The Only Way to Stay Alive

by Optimisticynic

drabble written for a ficathon. set at the end of S5, so angst. Prompt: Pretend there was no love so sweet that you would have died for it, pretend that it does not belong to someone else now, pretend like your heart depends on it because it does. Pretend there is no wreck — you watched the train go by and felt the air brush your face and that was it. Another train passing.

He thinks, one day, he will see her at the far end of a crowded New York sidewalk and his heart will not collapse under the weight of its own wanting. His hands will not recall the feel of hers, his lips will not tingle from some phantom pressure. He will catch her eye and smile, openly, jogging lightly to catch up to her. He will talk about his newest book and she will complain about her newest, wildly incompetent, batch of interns. He will hug her, affectionate and warm, and the ghosts of what might have been will not occupy that small space between them.

He thinks, someday, he will glance at her from across a too-warm ballroom and it will not carve out a hole in his heart. His throat will not feel raw, scraped by the force of swallowing back a scream, a plea, a sob. His body will not feel strung together with bits of memories like razor wire, cutting through him with every step. She will walk over to him and insult his tie, and he will laugh, honestly. He will say that she is beautiful, glowing with too much wine, and he will not remember his hand caressing that open patch of skin, the sense of belonging, the feeling of contentment.

He thinks, today, today is the last day he will ever, can ever, see her because that must be it. That has to be it. Otherwise, he will spend every day ever after writing them back together again, picking through the broken pieces, ignoring the scars on his hands, bloodying himself with the effort of keeping them alive.