It had been a week – a week since they'd broken up, a week since they had been together, and a week since they talked. He missed her. He was sure it was obvious to everyone. Shepherd knew at least. Owen kept getting sympathetic looks from the Neurosurgeon and it was starting to grate on his nerves.
She avoided him every chance she got. He knew for a fact that she hadn't been in the PIT or the ER once. If they happen to see each other in the hall, she completely ignored him as if he didn't exist.
Owen found himself spending more and more time on the Vent. Every chance he got, he found himself there. He didn't go home, he practically moved into an on-call room. The fact that it was the on-call room didn't escape his notice. He was getting help – a psychologist – Dr. Wyatt. Apparently, she also used to be Meredith's therapist.
He found solace at the Vent, though. He didn't understand why the vent was okay when a simple ceiling fan could set him off. It was a combination of things; he was sure.
Not have Cristina in his life like this is slowly killing him. He knows it. He can feel it. If he could just see her . . . just talk to her, even for a little bit. Shepherd understands. He even sympathizes with him the few times Owen had been able to spit it out. It was a secret - what he was going through, and what he had done to Cristina. Very few people know. It made him realize that he was wrong about some of the people at Seattle Grace, that maybe first impressions aren't always the most accurate.
Her silence was torture. Maybe she wasn't doing it on purpose. Maybe she didn't know. He kept going back to the fact that she wasn't talking to him. She was avoiding him. He didn't exist. He was starting to feel like he didn't exist. Owen wasn't sure when exactly Cristina had crawled under his skin, but she didn't seem to be leaving. It was just so hard. He used to look forward to seeing her smile when they spotted each other in the hallway or the way she'd run her hand down the side of her neck when she had her hair pinned up, stray curls tumbling everywhere despite her best efforts.
Owen stood over the vent and waited.
He couldn't take much more of this. He just couldn't and no amount of therapy or good-natured advice was going to fix this. He needed her. It was that simple and that complicated and Owen Hunt, for once in his life, didn't know what to do about the problem named Cristina Yang. It wasn't her fault. He knew that. He knew . . .
The air sprang up forcefully from the grate below his feet. He reveled in the feeling. He remembered the words the first time he had brought Cristina here. He remembered her face as the air blew, making her hair fly.
The door opened as the Vent stopped. Owen turned his head and caught sight of Cristina standing there (turtleneck still on, he noticed) with her hands in the pockets of her lab coat, staring at him.
"Hi," she said.
"Hello."