. My mother sits, staring off into space, in the middle of the couch. I've half a mind to go out and sit beside her, but my six-year-old son beats me to it. I watch, interested, as he hefts himself up on the couch beside her. He stares at her for a long moment, but she does not once turn to look at him. I only need one guess to know who her minds is on… But as for where it is, who knows? She could be a million miles away. She looks it. I'm just about to turn away, to continue my conversation with Jeff, but in a second, all of that is forgotten. I watch, dumfounded, as my first-grader breaks through whatever shell my mother had been hiding in—with the smallest amount of effort on his part. Right away, I know he must've learned this behavior from Jeff.

I watch, frozen, as my little boy reaches out to his grandmother. He almost has to stand up on the couch to reach the top of her head, but when he does so, the motion is fluid. He strokes her gray hair softly, from root to tip. My mother's head moves so quickly to one side I thought she'd broken her neck. But I hear her speak a second later, and I feel like crying, because this is the first sign of life I've seen out of her in weeks.

"Sammy," she asks softly, "what are you doing?"

My little boy stares at her. His hand doesn't stop moving, and he doesn't seem the least bit perturbed to find her staring directly at him. "Pop-pop always used to pet your hair when you were sad," he explains quietly. I strain to hear him, not believing this. "I thought…" He looks down when he sees the lines on his grandmother's face grow taut. "Maybe I could do it too, and—and you wouldn't be so sad anymore."

I can see tears fill her eyes from here. "Oh, honey…" She croaks.

"I'm sorry, Nana," he whispers, shamed when he sees the tears on her face. He removes his hand. "I'm sorry, I'll stop."

"No, no," my mother smiles. She leans over, presses a firm kiss on her grandson's forehead. "It's okay, Sammy. It feels nice."

"You sure?" He asks hesitantly.

"I already feel a bit better, Sam," she smiles. "Thank you."

I find I'm smiling. I'm clutching the doorway and I'm smiling. Somewhere, I hear my husband call my name. But I can't focus on that. All I can focus on is this: Sam did not, in fact, learn that from his father. I feel tears prick my eyes, remembering when my own grandfather had died. I remember watching my father hold my mother, and I distinctly took note of effortlessly he seemed to comfort her. It came so easily to him. He'd hold her close and stroke her hair. I learned that from my father, and my son learned it from me. My smile is so wide, I feel the need to cover my mouth with a hand. A wonderful legacy our family seems to have, of caring for each other.

"Do you miss Pop-Pop?" I hear my youngest ask quietly.

I watch as my mother nods slowly. "I do," she replies quietly. She tilts her head at her grandson. "How about you? Do you miss him too?"

Sam nods sadly, but his back is facing me, so I can't see his expression. A moment later, I hear a horribly familiar sound, and I have to actually force myself not to run across the room. My mother's improved condition, though, makes me feel much better about the situation. She pulls her grandson close for a hug almost immediately.

"Come here, Sammy," she says softly, opening her arms. I watch from the kitchen doorway, frozen in terror for a split-second before he flings himself forward, burrowing into her embrace. "Shh," she murmurs above his tears. "Shh, Sammy, it's okay." I watch tears prick her eyes and escape from the corners as she whispers in his ear and rubs soothing circles on his back. "It'll be okay, bud."

. . .

I step into her living room quietly an hour later, treading softly on the carpeted flooring. "Hey, Mom," I call softly, careful not to wake my sleeping son in her lap.

My mother looks up from her preoccupation—gently stroking her grandson's hair as he slumbers atop her legs. "Hey, Belle." She shifts towards me, giving me a small smile when I take a seat on the other side of her. I fiddle with my hands for a few long minutes before I can't hold back any more.

"Will you tell me something about him?" I ask when I can't stand the silence anymore. I watch my Mom smile gently in reply. We both know whom I'm talking about.

"What would you like to know?" She asks softly.

"Anything," I reply. "Tell me anything about him."

My mother sighs slowly, staring at me as she wracks her brain. She reaches out, taking my hand in hers. I'm surprised by the strength of her elderly grip. "He loved you so much," she manages to say. I stare back at her, my eyes wide. "You were his perfect little girl," she whispers. "He was always so proud of you. I was, too, of course. We—Oh," she murmurs, breaking off when she notices the tears that I can't stop from falling from my eyes. "I'm sorry, Belle."

"No, it's okay," I reply, wiping my eyes quickly.

My mother frowns slightly, brushing away a stray tear that that I happened to miss. "If only he was here," she murmurs, almost inaudibly. "He'd know how to stop your crying." She bites her lip. "He'd know what to do."

"Mom," I manage. "It's okay. I'm fine. I'm sorry I cried."

"Don't apologize," my mother tells quietly. She smiles after a few silent seconds. "You know he took you to see a surgery when you were not even a day old?" Her smile widens slightly, and she gets a faraway look in her eyes. "I always loved that he did that."

"Sorry I didn't become a surgeon," I try jokes quietly, attempting to keep the apologetic ring out of my voice.

"Annabelle," my mother chastises softly. "You know how proud we both are of you. You don't need to be us to be respected or loved by us."

I stare at her for a long moment before whispering my gratitude, "Thank you, Mom."

"He loved you so much," she says again. I look at her, watching as her face puckers with sorrow. I take her hand in mine, and not knowing what else to do, I squeeze it hard. I didn't realize what that returning squeeze meant to me until I felt it. It was like a small message, a small promise; I'm not gone yet.

I may be pushing it, but I squeeze her hand again. I can't lose her too.

When I feel a returning pressure, I can't help but open my arms and hug her. She hugs back, slightly surprised, but still there—still alive. These are the first signs of life from her since my father passed, and there is no way they are passing without celebration. I hug her tighter, wishing I could shout or cry in happiness. If only Sam wasn't asleep in her lap, I might.

. . .

Afraid of the truth that love…

Can cause you so much pain.

. . .

It's been four months.

It's been four months and I haven't touched one thing that belongs to him.

"Belonged," I correct myself aloud. I'm standing in front of his dresser, staring at it as I have been for the last ten minutes. I haven't opened one drawer, though I've perused all of its contents in my mind. "Belonged," I repeat. Past tense.

I take a step back, wrapping my arms around myself and hugging my elbows close. My bare foot steps on something soft when I move. I look down, trying to make sense of the fact that one foot is standing on hardwood while the other is cushioned. And then I make out its shape—it's a crumpled-up t-shirt. I bite down hard on my lip when I realize that it's far too big for my slight frame. But his. I feel my eyes prick. It would fit his. It would fit him.

If he were still alive.

I force myself to take a deep breath. No more bursting into tears. It's tiring and stressful and nothing comes from it. Just take a deep breath. And another. I take another step back. The backs of my legs bump against our bed, and I reach a hand behind to steady myself as I slowly lower my body to the wood floor. I reach out tentatively, my fingers grazing the soft fabric before I pick it up. An old t-shirt, left on our bedroom floor for almost half a year—this is the first thing of his that I've touched. Before I've even completely realized what I'm doing, I've lifted the garment to my face. His scent lingers there, faint and hidden. But it lingers.

Immediately, I want more. I clutch the fabric in my hand, pressing it against my nose, but I can still only faintly smell him. I rise to my feet, steadier now, and with a few determined strides, walk to his dresser and start pulling open drawers. I've rifled through dozens of shirts, sweaters, and pairs of pants before I realized there's something besides clothes in here. I take a deep breath, feeling him all around me in the air, as I reach down to grab the envelope I upended in my search for what remains of him here. It's addressed to me, and written on the back, in handwriting that is unmistakably his, are the words: Open this if you're feeling lonely. I do so with oddly steady hands. I keep waiting for my legs to give way or to feel my eyes spill over with tears. But I find I'm smiling as I scan the page.

.

Hey, Lexie.

I obviously have no way to gauge how long I've been gone—it might be hours or years by the time you read this—but I hope you're holding yourself together. Originally, I was going to have Jeff stash this letter somewhere obvious, so you'd easily see it whenever you finally came home, but I backed off on that plan. You're strong. I'm sure you've gotten through a good amount of time without me.

But sometimes it's just too hard, right?

And that's how you found this. Unless you sold my dresser without removing any of my clothes, I'm guessing you found this note there. I'm not sure where he put it; all I said was to pick a drawer. And now you've been rifling through my dresser now, haven't you? I'm going to assume that you're looking for a reminder of me. Well, you found it. A whole stash of clothes that smell like me. Maybe they'll bring you some comfort, I don't know.

Before you start wondering, there are no other notes. This is the only one I left you, the only one I felt a need to leave you. You're asleep now, actually, lying right beside me. I'm smiling as I write this because, believe it or not, you have finally begun to snore as loud as Meredith. Congratulations. Now I know what Derek's been whining about all these years. But that's beside the point—but it truly is annoying. I can barely concentrate with all that noise you're making! Sorry back to The Point: you're not doing so well, are you? It's gotten hard and you miss me, I'm sure. I miss you too. (Or I would, if you weren't lying right next to me.) I thought a lot about what to put in this letter. I thought maybe I'd write to you for a while, just talk to you, but that gets boring. Plus, pictures work better. In back of this envelope, I left some pictures here for you, old ones that you probably haven't looked at in decades. I know I haven't looked at them, probably not since we took them. I suggest you brace yourself: the youthfulness is a bit jarring. So is your fat stomach. (Just kidding.)

.

I feel like laughing and crying at the same time. I stop reading for a moment, closing my eyes. God, I wish he'd written to me like he said he wanted to. I can hear his voice in my head as I read along, and I can even imagine him writing this while he was in the hospital. I smile, bringing a hand to my mouth. I can't believe he used Jeff as his little errand boy. The kid he threatened to surgically dismember—without anesthesia, of course—if he ever hurt Anna. My smile widens to a grin and my hand falls, remembering that day almost ten years ago when Jeff asked if he could marry our daughter. The poor kid looked like he was going to have a heart attack, but he's proven himself to be quite capable thus far. I smile at the letter as if I'm looking at my late husband's face.

"I knew you liked him," I murmur. I set the letter on the dresser, picking up the envelope. True to his written word, Mark did leave pictures behind. And, as he said, the images were quite disarming. I turn to the side, leaning against his dresser as I flip through picture after picture. There's somewhere between twenty and thirty, and it's clear that either him or I took all of them. Or, at least, I would hope so, considering how private they are.

I am extremely—almost grossly—pregnant in nearly every picture, excluding the ones early on in the pregnancy and the ones where we're holding our newborn daughter. I smile slightly, studying a couple of pictures that were taken in the hospital, just after I'd given birth. I squint, staring at the tiny bundle in my arms. I'm surprised to find that I've forgotten how little Anna used to be.

I flip through the pictures again, smiling faintly at the ones where I appear to be incredibly fed up with this process of documenting Anna's pre-birth life. Due to the shaky appearance of a couple of these pictures, I think I must've shoved Mark just as he was trying to take a picture. But in most of them, I'm grinning. And he is too. I smile at these young versions of us; somehow, they don't seem so far in the past. I go through the pictures one more time before setting them aside and picking up the letter again.

.

Remember how happy we were, baby? Remember when we'd bicker over names or just lie together and hold each other? Remember how perfect she was, and how we couldn't stand to be even five feet away from her for those first couple days? You brought her to every one of my surgeries after I went back to work… Which was probably a professional hazard, by the way, seeing as I could barely keep my eyes off either of you. But I appreciated your presence too much to bother even thinking about its negative consequences. (There were none, anyway.)

Remember to back, okay? Take all that love from then and keep it with you. Smother Anna and her kids if you need somewhere to put it. Or hold onto it for me. Just don't get too sad, Lexie. Don't get depressed. I don't want you to stop living just because I did. That isn't fair to anyone. (And don't scowl at me and tell me life isn't fair, because believe me, I know.)

Remember me, Lex, but don't get lost remembering me. I let years of my life go by, just waiting for you—and before you say it, yes, you came back. And that was one of the best days of my life. But I'm not coming back, honey. I'm gone. So don't waste these next few years waiting for me. Just live your life, and think of me when you can. Look at pictures, think of memories, and remember everything that happened between us all our lives. Remember how much I love you.

But remember that Anna's still here, too, and she needs her mother. She's married and she has kids and a life of her own, but she loves you. She needs you, I know she does.

Take care of our baby girl for me.

I'll see you when your time comes.

I love you.

—Mark

(Also, please cut it out with the snoring. It's really not funny anymore.)

.

After I finish reading, I fold up Mark's letter and slip it carefully back into its envelope. I find I'm smiling as I set it on his old bedside table. I place the pictures on my side, and then I turn back to the dresser. I spend the next few minutes folding his clothes that I scattered and returning them to their proper places within his dresser. When I'm finished, I leave the room without a backward glance.

I spend the rest of the day going through old photo albums, and for the first time in a long time—since before he died, at least—I feel myself genuinely smile. For hours at a time. I feel myself become genuinely happy as I look back over this wonderful life we somehow managed to create together. This happiness holds, surprisingly, almost the entire day.

During the night, though, when I get lonely again in our large empty bed, I think about how we almost never did have a life together. For many hours, I get lost in the nightmare of that non-reality. Eventually, I manage to pick up my journal and escape from it.

. . .

I felt it too. I know, I know.

Darling, I wish it wasn't true.

. . .

Mark,

I understand now.

More than ever, I understand what you went through while I was gone. While I was with him. I know I apologized while you were alive, but now I know for certain that wasn't enough. I couldn't bear being away from you anymore than you could me, but at least I had Jackson to distract me. At least he was there, and I could pretend to love someone.

But who did you have? Only me, and I wasn't even really there. I'm so sorry I left you. It's my biggest regret.

I know I spent so much of our time together asking you if this was real, if what was happening between us was reality or just all in my head, just a fantasy. I know the truth now. I've known it for years, for decades; I've known it always. But since you passed, I've gone through days where I feel like none of it was real. Days where I wake up alone and I think it was all in my head.

But Anna's here.

She is a product of you and me, a symbol of our life together. She's real. She's proof.

And she's the only thing stopping me from following after you.

She can barely live with you gone, and I know if I left too, she wouldn't be able to survive. So I'll stay for her, and for Jeff and Kyle and Sammy, because where would they be without Anna? But when the day comes that I have to leave and move on to wherever it is that people move on to, I'll do so happily.

I hope you're still waiting for me. I'm waiting for you.

With love from your wife,

Lexie

.

PS: I thought maybe I'd call Anna tomorrow, and see if she and Jeff wanted to take the boys to the zoo. We could make a whole day of it, visiting the lions and tigers and bears, oh my! …In case you haven't noticed, I'm trying very hard not to be a zombie here. All I can say is you better be watching my progress from somewhere, old-timer. I love you.

. . .

. . .

So many lives I've lived and died

But none so much as the one I lived

With you

. . .

. . .

Author's Note: I hoped you liked the story and the song (it's one of my favorites). I may come back to edit soon; I'm still a bit unsure of a few parts.

But I would love reviews, if you would be so kind as to leave me some. :)