This takes place after Kate and co have left the island in season four, so if you haven't seen that far, there are some spoilers.
What hurts the most [or perhaps the least; you don't know anything anyway, stupid little girl playing with plastic toy planes and glass hearts] is you can't forget. It should be easy because you hate him for what he did, hate him for leaving you and not protecting you.
But that's not the truth, is it? The truth is you hate him because you love him, because you crave him and taste him and your dreams are full of his too-long hair flashing in the bright sun, of him burying his head into your neck as you're pressed into the hot sand.
Or maybe it's Jack--or what Jack isn't, because though he is a lot of things, he is not Sawyer, and that is the truth of the matter. The ring sparkling on your finger is cold and hard and lonely, and it matches your breaths and your longing.
It's been forever anyway, hasn't it? Or maybe it's only been a few seconds since you felt his lips against your ear and hair and he whispered something that wasn't "I love you" and ripped your heart out and jumped into the ocean with it, drowning it and killing it--killing you. You never needed anybody, never relied on anybody but yourself, isn't that right Katy? But now it hits you, really hits you, that Locke was right, that you were never supposed to leave the island and that you failed, failed yourself and Claire and Juliet and everybody else you left behind. You aren't supposed to be like this, a shadow, living on the false and foolish hope that you'll wake up to the scent of Dharma beer and old cigarettes.
"Aaron's finally asleep." Jack says as he slips into the bed beside you, and you squeeze your eyes shut because his voice doesn't have the husky southern drawl and his skin doesn't smell like the beach, and you betray Claire just a little more when you think that Aaron's blond hair and eyes, already deep with personality and intelligence, could come from Sawyer, that Aaron could really be your own son, Sawyer's son.
"Kate?" Jack says, but your back is to him and you're used to pretending you're asleep, lost in a world of blissful unconsciousness, when it is just the two of you alone in this bed, in this room, in this world. Jack's fingers brush a strand of hair from your face, and you almost flinch at his touch, because it is too soft, much too soft, not rushed and needing, and his hands are not slightly calloused and tanned.
Jack sighes and you feel his side of the bed lift, lighten, and he shuts the door quietly. You know he's going to the bottle of Jack Daniels he's hidden above the fridge, but you don't care. You don't care about anything, really, except a little boy down the hallway who reminds you that your chest is hollow, because your heart was shattered [like glass] and was fragile anyway [like a plastic toy plane in a manila envelope].
...what I've succumbed to
is making me numb...