Her eyes shied away from the tubes and wires that seemed to drain the life from her mother's veins. Her ears turned from the soft yet deafening hum of the respirator as her mother's chest rose and fell with the effort it took to breathe. The nurse came frequently to check on them, but Emma remained restless, crossing and uncrossing her legs over and again, her hands never loosening their grip on the small wooden frame as its corners made depressions in her skin. The photograph once made its home in her mom's desk drawer, and Emma used to fish it out every so often just to stare at the persons depicted, imagining a time when her parents were civil toward one another. Not only civil, but in love.

"Madly," Ruby often corrected, "Madly in love."

What must that have been like?

The ticking of the wall clock drowned out all other sounds until it was beating in rhythm to Emma's heart. She uncrossed her legs, letting her feet lay flat against the beige and white checkerboard floor. There came an anguished cry just down the hall, and Emma watched every head at the nurse's station turn. She chewed her bottom lip, checking the time again.

6:37.

It wasn't that Emma hated hospitals. They just…made her uncomfortable. Maybe it was this one in particular. She was born in the room across the hall, back when this wing of the hospital was the maternity ward. Victor had rushed her through the emergency room doors when she broke her arm during a fight at school—her first and last. Her grandfather died before they were able to wheel his stretcher past triage.

It wasn't that Emma hated hospitals. But this one held too many memories for her to remain at ease. It now held Mary Margaret as one of its captives.

"Are you still here?"

Emma looked up, startled by sound of her mother's voice. "Where else would I be?"

"You don't have to stay, honey. Leroy will be here soon."

"Leroy isn't family."

"Don't let him hear you say that."

Mary Margaret's downstairs neighbor and Emma's self-appointed uncle, Leroy, was far too protective for his own good. But Emma was secretly glad her mom wasn't alone on the days she had to stay at her dad's.

One more year. She sighed.

Just one more year and all this ridiculous custody business would be over.

"Avoiding the step-monster again?"

Emma smiled. "It's harder than it sounds."

"Hm." Mary Margaret shifted beneath the covers, seeking a more comfortable position. "Well, if you're going to stay, the least you can do is fill me in on the latest news."

The latest news. By this, she always meant gossip—the juicier the better—though she would never admit it. Emma tried to think, tried to ignore the desperate cries of the man down the hall.

"I don't know that there is any news since yesterday."

Mary Margaret grinned. "You could always tell me about that boy."

Emma's body acted on impulse, her legs re-crossing, her hand reaching to brush the hair behind her ear, but the heart that had previously beat in unsettling harmony with the ticks of the wall clock froze within her chest. There was only one boy she thought about anymore, and even then it was to remind herself that she was better off without him.

What did she need with someone who could be so easily persuaded by long dark lashes and a cunning smile?

"What boy?"

Mary Margaret looked at her with a face that wasn't fooled. "You know what boy."

Then again, maybe it wasn't him she was thinking of—the last time her mom had wanted to hear about "that boy," was just before Emma's sixteenth birthday, when she'd been completely infatuated with the son of Robert Gold. Aside from the boy himself, and Will, who'd had the misfortune of walking in unannounced, Mary Margaret was the only living soul who knew anything about that short-lived romance.

"Neal, well he's—"

"No, no," she waved her hand, "the other one."

Emma swallowed thickly as she watched two men in white coats poring over patient charts on their way past the nurse's station. She didn't want to talk about this. She would rather have talked about anything else—her stepmother would've proved a better topic of conversation, and the world knew how she felt about her.

"Other one?"

"Blue eyes, great hair, slight brooding quality."

Emma's cheeks flamed. "Oh…him."

"Yeah, him."

"What about him?"

"Is he your friend?"

"No…" the corners of Emma's mouth turned down, "…not anymore."

"Hm…"

Emma averted her eyes, but it was no use. She could feel Mary Margaret's stare on the side of her face, seeking any telltale signs that her daughter was being less than forthcoming.

"He's cute."

Emma's gaze locked on her mom. "Killian is not cute."

"Killian?"

Shit.

Of course she hadn't meant Killian. If she wanted to know about Killian, she would've said, "How's that boy you don't know you're going to marry?" Emma could see it in her eyes—the same look as the rest of them. They all thought that Emma liked Killian or he liked her and that the two of them were just so cute they had to giggle about it.

"I don't like him."

"I didn't say anything."

"He won't even talk to me, and even if he did, he's become so…so…stuck-up."

Not that Emma knew what he'd become. But she couldn't suffer Mary Margaret's expression—it was the sort she imagined her stepmother would adopt if ever she awoke with ice in her veins like her stepsister, Ana, and an eagerness to marry the richest man in town and bear rich little sons. Seeing as the richest man in town after her dad was Robert Gold, that wouldn't be happening in the foreseeable future.

"He's just…he'd…I don't like him."

"Mhm."

"I don't."

"Okay."

She did not like Killian Jones.

Not in that way. Not anymore. She knew his parents, his neighbors, their grade school teachers, even Regina all had this idea that they would fall in love and run off together when they grew up, have a litter of sarcastic kids, live happily ever after…

There was no way they could've known how much he'd end up hating her.

There had been a time when the two of them were inseparable, when he'd been the single most important person in Emma's life.

But they weren't children anymore.

His choices had forced her down a path she hadn't wanted to take, but there was no way to forego losing him when he didn't want to stay. He didn't need her anymore, and she couldn't let the memory trap her—not with her mother watching. She had finally come to terms with letting go. It didn't help matters that she was acutely aware of the fact that her life had been split into two parts, the second infinitely darker than the first.

"So, Neal Cassidy, huh?" Mary Margaret mulled over this information. "He's a nice boy, I think." She nodded to herself. "His father's a big supporter of David's campaign, isn't he?"

"Yeah. Dad once said he could run on Mr. Gold's contributions alone."

Emma cringed. She hated talking about money with her mom, given the stark contrast between her dad's estate and the miniscule apartment her mom had to work two jobs just to maintain.

Emma tried to smile for Mary Margaret's benefit, but she wasn't confident that the gesture translated as genuine.

"Well, at least you have someone."

At least she had someone. She didn't know why, but that sentiment made her feel empty. Maybe because her mom was wrong—about all of it. Emma didn't have many friends to begin with, and they'd all jumped ship at the first sign of troubled waters. She'd never been in love, and she'd only had one real relationship since the time she'd turned sixteen (she was informed that playground marriages sealed in ring pops didn't count). And Neal Cassidy was not a nice boy.

The clock read 6:57. It would be getting dark soon.

A knock at the door turned their attention. "All right, I'm here, the gossip can stop," said Leroy, standing at the threshold, still dressed in his coveralls.

"We don't gossip, do we, Emma?"

"Um…"

"Traitor." Mary Margaret frowned, turning back to Leroy. "And anyway, who was the one who told me about the neighbors growing pot on the roof?"

"Just reporting the facts, sister."

7:01.

Emma moved to her mom's side, gave her a kiss on the forehead, and set the framed photograph on her bedside table. "I have to go."

"Will you come again tomorrow?" She looked up with hopeful eyes, but all Emma saw was a grim reminder that she wasn't as well as her bright smile would have everyone believe.

"Of course." Emma tried to smile past the thought. "Love you, Mom."

"Love you, too, honey."

—

The autumn air grew cold as the winds picked up, and the leaves swirled in circles on the ground. Emma crossed her arms for warmth as her threadbare coat failed to shelter her from the elements. It was the one possession her stepmother abhorred more than most incompetent people who had the misfortune of finding themselves in her employ. For one thing, it didn't boast a designer label, but was purchased at a retail store for half-off and was given to Emma by Killian's mom. It was by far Emma's favorite article of clothing and she wore it all through the winter months, though it did little to keep her warm.

Her steps weren't hurried; she was less than eager to hear what she'd done wrong this time—and she would, no doubt, as soon as she stepped foot through the front door and attempted to creep past the parlor, where Kathryn sat reclining after a trying day as the Mayor's wife. What with public appearances and visits to the spa to utterly drain her, she'd be in no mood to deal with whatever embarrassment Emma had caused to befall the family. But the chill would only increase once darkness fell, so she quickened her pace, keeping her head down to shield her face.

The sun seemed to set more quickly the faster she walked, as if she'd unwittingly challenged it to a race. The cold was beginning to reach her bones, and she had to clench her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering. She heard cars pass on the road, saw the beams of their headlights as they turned the corner, and went from shielding her face from the wind to hiding it from potential witnesses. Being recognized was the last thing she needed. How would it look to Kathryn's friends, or more importantly, the voting public, if she were caught trolling the streets at night like some penniless urchin?

Neighbors sipped coffee on their porches after long days at the office, but Emma didn't look up at them, even as their voices quieted when she walked by—as if she were a spy sent to eavesdrop on their conversation and report back to her superiors that yes, Marcia was in fact the one stealing pens.

She jumped at the sound of angry horns nearby, and her eyes darted up to see two cars narrowly escape impact, though neither driver was content to let the other go without a piece of his mind. That was when Emma realized she wasn't where she was supposed to be. The street was safe enough, she knew, but its memory threatened to pick at the past she'd so neatly packed away in the corners of her mind.

She turned to face the houses across the street, afraid to confront what lay behind her. There was no denying that she wanted to look, wanted to see if it was still the same. She wanted to see the aged but sturdy porch swing, whereupon she'd slept many a summer day away. She wanted to see the flowers that dotted the bushes under the main window. She wanted to see the walkway paved with stones that caught the toes of her shoes when she ran too fast. More than any of these, she wanted to see him. But what would he think if he saw her standing outside his house?

Nothing good. The word pathetic came to mind, and she shuddered.

"Poor Emma." She imagined him shaking his head. "Never could let go, could she?"

Her feet were cemented to the sidewalk. She ached to move, to turn around, to only glance at the bright red door one last time. To say goodbye. Goodbye to her childhood, goodbye to her favorite place in the world. Goodbye to him. She forced herself round, and her regret was instantaneous. She shouldn't have done it. She should have walked away—walked straight into traffic if it meant escape—because as she turned toward the house that had been so intricately linked to everything she ever knew to be good, she saw him standing there, looking more handsome than any seventeen year old had the right to.

And he saw her.