"Fight Clarke," you plead and you beg and you cry out. "Please — Please, don't give up. I'm here. Fight for us," and you cough and you splutter an ugly, desperate sound. "Please. Stay with me." And you are sure your tears must be falling, leaving a wet, haphazard trail across your cheeks and you want to reach out, you want to hold her tight. But you can't. You can't. Your arms feel trapped in a cold embrace and you think yourself suffocating. You think your heart breaks and you think yourself lost.
"I'm sorry," she chokes through the lump in her throat, her own tears glistening sideways across her cheek and you see the pain in her eyes. You see the love. You see the acceptance. You see the regret. "I don't think I can anymore," and you see her lips quiver gently and you see her eyes close slowly, and you want to rage and shake and scream out.
But all you do. All you can manage. All you can comprehend is the pain and the heart break and the cold feeling that traps you and seals the beating of your heart in your tired chest.
And when you think she leaves you forever.
You think you whisper to her once more through the storm that rages through your mind and ravages your body, and you think it quiet. You think it broken. And you think it helpless.
Please don't leave me.
You wake, a frantic beat living in your chest and you hate it. You hate the feeling of being trapped. You hate the feeling of not being able to do anything and so you brush a hand roughly over your face and you clench your fist tightly and you hold your breath for a long, pained moment. And when you think your breathing is controlled you let the calm of a Saturday morning, in its quiet grasp and soft embrace take hold within you. And without the need to wake early, without the need to bring yourself to work you think you can enjoy the quiet moment before Costia wakes. You can enjoy the warmth of your bed and enjoy the light as it dances across her naked back. And so you turn over softly, tuck your arms under your head and smile at the softness that sits comfortably on Costia's shoulders. Your eyes trace her then, and you memorise every dip, every curve, every small freckle and every small detail that covers her body. You want to make sure you'll remember it. If only because you don't ever want to forget. Don't ever want to not remember. You think you owe her that much. And so you reach out softly, let your finger tangle in her hair and you smile as you spin it between your fingers and you enjoy the warmth and the feel of soft velvet and you enjoy the slight scent of the shampoo that still clings. But you think that above all, you enjoy her.
You aren't sure how long you stay lying there besides her. Perhaps an hour, maybe almost two from the sun that streams in through your window. And you think it fitting that the sun should shine through, should sometimes blind you with the shifting of its movements through the sky. And when you trace the dust that float within the soft rays of light you think it a soothing, calming laziness. And you smile gently when you imagine Costia grimacing, when she will eventually sweep the floor. But you don't mind. You think it reminds you that the world isn't perfect. Isn't always what you want. But you think that it important to try and find the beauty where you can. If you can.
She murmurs quietly in her sleep then, rolls closer to you and wraps a lazy arm around your waist and you smile, brighter and just a bit more carefree and you place a delicate kiss upon her nose, let it sit a moment before you bring another to her forehead. And you chuckle when she scrunches her nose, when she whines and buries her head in your shoulder.
"You wake up too early," it comes out muffled and a whisper, but you see the smile that tugs smoothly at the corner of her mouth, "especially for a Saturday," she continues before pressing closer to you. And you lean into her arms, you let the sheets tangle between you and you feel content. Or as content as you could.
"What time is it?" she asks then, rubbing her hand carefully across her eyes, still refusing to open them and you smile, glancing over your shoulder at the clock.
"Not even eight," and you laugh as she shoves you in the shoulder and she turns, buries her face in a pillow before you hear a muffled reply.
"Go for your run and leave me alone."
Your feet hit the pavement, a steady, familiar and constant rhythm that moves in time to the blood flowing through your veins and the soft thump of the pulse rushing in your ears and you enjoy this feeling. You enjoy the constant ache and the soft pain in your leg and you enjoy being able to forget and to concentrate on simply keeping one foot in front of the other.
There's more people out. Mostly those crazy enough as you are to sacrifice a Saturday sleep in and you let them pass you quickly. You let them fade into the blurs of green and browns of the trees and you let them mix into the flashes of blues and reds and yellows of their clothing and you smile when you see a dog chasing a ball or a child tripping over too big feet and you enjoy being able to exist without an otherworldly care. If only for an hour, however short it may be. You let the sun rise steadily before you until the rays shine painfully into your eyes and as you come to a drink fountain you take the time to slow your stride, you take the time to ease yourself into a steady jog before coming to a tired stop, already bending to take a drink. And it's refreshing, it's chilling and you enjoy it, despite the cool of the air and you wipe your hair from your face and you see yourself, red faced and chest heaving in the chrome of the handle.
And you see it then. The soft colour of her hair and the gold shine as the suns touches it briefly and you freeze and you shiver for a moment despite the warmth of the blood you feel pumping through your veins. And you remember.
"Firstly, I can't believe Bellamy and Raven actually slept together. And second. Ew." You look at her and you smile, but perhaps it's a grimace from the way she rolls her eyes and guffaws through the too large mouthful of sandwich she bites into, and it's not that you don't like Bellamy, or Raven for that matter, and in Raven's case you weren't blind, but, well, Bellamy's a dude. And you'd rather not imagine what was involved.
"See, even Anya agrees with me," and you turn to see Clarke pointedly looking Anya's way and you think your eyes narrow then at the scowl resting across Anya's face, and when Anya, in all her deftness stabs a knife into a sausage you think your eyes narrow even further.
"How's medical school," Anya interrupts then, a change of topic clearly her aim, and you see Clarke sigh, wipe her mouth quickly and throw her head back in thought.
"Hard. Long," and you think your mouth must quirk up slightly, and you think Anya must smirk too because Clarke grimaces for a moment, her cheeks reddening and then she throws one of far too many plastic forks your way.
"But seriously," she continues, "it's kicking my ass. I knew it'd be hard. And the course is long," she pauses, breathes a moment, "but it's good. I'm enjoying it." And she smiles, leaning back on her elbows as the sun falls across her face and you think, if not for one more countless time, that her hair shines brilliantly in moments like this. But you shake your thoughts quickly, if only so that you aren't caught staring and so you turn to your bag, rummaging around for your hastily wrapped lunch. Ham and cheese sandwich, and unfortunately not toasted. You try and work your nails under the plastic wrap, and you think you almost succeed but it tears and slips from your fingers, your nails far too short for any successful unwrapping. And you sigh, look to Anya for help but you find her already lying back in the grass, sunglasses firmly in place, a clear indicator that she wishes to be left to her own, often violent thoughts and so you turn to Clarke, a question already lingering in your eyes that she must read because she holds her hands up quickly, an apologetic look flashing across her face.
"Sorry," she laughs, "I don't have nails either." And you see her freeze for a moment, her eyes widening before she coughs, and turns her face.
Oh. You think. Interesting.
You stand from the drink fountain, wipe a sweaty hand across your forehead and turn to look at the woman you think you saw, but she's already fading back through the crowd and so you let out a shaky breath, let your thoughts collect themselves and then you turn away. And you think you must be mad. You think you must be losing your mind. Maybe you're tired. Maybe you just need sleep.
You continue your run, but your legs don't carry the same determination, don't carry you forward with the same spring and so you end up jogging a pathetic, slow cadence that leaves you entirely unsatisfied as you come to a stop besides the food cart. You smile up at Gustus then, leaning against the side of it to catch your breath and you feel a prod at your back, and so you turn and your eyes fall onto the water bottle offered your way.
"You look like you could use it," it's warm and friendly, and so you reach out, snaring it in your still shaking hands and he cuts you off quickly as he eyes you reaching into your pocket. "It's on the house," and he shakes his head as your mouth opens in protest, "I insist."
"Thanks," and you cough as the cool liquid wets your throat, and you stand for a moment's silence and you look on as Gustus quickly serves the morning exercisers that come, red faced and sweaty.
"You've got a monopoly on the park," you observe, and Gustus merely chuckles, and it's deep, a baritone that loses itself in his beard.
"It helps," and he shrugs, "it's done well for the months the bar's been closed," he continues, and he holds up a slice of bread in question and you murmur a words of thanks, holding up two fingers quickly.
"When's it opening?" and you look skyward, try and trace back the months since he closed it for renovation and you feel a moment of guilt when you can't quite recall how long it's been.
"Couple of weeks," he says then, "and you'll be there. With Costia, who I'm assuming the second one is for?" and he nudges your shoulder again, and you can't help but wobble forward for a moment, his bulk carrying you further than you'd like.
"So you'll call Costia by her first name, but not me?" you glower at him, taking another quick mouthful of water in the process and he just laughs, it's a sharp, loud bark that clears your tiring mind.
"You're a business woman now. And a successful one at that, can't be going around calling the infamous Miss Woods anything else," and you think your eyes roll.
You walk back home, a slow, leisurely pace not at all set by your wobbly legs and your strange sightings. You pause at the crossing and you can't help but to feel a spark of longing at the golden Labrador that streaks past in a car, it's head hanging out the window, ears and tongue flailing in the breeze. And you smile despite the sadness that you think builds slowly and surely. But it's a constant companion. A familiar friend and a strange enemy and so you embrace it. If only because you might drown if you didn't.
The walk up the stairs isn't long, just two flights and then you're scraping a key into the lock and you can hear the soft waves of music sweep out from under the door and you smile at the familiar tune.
Costia moves through the kitchen, her hair messily knotted and her hands full. She looks up at the door and smiles when she sees you entering, and before she can reach out and steal you away you hold out your hand in warning.
"I need a shower first," and she rolls hers eyes before turning her back to you, already bending to search the fridge.
"If you didn't run so much maybe you'd get to hug me more," she sings over her shoulder and you laugh, and you enjoy these moments.
At least you feel normal.
And so you walk down the hall, but not before pulling your shirt off and flinging it carefully at her and you hear the surprised yelp and the gag over your shoulder before you disappear into the bathroom.
You like the heat. You like the soft burn and the steady beat down your skin. You never used to. But you do now and you think it the same with a lot of things. You think it the same as your runs that last too long. You think it the same as the cheese that always burns your mouth and you think it the same as the too hot coffee you hold in your hands. But it lets you know you're alive. And so you turn your face towards the steady stream of water and let it wet your hair and sting your face. You begin massaging the shampoo in softly. You let it lather and you let the smell infuse itself around you and you smile when you hear the bathroom door open. And you smile when you hear the soft thud of the shower door slide shut and you smile when you feel her fingers trace down your thigh softly, a steady ache that sits familiar along her finger's path.
"Does it hurt?" she whispers, her fingers soft and gentle in their trail. And you think it does. But only a bit and so you shake your head.
"Not really, just ran a bit too far," and you smile when you feel her press closer and you smile when she places a soothing kiss across your collar.
You turn her around then, let your hands slowly massage the shampoo in and you hold her close as the water washes it away. And when she turns, when she faces you and when she pushes you firmly against the shower wall you let your eyes close, you let your thoughts wander and when you feel her kneel, when you hear her whisper.
Let me do the work, Lex
You try not to cry and you try not to let her see. And you think she deserves better.
You know she does.
You find yourself sitting alone in the living room. Your feet tucked under you and the sun a soft haze through the clouds. Costia left to help her sister move and so you enjoy the quiet moment you have. And you had offered to come, had offered to lend a hand, but Costia had merely shook her head, had told you to rest and had kissed you quickly before exiting, leaving behind a lingering, cheerful look.
You think over the blonde you thought you had seen then. You let yourself focus on it and you think it strange and cruel that you'd connect her with the memories. She looked similar. She looked the same. But not really. She'd been different, even if you'd only seen her through a muffled reflection. But your thoughts drift to the woman you'd seen days earlier. The one who had looked up at your office high rise and you think that maybe you need a break. Maybe you need to rest. To change your routine.
And you hear the cruel whisper in the recess of your mind and you close your eyes and listen softly as it reaches out to you.
She's not here anymore.
Your eyes drift to your phone then, you let them sit on it for a moment and you contemplate making a call. You think about what it would seem like, to call out of the blue. To just say hi. It'd be presumptuous. Wouldn't it? It'd be cruel and heartless to do so, wouldn't it? Just because you were feeling something — you don't even know what. But maybe she'd like to hear your voice, like to hear what you've been doing. Just to know that you're still alive.
And so you reach out. Let your fingers quickly unlock the phone and press softly against her name and then you wait. You think you hear your heart beat furiously in your chest and you think you feel your hands shake for just a moment and then you hear it. It's bright, gentle and familiar.
"Lexa?" it's surprised. It's shocked and it's loving.
Maybe this was a bad idea.
"Hey," you don't know what to say. What could you say? It's been years.
"Oh my God, Lexa," and you think you hear her cry. You think you hear the shaking of her breath and the shuddering of her heart and you think you feel your own tears well, and you know you're crying when she offers you soothing reassurances and soft ok's and just breathe's.
But it's never ok.
"I— I," you cut yourself off, "this was a bad idea," and you go to hang up, you go to turn away but you hear her voice, frantic and pleading.
"No! Wait, Lexa, wait!" And don't you owe her this much?
And so you stay, you wait and let the silence hang between you both and you let your hands steady and your breaths even out before you speak again, and you think she does the same. You think she needs the same.
"How are you?" she asks then, and you can hear the want in her voice and the love. And it hurts.
"I'm ok," you whisper then, let your eyes close and you let a soft smile linger.
And so she tells you of the hospital she works at. She tells you of the nurses she is in charge of and the people she works with and you smile. It's good to hear her voice again. You've missed it. Despite everything that's happened and you think you stayed away too long. You think you punished her more than yourself and you think that you were selfish to ignore her own pain. Her own anguish. Her own loss.
"Tell me what you've been up to," she says then.
You don't know where to start. But maybe the truth is the best place to. It must be. And so you breathe in softly, and you hold it for a painful moment before letting it go in a steady, accepting exhale.
"I met someone," and you pause, to let her interject if she wishes. But she doesn't, "her name's Costia," you continue, and you think you hear the soft hiccup she releases, "I'm happy," as much as I can be. But you don't voice it. "We're happy," you continue, "we're living together, same city. I couldn't leave. Not when everything I have is here," you whisper the last part, let the words sink in. But maybe not everything. Because she isn't here.
And so you let your voice continue, you tell her of your work. You tell her of Anya and you laugh for a moment as you recall the three million dollars Anya had informed you about and you think you hear her laugh too. She tells you of Bellamy, always a kind presence when needed, and she tells you of Raven and how her leg still pains her. And you feel guilty, if only for a moment's time when you think of the friends you'd lost. But you knew it wouldn't last. Couldn't last. Not with how things had ended.
You don't realise how late you've talked until the sun sits a bit lower in the sky. Just low enough to shine into your eyes and you startle. You grimace as you move from the couch and you look at the clock resting against the wall. And you think she too must realise how long you've talked. And so she sighs once, and you think it weary. Sad and accepting. But you think you hear hope and longing and love. And isn't that what you feel too?
"I should let you go," she whispers then and you smile, nod your head and reply, if only because phone calls can't convey motion.
"I promise I'll call again," and you mean it. "I never meant to leave it this long," and you pause then, let the tears well up once more, but you don't fight it. You can't. You think you needed this, and so you continue, "I'm sorry," and you think you hear her sniffle softly too. "I'm sorry I left," and as the words leave your mouth, you think you feel a small weight lift from your shoulders. You think you feel the flooding of your emotions soften just a bit.
"It's ok," she whispers then, "I understand, Lexa. I really do," and she pauses, lets the words hang for a moment between you both and you hear her breathe in deeply. You hear her hold the words before she exhales them and you hear her choke through her thoughts once, but she continues and pushes through the lump you are sure sits painfully in her throat.
"I feel like I lost two daughters that night."
And it hurts.
It hurts so, so much.
And so you whisper to her once more.
"I'll call again. I promise, Abby."
The lights are off when you push Costia back down onto your bed. She had let you vent and rage and cry out your anguish when she returned, when she'd seen that you needed her and she'd soothed you and comforted you and held you when you had broken down. And all the while she'd whispered words of familiarity and comfort.
I'm not going anywhere, Lexa.
I'll be here in the morning.
I love you.
And when you had reached out to her she'd let you, when you had held her in your arms she'd let you. And when you had descended on her she had let you, had held her hands in your hair and had loved you as much as you had loved her.
And for a while you could forget. Could forget the pain and the anguish and the guilt that lived within you. And when she had broken for you she had dug her nails into your skin. And you had embraced it.
You wake to the steady thumping of your heart and the softness of flesh against you. And you know you won't sleep. You know you can't sleep and so you lie in the dark, your naked chest rising slowly and you trace the light as it moves lazily across her skin.
And you know you shouldn't think of Clarke. Not when Costia rests besides you and not when you had spent hours with her. But you do. And you find yourself wondering where she found herself. And you hope. And you pray that wherever she is, that she is happy. But above all this? Above the constant upheaval of your emotions you think it hurts. You think It hurts so, so much.
You think it always will.
And so you pull yourself from the tangle of limbs carefully, always guilty in your disturbance. And you pull on a careful jumper before you drift softly across the bitter floor towards the bedroom door. It's only a short, quiet moment before you reach the kitchen but you think it lasts a long, painful eternity.
You let the water boil softly. You let the steam burn your skin as you peer into it and you let the heat of the mug scold your hands as you lift it to your lips. And you know you won't find sleep again so you creep tenderly to the window and you let the light of the outside street wash over you, let it blind your eyes for a moment and then you settle, you sit by the window and let the world outside pass you by.
It's quiet, comforting and soothing, and you think you enjoy the changing of the lights. You enjoy the red in all its anger and anguish and warning. You enjoy the caution of the yellow. You enjoy the warmth and the kindness and the soft touch you feel it gives to those that pass it. And you enjoy the Green. You enjoy the bright life you think it must live and you enjoy the neon as it sears itself into your mind. And you enjoy the cycle. If only because you know what happens next. And you know that there are no surprises.
Red — Yellow — Green.
You think you're tired of surprises.
You aren't sure how long you sit by the window, the cold of the floor seeping itself into your legs. And you see the moon that still hangs lonesome in the nights sky and you still see the lonely cars that speed below and you still see the soft feathers of the clouds that drift through the dark of a distant sky.
And you hear her. You hear the soft patter of her feet and you recognise the careful rhythm that stills behind you. And so you don't turn when you feel her kneel behind you and you don't turn when she wraps her arms around you. And when she kisses your neck softly you lean into it. You let her know you appreciate it and you let her know you love it. You let her know you love her.
And you think she deserves better.
You think she deserves better than someone who longs for the ghost of what once existed.
A memory of what no longer is remembered.
"Thank you," you whisper then and she hears you. She hears the words you can't say. The words you shouldn't say, "for everything," and you pause, let your eyes close and lean further into her embrace, "for staying," your eyes open and you turn to face her, "for understanding," and so you look into her eyes and she smiles softly back.
"Anything for you," she whispers, "I only want you to be happy."
