It's a steady rhythm, your feet moving one after the other, and you follow them with even breaths, one after the other and you try and lose yourself in the motion as your feet hit the ground. The world flashes past you, a blur of greens and browns, of splashes of colour and of car horns in the distance and the early chatter of birds above you. And you've always liked running. But you've never liked the burn, the ache or the breathless mess you become after. But still, you've always liked it. If only because it lets you forget. If only because it lets you live in your own world. Just for a moment.
You pass another early morning jogger, and she smiles at you softly, and you think her familiar, and you think you've probably seen her before. You are sure you have. You always take the same run, at the same time. And it's a routine you follow, you keep to it and you never deviate. You've had enough surprises in your life. That, you're sure of.
And so you run, the cold of the morning air barely a thought, the warmth of your blood pumping rapidly through your veins and you let the sun wash over you. You let the warmth of it envelop you and you let the light blind you when you turn into it and you think the morning quiet, beautiful and calming. If only in the short hour you have before you must return home, to the apartment that waits for you, to the warm embrace that has become familiar and the soft scents of life that you hold dear.
You think you should stop when your lungs burn and when your legs grow weak and unsure beneath you. But you never do and you always push through it, just a moment past comfort before stopping. You don't know why you force yourself out of bed every morning. You don't know why you push through the pain.
But you think that's a lie. You do know. It's always the same.
But maybe you've grown used to lying to yourself. Maybe you've grown used to the denial. And so you ignore it. If only so that you can continue to live in that soft cocoon of ignorance that you think you've formed around yourself.
And you wonder what she'd think, what she'd say. But you don't— you can't. You never let yourself think too long, too far back and so you push your thoughts elsewhere.
Your last lap of the park comes quickly, your legs burning and you double over by the food cart, force down lungfuls of chilling air, and you feel your chest heave and your heart beat an erratic, pain filled and deadened beat.
"The usual, Miss Woods?" The man asks then, a smile gracing his face and you look up at him, return a smile of your own, and you think it must come out a grimace, a painful, tired and lopsided thing but you don't care, you don't think he cares too, from the way he laughs and leans down, already in anticipation of your order. You think him a good man. Kind and caring, despite his stature, and you think that most of all, he enjoys life. If only because he is always here in the morning, a smile on his lips and kind words for those that pass. And you think it even reflected in the colour of his food cart, a soft pastel orange that glows faintly in the early sun, and you think the colour calming and soothing when the early morning light kisses it softly and you think it a guiding beacon that sits in the drab of your morning routine. And really, you think yourself macabre, somber and too negative. But really, you've always been a glass half empty kind of person.
At least since—
"Here you go, Miss Woods," and you shake your thoughts, reach out and take the bag he hands you and you let the warmth of the toasted sandwich bring life back into your slowly cooling fingers. You offer words of thanks as you rummage then, quickly in your pocket, and you pull out a few notes, hand him as close to the amount you owe and you know what he will say before you've finished and so you cut him off, a small smiling gracing your lips.
"It's ok, keep the change," and he sighs, and it's familiar, kind and caring. "Take care, Gustus," and you turn, waving deftly over your shoulder and you begin your painful walk back home.
Toasted ham and cheese. No tomato. You've always hated tomato. You've hated the acidic taste and the watery explosion. But ham and cheese? You can enjoy that. And when you bite into your breakfast, when you feel the burning of the cheese, you curse, you let the steam escape your mouth in soft whimpers and you embrace it. At least you can remember it. Remember what it's like to feel the pain.
And so your feet carry you down the quiet street. The occasional dog being walked passes and you smile softly at them, you let them sniff at your feet when they please and you continue on your way. And a memory, old and bittersweet comes to mind, of hours spent researching dog breeds, of hours spent looking for the perfect dog, and hours spent arguing over a name. And you remember her smile, and you remember her frustration at your insistence that you would have a real dog — a German Shepherd, a Labrador, a Rottweiler even, and not some small toy dog. But you think she would have convinced you. You are sure she would have, given enough time. If only—
No, it still hurts. Still leaves a biting wound deep within your mind and you think you feel the tears begin to well up slowly in the corner of your eyes and so you shake your head, shake the thoughts from your mind.
Enough.
You come to a stop at the crossing lights, a building rising up before you and so you look up. The muddy red brick a familiar pattern in its age and your eyes scan the third floor windows, and you search for her. Most are curtained, most hide away from the outside cold — and why wouldn't they? It isn't even seven yet. But you see her. You see her lean against the window, a mug in her hand and you know it will be the green one she bought. Because it's the shade of your eyes she had said. And you smile at the memory. And you know it will hold tea, black, two sugars. And you grimace, you always preferred coffee. But she sees you and waves gently down at you as you begin crossing the road and you smile at her, let your lips pull up at the corners and you let the warmth her presence brings sit comfortably within you.
And as you near the entrance to your apartment, you think she makes the pain bearable. If only for a while.
Your keys scrape in the lock, and you fumble them, a curse leaving your lips at the cold of your hands, the morning run's warming glow having left you cold and your breakfast long since eaten. You curse quietly again, pull a loose strand of hair from your eyes but you feel the door knob turn and so you step back, let the door swing open and you smile at her, and you let your eyes trail down her body, loosely wrapped in her oversized t-shirt, and your eyes narrow, if only for a moment, because it is yours. But you always liked it on her more. You think it suits her, you think it flatters her body, the soft of her thighs exposed to the cold and you eye the goose bumps that slowly spread over them and she must see your eyes wander, must see your eyes linger a moment too long further up, the cold catching your attention and so she pokes you hard in the chest, and she laughs, curls her hand around your wrist and tugs you inside, a soft kiss placed upon your lips.
"It's cold," she sighs, leaning into your arms. "Get inside you perv," and you laugh, let her pull you further into your small apartment and so you place a lingering kiss under her jaw, and she hums, and it's soft, soothing and calming, but she again pokes your chest, causing you to look up into her eyes, and you see the kind hazel that looks back. "As much as I appreciate the affection," and she pauses, lets her finger wander. "You smell. So go have a shower," and you laugh again, let the sound live somewhere in your throat and you kiss her once more.
"You love it," you whisper then, and you let your lips linger against hers for a moment, letting it heat the space between you both, but then you pull away. You pull away and quickly race past her, and you hear the soft whimper and the quiet curse.
It's not far to the bathroom, just a quick right turn and a short walk down the hallway. You snatch a fresh towel from the linen cupboard as you pass and you begin peeling off your clothes, and you glance over your shoulder as you let your top fall to the ground, a silent invitation for her and you smirk, it's mischievous and expectant, and you catch her eyes linger a moment longer than polite.
You let the hot water steam the bathroom. You let it linger in the air and you breathe in deeply. And you think it ready when you see the steam cling carefully to the mirror and so you step under the hot spray. You let the water beat down on your body and you stand there for a long moment. You let the drops hit your face, a searing heat that washes away the past and the pain and the sweat of your morning run. And you smile when you hear the door open. You smile when you hear the shower door slide closed. And you smile when you feel her arms wrap themselves around your waist. And you smile when you feel her cheek rest against your shoulder. And so you turn and you pull her under the heat of the shower and you see her gasps slightly at the temperature and you see her nose scrunch up, if only for a moment before she relaxes and she leans forward, lets her nose bump yours gently and she murmurs softly under the beating of the water. "You always have it too hot," but you know she doesn't mind. You know she enjoys it. If only because you like it and so you kiss her, let your lips wander and you enjoy the quiet moment as you imagine the heat washing away your pain.
It always takes her longer to exit the bathroom. Her hair much more wild than yours. Much more curly and much more unruly. But you don't mind. You think you appreciate the contrast. The difference in shade. You think you enjoy that she isn't her. You think it would be too hard if she was too similar. And so you sit at the kitchen bench, a fresh cup of tea waiting for her and the soft hum of the news wafting in from the living room TV.
You hear the quiet pop of the toast and you turn, taking your plate with you and you quickly place the still too hot toast onto it, shaking your fingers a moment to cool them. And it's a Wednesday. Hump day. A day where things will inevitably go wrong at work and so you choose peanut butter and jelly. If only because it will give you an extra kick to start your day, on top of your toasted sandwich — curtesy of Gustus. You slice the fruit then, an apple and a banana, and you spread it over the cereal that she always has and you smile as you decorate it carefully, and you shape the fruit, the apple slices petals that leave a soft embrace of banana circles within it.
You hear her pad quietly out of the bathroom then, and you look up from eating your toast, you see the skirt she wears and the modest blouse and you smile. "Very grown up of you," you laugh when she twirls happily. "You look fine," you quickly add when you see her frown slightly as she pats down the hem of her skirt.
"It's not too short?" She asks, worry in her voice and you quickly shake your head.
"No, it's fine, it's lovely," and you stand, move closer to her and push her towards the kitchen bench where her breakfast lies. "Unless you're going to work at a church," and she laughs, your joke calming her worried thoughts.
"They're ninth graders though, Lexa. You know how they're like," and you roll your eyes, pass her the milk and spoon before you answer.
"You look fine, Miss Costia," and she grimaces, and you chuckle softly and you think you know what she will say.
"Please, don't ever call me that again," and she pins you with a stern look, but you merely shrug, offer her a quick kiss and turn to retrieve your slowly cooling cup of coffee.
When you turn back to her, taking a sip, you eye her as she pokes carefully around the fruit. "You can eat them you know. They're just fruit," and she looks up at you, mock insult resting on her face.
"And destroy the beautiful art you've made? Never," and you roll your eyes, and you smile. But your thoughts wander, they drift without your permission and you can't help but to think that you've never been much of an artist. Not like she was, and you think your expression must sour, must turn darker for a moment because she quickly interrupts. "Hey, you ok, Lex?" and you look up to see her eyeing you carefully, her hand reaching out to take yours and so you meet her half way.
"Yeah, I'm fine," but it's a lie, you know it and you think she knows it by the way her hand squeezes yours softly. But she understands. She always will. And you think you love her because of it. And so you say once more. "I'm ok," and she smiles at you, giving your hand a quiet squeeze before she releases it.
You let your thoughts wander then, the smell of coffee infusing itself into your body and you breathe it in. You let it wake you fully and you let your mind rehearse what you think you will be required to do today. And as you catalogue and sift and prioritise the challenges you hear the TV blare a loud beat. You hear the screeching of tires from the speakers and you look up, you see the car flash past the screen and you see the actor, his face serious and you see the title and you smell the coffee. You let both senses take hold and you can't help but to remember.
"It's not far. I promise, Lexa," and she smiles at you. Her eyes bright and her hair shining in the sun. And you think you should grumble. You think you should protest her walking you half way around the city but you don't. You don't if only because you are with her, and she holds your hand in hers. And you think yourself content. You round a corner then, and you smell the coffee and you smell the toasting of sandwiches and you raise an eyebrow at her.
"A coffee shop?" you ask, and she sighs, rolls her eyes and nods before pulling you forward. "Isn't there one right down the street from us? That we always go to?" and again she rolls her eyes before ushering you inside.
"But it isn't this one. Trust me," and you do. You do trust her. Regardless of her choice of coffee and her propensity for walking much too far, and, besides, it is a first date. So perhaps you can indulge her.
She sits you down at a small, quiet, out of the way table by the far wall, and she quickly passes you a menu. And when you look down at it you can't help but to roll your eyes. You can't help but to scoff slightly at the names. You won't even repeat them. They're just so… hipster? And you can't even believe you've thought of that word.
"What're you having?" she asks then, her lip between her teeth and a small frown sitting comfortably on her forehead.
"Whatever you're having," you reply, a small smile gracing your lips and you think you enjoy the way her cheeks redden. And you think you enjoy the way she ducks her head softly. And you know you enjoy the way her eyes sparkle softly as she looks up at you.
"Smooth, Woods," and she smiles, flipping her hair over her shoulder.
And so you smile back.
"You're welcome, Griffin."
She leaves to order, whatever it is that one orders at such an establishment, and you turn in your seat and take in the small cafe. Your eyes catch the TV that sits on the wall, and you recognise the commercial that plays, you recognise the actor and you think your eyes roll.
"What?" she says then, sitting back down, handing you a knife and fork, and she follows your eyes towards the TV.
"I can't believe they're making a second one," you say. "The first was bad enough," and she laughs, a gentle rasp to her voice.
"You seemed to enjoy it when we all went to see it," she questions, her eyebrow raising in challenge. And you had enjoyed it. If only because she had been there, despite the boisterous laughter of Raven and Bellamy.
"I only liked it because you were there," and again she blushes. And so you smirk. And you think that you could get used to this. And it's easy. It's familiar and it's comfortable. And you think yourself thankful that you met as friends first. And that there is no awkward get to know you first date questions, and so you reach out, take her hand softly in yours and you whisper out to her. "I'm glad we finally did this."
And she smiles, the blue of her eyes shining brightly in the morning sun.
"Me too."
You walk to work. It isn't far, only a brisk twenty minutes. And you like the exercise. It helps you keep your mind from wandering and you think your mind has done too much of that recently. And you blame the month. You blame this month. And how many years has it been? You think five. Almost six? You aren't sure. But despite the time it still hurts. But you think you must move on. Isn't that what she wanted? For you to move on? To not lose yourself? And so you shake the thoughts from your mind, and you greet the receptionist as you push your way through the glass doors to the high-rise building.
You stand in the crowded elevator and you quietly curse whoever it was that decided that your firm had to be on the 56th floor. You hear someone mutter a quiet apology as they accidentally stand on your foot and you merely roll your eyes, offering a reluctant sigh in recognition. And it seems an eternity, but the doors slide open to your immense pleasure and you quickly exit, greeting the few you pass towards your office.
You've hardly sat down, you've hardly turned your computer on when your door opens with a swift bang and your head snaps up, scowl already firmly in place at the intrusion. "I can not believe the idiot. This is for you, and this too. And you need. And I stress need to speak to Daniels first thing Lexa. He is losing his shit," and you eye Anya as she stands before you, eyes glinting daggers at the reports she had placed on your desk. She sighs then, pulls the chair out from the desk and drops herself down before dragging her hand over her face. "It's ridiculous. He's ridiculous." she says, exasperation colouring her tone. "You have to fire him. I swear."
"What did he do now?" you ask then and you continue to eye her carefully as you reach out for the reports, and you grimace at the first page, but you can't help but laugh, if only slightly at the bold, aggressive underlines Anya has made, clearly marking the errors.
"He ticked the wrong. Damn. Box." she jabs her finger down onto your desk at each word, "and cost the client," she pauses, takes a deep breath before releasing it in one large billowing, angry exhale, "three million dollars."
"Oh," that's not good.
"Yeah, exactly."
You sit at a cafe, just around the corner, and you enjoy the moment you have before your lunch break is over. Anya sits before you, quietly seething and you look at her above the rim of your mug. She looks well, you think, probably better than you do, but it's to be expected you think. Shouldn't it be?
You don't really know what you should be feeling this month. But maybe something other than denial.
"Lexa," you look up at your name and you see Anya gaze steadily at you. And you think you know what she will say, and so you lean back, and you let a soft sigh escape your lips. "How are you holding up?" and you know that Anya will drop it. You know she will move on to a different topic, one not so raw and painful. All you have to do is say so but you think you owe her as much as you can. Didn't she suffer too?
So you breathe out slowly, "I'm ok," and you look into her eyes, and you think she understands. And you know you aren't fine. And you think she knows you may never be fine. But you think you are ok.
Ok knowing that this is your life now.
"I'm ok."
But it still hurts.
It stills feels real and fresh and raw.
You aren't ok.
You let your feet take you back to your office, the constant step an even rhythm that keeps your mind busy. If only for a moment. And you embrace it. You think you've been doing a lot of that lately. But it's always the same. Each year. And so you find it familiar, comforting, and perhaps, if you're being truthful, just a bit sad. Just a bit pathetic.
You stop at the lights, and you watch as cars speed past. You see the bus, always running late as it speeds through the changing lights and you silently curse the driver, and you hope that one day he won't hit someone. You quickly scan left and right, and as the pedestrian light turns green you take a step forward with the crowd. But you pause. Your eye catches a flash of colour ahead of you and you freeze. You think your blood stills and you think your heart clenches painfully in your chest. And your eyes follow the movement. Your eyes follow the soft sway of the woman's hair as she walks towards your office high rise. You see her stop before the doors and look up and you think you'd recognise her, you think you'd recognise the swinging of her arms and the way her hair falls carefully down her back. But it can't be. It wouldn't be and it shouldn't be and so you close your eyes and you shake your head. And you clench your fist until you feel your nails dig painfully into your palm and when you open your eyes again she's gone. And you think you breathe out slowly and painfully and you think you need rest and sleep.
You creep to your apartment door, careful to avoid any excess noise and you wince as your keys scrape against the lock. You know you're late. It's already almost ten and you think you stayed at work to hide, stayed back and tried to collect your thoughts. Tried to make sense of what you had seen before you had to face Costia. And you know she will sense something wrong. You know she will be understanding. But you don't think you deserve it.
And so you open your door carefully, setting your coat on the hanger before you remove your shoes, thankful to be free of them at last and as you move through the room you hear the soft patter of the shower and so you call out to her and smile when she returns your greeting, a cheerful sound for you to hear.
You change into more comfortable clothes, the restricting suit pants and buttoned shirt too tight, too wearing on you and you let yourself lounge for a moment on the bed, let your mind catch up and you think of what you thought you saw. But it isn't her. Can't be her. You know that much but your thoughts are broken by a quiet murmur at the door and you look up from where you lie back on the bed.
"Hey," she smiles softly at you, "rough day?" and she moves closer, a towel still wrapped around herself and she sits down by your side, running a soothing hand up and down your arm. And you hum your response as you let your eyes flutter closed, enjoying the warmth of her hand as it traces circles across your forearm, "don't fall asleep," she whispers then, placing a quick kiss to your cheek, "I'll get changed and heat dinner up."
"Stop," you try and sound stern. You try and swat her hand away but she continues, she ignores your harsh glare and moves closer under the covers, "I'm serious, I really need to study," and she moves even closer, lets her hand wander under the cover, a smile in her eyes.
"It can wait," and she presses a quick kiss to your lips, before she rolls and quickly throws a leg over you, straddling your body and pushing your notes aside.
"Clarke," and you try and protest but you know you won't last. And you know she knows so when she pushes you down, when she leans over you and when she lets her shirt fall open and when your eyes wander she smirks.
"Let me do the work, Lex."
You wake with a start. And you feel the frantic beating of your heart and you pause for a moment, the cool air biting into your exposed skin.
It was just a dream.
Only a dream.
And you close your eyes tight, your hand covering your face and you fight to kill the sob you feel building in your throat. But it's hard. It always has been and so you quickly, carefully, quietly move from the bed, loathe as always to disturb Costia and you pull on a soft shirt before you walk out into the living room. And you know that sleep won't find you again tonight. It never does after you dream of her and so you glide over the cool wooden floor in search of a warming companion.
Minutes pass quietly and you find yourself resting against the window sill, a warm cup of coffee in your hands and your fingers burning just a bit, just a touch towards the uncomfortable, but you embrace it. It makes you feel alive. And so your eyes focus somewhere outside, the soft pattering of the rain a steady drum beat echoing through the walls and you let it lull you into a quiet trance, your eyes chasing the drops of rain as they race slowly down the window. Your gaze catches the changing of the traffic lights and you think it soothing and calming and steady in its pattern.
Red — Yellow — Green
It's reliable. Constant and always there. It has always been there. It has always been in moments like this when you wake from the dreams. The lights have been there to ease you back, to soften the blow and to lessen the hurt. And you think you need that stability, however slight. Ever since—
Stop.
You whisper the word aloud and you know you shouldn't dwell on it. And so you turn from the window, let the soft hints of the coffee infuse themselves with your mind and you take a gentle sip. And as you breathe out a quiet breath you find yourself thinking for only a moment that wherever she is, that wherever she has found herself you hope she is happy. And it surprises you when you feel a wet drop land on your hand, and when you swipe angrily at your eye, and when you bring the back of your hand away from your face you think the wet trail that lingers must be a surprise and a truth you refuse to face.
But maybe you aren't surprised.
Shouldn't you be used to this by now?
And before you lose yourself to your thoughts. Before you retreat back into the quiet embrace of a soft revelry you think your mind whispers out, whispers a question, a truth, and a plea.
Where'd you go?
I miss you.
Clarke?
You creep back into bed, the warmth a welcome comfort and you feel a stab of guilt and pain when Costia moves closer, wraps her arm around you and kisses your neck softly.
"Are you ok?" she whispers and it's tired, rough from sleep but she holds you close, and you nod your head quietly, hum a response and you feel her squeeze you kindly, and you feel her tangle her legs with yours and you feel the gentle press of her lips once again on the back of your neck, and before she drifts back into a peaceful, worried slumber you hear her whisper out to you, reaching for you in words.
I'm not going anywhere, Lexa.
I'll be here in the morning.
I love you.