A\N: These will be a collection of random letters that will pop up whenever the mood strikes me. This particular chapter has strong TIVA vibes, be warned, but that doesn't necessarily mean the others will too (shock); although I can't say it's unlikely. Additionally, I have a Gibbs one that's cooking in my brain, which definitely means no TIVA, so…

Either way, enjoy it (maybe) and do review, please. :D And that's the first time I'm asking, so it's gotta count for something, right? Right.

DISCLAIMER: NCIS does not belong to me.

"Sir, more than kisses, letters mingle souls; for, thus friends absent speak." - John Donne

There are things in this world in which you put an unnecessary significance. You write letters to friends, and you write letters to lovers. None of them matter much, but they bring you, and them, a smile. Doesn't that matter? Shouldn't it? It's certainly to be treasured. There's precious little of it nowadays, and every one counts.

But that only works if there's someone to write and if there's someone to read.

Having no recipient makes a letter empty. If no one's going to read it, how do you know there are words in it? The tiny paper will be kept neatly folded like a new-looking prize, which you can't help but stare (greedy person, you are) curiously at, wondering what's in it, who it's to and from. But it's someone else's neat little prize, and you keep away. So does everyone else. That letter is meant to no one.

This is an empty letter.

Tell me, what's the point in writing this? It'll never be seen. It's just an endless pit of sorrow and loneliness that's almost embarrassing to be read.

Although, maybe that's exactly why you write it. Normally, you take it away and you put it back, because that's what words do to you. But not here. Here, you put the ink on the paper, because you're not worried that it's not perfect. It better not be perfect, actually. That would take away the whole purpose of doing it.

So there isn't a soul on this planet that you want to open this.

Except you're a bad liar. She's important to you. Important enough that you don't mind her reading the letter. Don't mind her finding out a few choice thoughts that run through your head sometimes. As a matter of fact, you wish she would.

But she won't. Because she's left. Her, her, and her. There's no distinguishable 'her' to bring up in your life that hasn't ditched you the moment they realized what a mess you really are. When it comes down to it, they're a single entity, split into timelines of your life. The common factor? They've all left.

You're alone. There's no one to read this. No one cares to either way. And you need to stop indulging fantasies that go in that direction, because if you know one thing, is that you'll be burning this sheet the moment it's finished. You don't take chances. Not anymore.

But she's special. She stands out. You don't know why, but you can pick her out from the middle of the others. You do that. But it doesn't matter.

You find her. Time and time again. She tells you to leave her alone, but you go after her anyway. You know she doesn't mean it – she's scared, and she can't let that secret out. She can never be scared. And every time the outcome is the same – you wonder why you bother. You pull her out – or at least try to.

She stays. She's stronger than you, always has been. You can't do it, and you're ashamed, because you're weak. You can't heal her, and that's your problem. You're a failure, and she understands, and that makes it worse. She can't understand, because that would mean that she's used to disappointment, that she's used to you letting her down. You can't do that. You can't let her down, because if you do, then there's no one else in her life. There's no one else that she can expect unwavering promises from, that she can rely on as much as she once did on you.

But that secretly pleases you, because you're selfish. You want her all to yourself, because she's just like that unopened letter. A prize you want to achieve, badly. A big prize, the biggest you've ever dreamed of. You'd never considered something so great, not before her.

But you lost that game, and the prize will surely be someone else's. She's gone, just like everyone else. She's broken. You didn't (couldn't – it's never enough to remind you how much of a loser you are) fix it. Once you were her medicine. Once you were what she needed to mend herself.

But you're not enough anymore. Were you ever? You don't know. She bottled things up, too much so for someone to end up sane. Her leaving had the stench of that bottle. It opened, and she paid the price.

And you care about that. You care that she told you that there was no telling if she'd be back. You care, because her absence is slowly taking your mind away.

You waited too long. No one that knew you and her (except there was never any you and her) from the beginning would think you'd be 'just friends' forever (except you were – minus the forever part). Maybe she grew tired. Maybe you grew tired. Maybe that's why it all fell apart.

You placed your heart in too vulnerable of a place. You shouldn't have done that. It's illogical – why would you willingly place a very large fund on your destruction? But you still did. And, unless you're really a misjudging observer when it comes to others, so did she.

You don't know that spot, where you put your most vital organ. That's the whole point. You put your life somewhere unknown, and you did it blind and deaf, following only her instructions. It's a hazard of humanity. Your feelings are there, and so is the basis for your happiness. There's a reason for the fact that you risked entrusting her with that important part of you. You don't need to know what that reason is, but you present it anyway. That's a hazard of humanity too.

And when she walked away, she took with her all you'd given, neatly packed in her baggage, wrapped up in her clothes. You're not bothered by that. You know she'll take good care of it. You trust her. And she does too.

But you're bothered that she had been planning on no goodbyes. You're bothered that she was leaving all your time behind without a second thought. But you're prone to jump to conclusions, so you test whether that's true or not.

It's not.

She kissed you back. For a moment, you were the most important person in her life. You treasure that, but it's an obsession that you can't fight. Except you don't want to, either. You might (it's a possibility that's coming to fruition scarily fast) end up alone because of that. And that might be ridiculous. But you don't care, because you have those seconds to hold onto. You'll probably die miserable, but that will still be there, waiting for you. Maybe that makes it okay.

There are things in this world in which you put an unnecessary significance. You laugh and you cry, and for what? For her smile and her tears. For her life and its reinvention. You (used to) see her lips tug, and now, even in the dreamed aspect of that action, you still grin in an involuntary reflex. It's physics. Newton got that right.

What is that, though, in the grand scheme of things? Earth is too wide for it to matter.

It does.

And you care.

And, then again, so do I.

Tony