Three.
The number of days since he left. Left her, left them all. Went away, and never came back. The emotion, once bubbling in Kate, now lay dormant. Three days of tears had left her dry and empty. Hollow. Kate was hollow. She could survive now, but she'd never live again. Because of him, them, and three days.
Two.
The number of things she had to remember him by. She wore his white dress shirt, billowing around her slim form in the cruel wind. If he were here, she thought, if he were the one wearing this shirt, I wouldn't be cold. The fond memory of his incredibly strong arms around her was fading. Slowly, but surely. It was leaving, and when it did, what could ever replace it?
The key lay around her neck, and she raised a hand to it, running her fingers over its weathered but familiar surface. Familiar from all the time she had clutched the dark string, both in the throes of passion and the gentlest of embraces. Familiar from the kisses she planted on the skin that used to surround it, kisses like neither had experienced before. Their kisses.
One.
The number of people Kate Austen had ever truly loved, and ever truly would. The number in a million Jack Shephard had been -- and still was -- to her. The number of times he had asked for her humble hand in marriage, and the number of times she had answered automatically, positively, from her heart. The number of bullets it had taken to crush both their lives as if they were nothing, nothing but two insignificant marks on the universe, not the two unique individuals they saw each other as. The number that represented everything Kate had lived for, for Jack was her only, her love, her one.
Zero.
The number of people left in the world to Kate, and the number of times she'd ever see him again.
Zero.
