A/N: It's been a long time since I've written for Blue Bloods, but I'm so excited to be back in! This little plot bunny would just not go away, so I had to write it. :) I'm actually working on a Mimi/Jack piece, so if you're into that keep an eye out. This was written as I listened to Taylor Swift's song "You're Not Sorry." (I love her stuff.)
Disclaimer: Not mine. Never will be.
Sky is writing to Jack to talk to him. Any "she" Sky refers to is Mimi Force. Post Revelations.
Read and enjoy!
You're Not Sorry
Jack,
You're not sorry, are you?
Of course not. You never will be. It's always been what Jack wants, Jack gets. Regardless of the consequences.
I thought I loved you. Thought you loved me, in fact. We spent nights and days together, whispering in the darkness, of our future, of the end of all this. Why do I feel like I'm in A Midsummer's Night Dream? Why do we confuse dreams with reality, and hope with possibility?
I think I can forgive you though. Even though I want to hate you, I can't. Why is that? Why can't I hate you? She should want to hate you too, but clearly she doesn't. Why is that Jack? What is it that makes you so un-hateable? Because I thought about hating you. I thought about never thinking about you again, about erasing your face and eyes and smile from my memory. I thought about leaving you, and this city, and just letting everything and everyone go. But I couldn't do it. Maybe because I realize I never loved you. And maybe because I'm just too weak to leave.
I think I can find it in my heart to let you go. Because I don't deserve this. Neither does she. And maybe you don't either.
But you've never cared about her, right? That's what you told me, one night. Do you remember? You'd given me a drink to calm my nerves. It was only the second time we'd met. Our little clandestine meetings. Did she ever find out? Do you even care? Of course not. You told me so much yourself. You don't love her, you cried. You've never loved her. It's only duty that binds you to her for eternity.
And then that hope. It was cruel, even for you, to give me those few precious days where I believed that we would be able to be together. When I thought that's what I wanted. You can break it, you told me. It's possible.
No, it's not, Jack.
You can't fix things, even though you want to. Face it, Jack, you want to have your cake and eat it too. You want the passion you have for me, but you want the familiar Mimi too.
But you can't have it both ways. All or none. One or the other.
Why is it that I understand this, but you don't? Why can I see what you're doing, why can I know what's in your hear when you can't even begin to learn its innermost secrets? I'm not your soul mate; you don't need me, want me, love me. I can see that. Why can't you, Jack? Why?
Don't bother to answer. It's okay. I probably won't send this letter. I'm too afraid. (Is that why I can't talk to Oliver anymore? Am I terrified that he will look at me and see you on me, in me? Do I believe he can smell the faint scent of you in my hair and on my clothes? Is he afraid that if he looks into my eyes, he will see the lover of a dark angel staring back at him?) I am a coward. I cannot face you, even now. So I will spare you the pain of reading this, the agony of trying to understand me and understand yourself. But you'll have to face it someday. Maybe a better woman than I will show you. Maybe your sister will show you. Maybe you will never know what's in your own heart. And maybe its a good thing we cannot read ourselves; maybe we are not meant to know our own desires and fears.
It doesn't matter.
But know that I'm sorry. I know you aren't, but I am. Just know that you will always hold a special place in my heart. I can only hope I hold a special place in yours. But maybe I'm wrong. I don't know. I might never know. And you know what Jack? That's okay. I'm going to be okay.
I think you will be too.
Sky
She looks at the paper in front of her. The lines started out neat and orderly in their anger, but as desperation sunk in, they became scrawled and uneven. It doesn't matter, she tells herself. Do not care.
She stands, holding the letter loosely in her hands. It feels rough and it scratches her skin, reminding her of the words on paper. She passes the fire, and drops the letter in.
She closes the door on the room. It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter. It did not matter. It will not matter.
The fire consumes the letter. Flames lick the paper, curling it around itself, like a person trying to escape the smoke and heat. The edges brown, then blacken. The words disappear into the fire. And then it's gone.
And nothing remains but a little ash in the fireplace, and words never to be spoken.