April 26

He turns to leave. He is always leaving. Trying to get him to stay is like trying to hold onto fog – she reaches and grasps, but her hands come up empty. Trying to get him to stay is like trying to keep a river from running. He is always faster, and he slips through her fingers.

"So, you're just going to leave…again!" Lydia exclaims.

"I'm sure as hell not going to stay here and let you intentionally pick a fight with me!"

"Fine! Go! I thought you were different Stiles…but you're just like everyone else, aren't you?"

She turns away. She is always turning away. Trying to get her to stay is like trying to touch the clouds – she is ever-changing and far beyond his reach. Trying to get her to stay is like trying to capture a wave. She is with him one minute, and in the next, she is drifting out to sea along with the rising tide.

Stiles didn't expect things to be as they were before. He didn't expect the ease he once had with Lydia to magically return. He was prepared to fight for it though, to fight for her…but not to fight with her. He knew this first interaction would be awkward…more than awkward…most likely difficult, so he has tried to be patient, tried to stay calm, swallowed every harsh word she has slung at him in the last quarter of an hour. He didn't get angry because he understands her. She is hurting – grieving for Allison. When Lydia is hurt, she either shuts down or she lashes out…and right now it is the latter. He knows that, accepts that it's her nature, loves her for it even, but she struck a nerve with this particular accusation.

Now, he is angry. He whips around to confront her, staring at her with an incredulous expression on his face, his shoulders visibly moving up and down with every ragged breath.

"Lydia, what the hell is that supposed to mean?" he shouts, unable to control himself.

She turns to look at him when he says her name, then winces and backs away – a reflex. Though she isn't afraid of him, she is afraid of what she sees in him…or rather, what she doesn't see. His face, that used to look like comfort and love, is unrecognizable; it's been tainted by a month's long distance and an excruciating amount of pain. She isn't used to him directing anger at her. With Stiles, it has always been softness and understanding…occasional sarcasm…sometimes irritation…but never anger. She has never been on the receiving end of this emotion from him, and the thought of him being so cross with her throbs like a slap across the face.

The flash of anger Stiles pointed at Lydia is as fleeting as lightning. The person he is truly annoyed with is himself. He would be wondering why he even came over if he didn't already know the answer to that question. He can't stay away from her. It's Lydia, always Lydia. He lives for Lydia. He has tried to push it down, make it stop, let her go – but she has got her fist clenched around his heart and it has been that way since they were eight years old. He hates himself for needing her so much; for putting that need ahead of hers…just so he could see her. He should have left things the way they were. He should be letting her heal, but out of his own selfish need to be in her orbit, he allowed a single smile to grant him permission to push through her doorway again. All he has managed to do since he arrived, is to upset her and argue with her.

The anger expands as Stiles faces the irresistible hold she has on him, but when he sees Lydia flinch something inside of him breaks. All he wants is to make her feel safe, not threatened, but he scared her…again. Guilt colors his eyes, but quite uncharacteristically, he doesn't automatically apologize. He is too caught up in the emotion of it all, and words would surely fail him. Instead, he puts his hands up to show her that he is backing down. Then he takes a breath and rephrases the question with a more forgiving tone, while she stares at him wide-eyed and riddled with disbelief.

"What do you mean…I'm like everyone else?"

Lydia can't understand how things fell apart so quickly. She wanted to see him – her heart skipped beats when he appeared at her door – but as soon as he stepped over the threshold, all of the hurt came flooding back. Stiles hasn't been in her room since the day of the funeral – Allison's funeral. In the month that followed, it has been nothing but averted eyes, avoidance, and fewer words than she cares to count. He hasn't so much as called her or even sent a single text. The only interaction between them – an unintended and transient encounter at Scott's house last week. At the time, Lydia had already been completely deprived of any physical contact with Stiles. That afternoon, he offered her the slightest taste of it…when he briefly held her hand and grazed the side of her face with his fingertips. Ever since, she has been lying awake at night, aching for him so badly that she could scream.

Now, she feels uncomfortable. Stiles seems like a stranger, and her bedroom, where they have spent hours together, her own bedroom feels like a place she has never been before. She is hurting – more profoundly than ever. The wounds are so deep, she wonders if he can see her bleeding – her weakness for him on full display. When Lydia is hurting, her first instinct is to lash out. So of course, she picked a fight with the one person in the world she least wants to fight with – Stiles. She pushed and prodded until he reacted, and now she is angry with herself for reverting to her usual form. Yesterday, he smiled at her. He looked at her the way he used to – for the first time in so long – and it pushed the darkness away. She wants that again. She wants to be grateful just to have him with her, but she can't put aside how abandoned she has felt in his absence. Her voice cracks over the next few words as she abdicates an intended shout, for a quiet and indifferent tone.

"Forget it. It doesn't matter. Just leave if you want to," she replies after a long pause.

"No. I'm not going anywhere until you explain what you mean," his voice is still firm, but sensing the weight of emotion that she is so desperately trying to cover, he makes a conscious attempt to sound calm before she shuts down.

She only stares at him, merely thinking of words which her mouth refuses to articulate.

"Lydia, you can't say something like that and expect me to drop it," he urges, stepping closer.

Involuntarily, her voice quiets even further as the walls of her larynx constrict around each word. "It means…it means everyone leaves me…" Her left hand finds its way to her throat as she remembers the garrote tightening around it at Jennifer Blake's hand.

She turns away. Tears start to pool in her deep green eyes as she protectively wraps her arms around her mid-section. She refuses to cry in front of Stiles anymore. Those days are over. He made it so. But then she feels his hand on her shoulder, light as a feather, though just enough to remind her he is still in the room; just enough to remind her what it feels like to have him touch her. The barely-there sensation of his fingertips sends her heart pulsing rapidly, and consequently ignites her inner fury once more. She shouldn't have let him mean so much; maybe she shouldn't have let him in at all. The self-hatred makes her body simmer with anger, and it is reflected in the tenor and volume of her voice as she rushes to finish her thought before he speaks another word.

"…AND it means you have been avoiding me for over a month and I don't understand why!"

She is half-shouting and half-straining to keep unwanted tears from falling. Her spacious bedroom seems small at the moment; berry-colored walls closing in around her. The open window seems to be siphoning air out of the room, rather than allowing it inside. It's difficult to breathe, and her stomach is tied into a knot which no amount of rational thought can undo.

Stiles means to keep the contact between his hand and Lydia's shoulder as light as possible, but it's worse than not touching her at all. Right now, a light touch makes it feel like she is slipping away from him. He can't let her go – not again, so he increases the pressure to bring her closer. He doesn't have to look at her face to know what she is so desperately trying to do – because for him, her emotions are written all over her body. He knows – without catching a glimpse of her eyes watering, her bottom lip trembling, or her brows gathering – that she is withholding tears. He knows she is struggling not to let him see her cry…from the way she has her arms wrapped around herself and the way her shoulders are tight and hunched…to the way she is shifting her slight weight from one foot to the other and the way her chest is erratically rising and falling with incomplete breaths. He can tell she is angry because the normally pink-tinted birthmark at the nape of her neck has deepened in hue to a bright shade of crimson.

He doesn't have to look at her face to know any of this, yet he steps in front of her for the second time. He still wants to have his eyes on her…always her. He knows Lydia has a tendency to shy away from overt displays of emotion. For a while, she had stopped trying to disguise herself – but only with him. Now she is hiding again, and this causes Stiles significant pain, because they had finally reached the point where she could open up to him…and then he ruined everything. His stomach sinks at the thought of it. They were so close, but she is drifting with the tide and he knows it's his fault. The anger inside rebuilds as quickly as it had faded. No one can make him angrier than himself.

Lydia steels herself, recognizing that she is locked between Stiles and her mirrored dresser. The way he is studying her makes her feel vulnerable. She wishes she hadn't pulled her hair up into a topknot today. If she had left it down, she could have concealed herself behind a lengthy curtain of strands to avoid making eye contact with him. It's so difficult not to look at him though. He draws her in every time with those big brown eyes and inviting lips. She fights the attraction, visibly shaking thoughts of kissing him from her mind as she begins to plot her escape.

Stiles ducks his head down to meet her troubled gaze. "I thought I was giving you what you needed, what you wanted!" he says sternly and a bit more loudly than intended.

In this moment, every word, even the mere sound of his voice, causes Lydia's anger to surge to a dangerous level – a level at which she has trouble minding her words. "What would make you think that? When did I ever…" Pushing his hands off her shoulders, she narrows her eyes at him. "Well, you were wrong!"

Her voice has ascended to match his, and the discomfort of being cornered is turning her inside-out. She wiggles out of the space they are sharing and crosses the room, but Stiles follows directly behind, this time catching her elbow in his hand and pulling her towards him.

"Okay then, what do you want Lydia? Tell me what it is that you want…because obviously I have no clue!"

He is too close. His warmth and allure are challenging her willpower, and it loosens her tongue. She knows she is going to regret what she is about to say – it is too honest, too unguarded, reveals too much – but she simply cannot stifle the words when she is this overwhelmed with emotion.

"I wanted you to stay with me! I needed you! I lost Allison, and I needed you…not anyone else…but you weren't there for me…and I never thought I would hear myself say those words. With anyone else I would have expected it…but not you."

"But—"

"No, you don't get to talk right now! Do you have any idea what it was for me…to let myself rely on someone? To let myself need someone the way I need you? To let myself fall— I trusted you…I trusted you with everything. I gave you everything I was able to…but it wasn't enough…or maybe it was too much. I let you see me, and you just walked away…like I am nothing to you."

The words are wholly unfiltered, there is no buffer between her heart and her brain to soften the blow. Heat is rising in her chest and her stomach is doing somersaults in fear of what is to come, but she plants her feet and stands her ground.

Stiles opens his mouth to interrupt, but halts when she continues without taking a breath. He feels Lydia poke him in the chest with her index finger and he takes a few steps backwards, but his arms come up to grasp her shoulders again. Even when she is this angry, she is beautiful to him. He carefully clutches at her dainty bones, pressed with the desire to keep her from putting any more space between them. He has been dreaming of touching her for weeks and now that she is within his grasp, he doesn't want to let go.

Glancing down, Lydia means to push him away, but even in the midst of all the tension it feels so good to have his hands on her that she can't bring herself to break what little contact they have. She has been starved of his attention for weeks and now that she has it, she doesn't want Stiles to let go.

"And now you show up here…like you haven't been sidestepping me for weeks! I've had to exist without both of you. Allison didn't choose to leave me, but you did…and you don't get to just walk back into my life as easily as you walked out of it!"

Lydia finally stops to inhale, and it comes as an abbreviated gasp. Her cheeks are saturated with the tears that have been escaping since her outburst began. As she reaches to erase the evidence, Stiles moves his hands to her wrists, pulling them to his chest. She can feel his heart pounding against her forearms and becomes aware that hers is changing to match his pace.

It isn't supposed to be like this. She isn't supposed to be so inherently linked to another human being – except she is – and she wants it more than anything…with Stiles…only Stiles. She wants to preserve her connection to him so desperately that the thought of breaking it, burns more painfully than the unfulfilled desire she has for him.

He is somewhat relieved when Lydia relinquishes her efforts to refuse his touch, but the suggestion that his decision was so casually made – without any thought of her, sets Stiles back on his heels. He remembers the thrashing he took from Gerard last year, leaving his face battered and bruised. He knows it hurt less than this. He grits his teeth and sucks in a breath.

"Do you think for one second that it was easy for me to stay away from you? That I woke up the next day and forgot all about you…forgot everything you are to me?"

His face is etched with pain and his cheeks are beginning to tingle from the heat she stirs in him. He is completely wound up with emotion, but he loosens his grip on her wrists, out of fear that he is clutching her too tightly.

"It sure as hell felt that way to me! And I—"

"No, Lydia. You had your turn. It's mine now…and you couldn't be more wrong," he responds in a low growl. "Leaving you that night was the hardest thing I have ever done. I wanted to be with you for so long, and then I finally earned your trust enough to be that close to you…only to have to give it all up…to give you up…when everything inside me wanted to hang onto you…to hold you…even just one minute longer. Do you have any idea what…seeing you so devastated, seeing all the pain…pain that I was causing you…do you have any idea what that did to me? Well, let me tell you, it fucking wrecked me! It shredded my insides. I have never felt worse in my life. All I've ever wanted was to see you be happy – hell, to be the one making you happy…as undeserving as I am to have that ability. Instead, all I did was make myself into a constant reminder that she is gone. It's my fault Allison is gone. I know it. You know it. Everyone knows it. I have to live with it…all the things I did…I have to live with knowing how weak I was when I let that darkness in…let it control me."

His eyes are brimming with tears that do not fall, and the sight of his grief brings Lydia down from her anger-induced high. Her hands instinctively move to his face and she relaxes at the familiar contact. She notices his red cheeks and it almost makes her smile because she has missed seeing him like that. For a brief minute, he is her Stiles again. She can't help wanting to soothe him. It feels natural and right, even in the middle of their worst argument. Stiles is beautiful when he cries, but she can't stand to be the one making him cry. She loves him too much.

She draws his face nearer until she can feel his lashes tickling her forehead as he blinks. "You aren't weak," her voice softens, lips brushing against his jaw with every word. "Stiles, you're strong. Out of all of us – you are the strongest. Can't you see that? You fought your way back. You came back to me, and I wanted you to stay. I told you before…I never blamed you for anything that happened. I meant it."

Unfortunately, Lydia's attempt to comfort Stiles only furthers his distress. He doesn't think she should be trying to make him feel better. He doesn't deserve it. He should have been taking care of her. He owes it to her. It was his fault, after all. He can't let her be so gentle with him when he has caused her such intense suffering. He loves her too much.

"I blame myself, Lydia. I blame myself," he chokes out, guilt slicing through every syllable he utters.

"I understand…but listen to me. We can get past—"

"No. I'm not going to let you do that," he interrupts, pulling her hands away from his face.

"Do what?"

"Put your feelings aside to make things easier for me." He releases her wrists, still unsure if he is holding her too tightly. Quickly straightening up, he folds his arms across his chest and steps beyond her reach.

She tries to catch his collar, to keep him close, but comes up empty. "Stiles, that's not what I'm doing. Please don't push me away. I want to help you!"

"I don't deserve your help. It was my fault! Lydia, it was my fault."

"Stop it. Stop saying that!"

"It's the truth! If I had only closed that door in my mind, none of it…all of the terrible things…none of them would have happened. I couldn't stand knowing you were hurting because of me. I had to leave, so I wouldn't do it anymore." The more he faces the guilt, the more difficult it is to breathe. He may as well be struggling to hold his head above water in the school swimming pool, with the weight of Derek Hale dragging him down.

Lydia immediately withdraws. Stiles isn't making sense to her, and his unrelenting self-blame is starting to seem like a poor excuse to distance himself from her. It's certainly not enough to justify why he left without any explanation…or for the weeks of silence that followed.

"So, what you are really saying is that you did it for yourself! Because being around me made it too difficult for you. It didn't matter that you were the one person in the world who could hold me together...that having you with me was the best thing in my life. What you are saying is that you would rather abandon me than face the responsibility you feel for something that was never your fault in the first place? This all started when we awakened the Nemeton. We all took part in that ritual…all of us…Allison too. Do you blame her?"

"No. How could I?" he answers, shocked that she'd even suggest it.

"Do you blame Scott, or Deaton, or Isaac?"

"No."

"Do you blame me?"

"Of course not!" he says quickly, dropping his arms with a pained expression on his face. "I could never—"

"Would you go back and undo it – trade your dad's life, and Chris's, and Melissa's for Allison's?"

"Saving them didn't kill her!"

"That is exactly my point – you didn't either!"

Agitation building, Stiles repeatedly taps his thumb and index finger against his leg. "But Deaton warned us, he told us we had to close the doors in our minds…and I'm the only one who couldn't do it."

"You tried to…Stiles, I know you tried," Lydia responds, trying to reassure him. She reaches to link her fingers with his but feels slighted when he rejects the contact by shoving his hand into his pocket.

"But I failed you," he says flatly.

"Only when you left me."

"I did that because I saw I was hurting you!"

Lydia is wild with frustration. She takes a breath in the hopes of calming herself, but the intake of oxygen only rekindles the fire that has ignited in her chest. "The only time you have ever hurt me is when you left. You think I didn't see you struggling? I wanted to be there for you! We could have taken care of each other – that's what we do. But instead, you decided what I needed! You took the choice from me and you had no right to do it! That's what my father does to me, that's what Jacks— what he did to me! You were supposed to be different!"

This accusation stings more than anything Lydia has said so far. Even the pain of the Nogitsune clawing its way into his mind pales in comparison. Stiles despises being compared to Jackson – someone who treated her so badly; someone who never understood her heart, who never appreciated how intelligent, and good, and amazing she is; someone who hurt her as easily as he drew breath and who had no regrets for all the times he made her doubt herself; someone who lied to her, used her, and was never good enough for her.

He challenges Lydia with a few steps forward. "How the hell am I like him? He didn't give a shit about you! He made decisions for you because he had no idea how smart you really are, and because he didn't care what you wanted or what was important to you. I was trying to protect you! I thought I was doing what was best for you. I thought—"

"What? Did you think I would be grateful? Don't you see, it only makes it worse? It's worse, Stiles because I never trusted him the way I trust you!" She lets out an aggravated sigh and takes control of her tone once more. "You say you were trying to protect me. But from what? Tell me…because I have no idea how being away from you could possibly protect me."

"Because I'm a constant reminder…of what happened…to Allison."

"You keep saying that, but that's not the whole story. It can't be. I know you. I know when you're keeping something from me. If you're not going to tell me, then I'm not going to guess. Do you think you're the only one with guilt? Allison…would have never been there if it hadn't been for me, and I have to live with that for the rest of my life. She died, and my heart broke. I lost the two most important people in my life – my best friends, people I lo— and I lost both of you in the same day. For a week, I let you fool me into thinking you were still with me, but you were only…waiting for a chance to make your exit. I was in such a fog, I didn't realize it until the day of the funeral. I felt it then. You were different in the Jeep…and right here in this room too, but I told myself that I was being paranoid…that I had to be wrong – because you said…" she pauses in an attempt to swallow the hurt. "You let me think I was safe, and then you blindsided me. You just disappeared without saying a word…without even leaving me a note. I went to sleep and when I woke up, I was in an even bigger nightmare – I was all alone. You left me to grieve for Allison all by myself, and you made me grieve for you too."

She is not even trying to hide the tears anymore. Suddenly, she doesn't care about anything accept letting him know how much he hurt her.

Stiles runs his hand through his hair and scratches at the base of his neck trying to relieve some tension. "Lydia, I'm sorry. I wasn't waiting to sneak off, I wanted to be there for you – more than anything. I tried…but I saw I was making things worse. I didn't feel like I had a choice. I thought it was what you wanted, and I couldn't say good-bye. Not to you. Not when—"

"I'm not finished. You said…you promised you would help me, but you broke that promise as soon as you made it…and you broke my heart too. I handed it to you, damaged as it is, thinking it was valuable to you if not to anyone else, and you dropped at it my feet, Stiles…and you broke it…you broke my heart. A month ago, I would have never believed that you of all people would do that to me. You've always been so—"

"How Lydia? How could I break your heart? It's not like…"

He is repeatedly blinking, the way he does when he is figuring something out. His mind goes blank for a few seconds, then his eyes bulge with comprehension. Lydia does love him…he wasn't imagining it…and she thinks he rejected her. His mind is racing. The world has turned upside-down. Again, he steps closer, but she counters it with two steps back. He doesn't want to push her further away, so he stops in his tracks.

"I don't know Stiles…maybe by acting like I'm invisible, by heading straight to someone else, by leaving me and going back to the rest of your life…like I was never in it at all. You used to look at me. God! No one ever looked at me the way you did…and now…now you don't look at me at all! Do you know how much that hurts?"

"I think I have a pretty good idea, seeing as how I was invisible to you – for years!" he snaps, before closing his eyes and biting down on his tongue. He never meant to say those words, but he is still focused on the fact that she indirectly said she loves him, and he isn't thinking with a clear mind.

Lydia's jaw drops open, but she quickly reshapes her mouth into a firm line, eyebrows gathering at the middle as she folds her arms across her chest before her insides spill onto the floor. "So – what, were you trying to punish me? And you chose now! After all this time, you thought, Hey, she's not suffering enough…let me see if I can finish her off. Well good on you, Stiles! I fully comprehend how awful it feels. Thank you for opening my eyes," she spews, sarcasm rolling off her tongue.

"No, I wasn't trying to punish you! You really think I could do that to you? That I could be that cruel?"

"You mean like I was to you?" she shouts with narrowed eyes.

"Don't put words in my mouth!"

"I don't need to! You got your point across just fine! Did you think I was deliberately trying to hurt you?"

"No, of course not!" he responds immediately, cautiously taking a few more steps towards her.

"Well obviously, you haven't forgiven me. No matter what I say or do, it will never be enough! I can't change the past. I can only tell you that I'm sorry, that I was a fool, that I regret it every single day of my life – but I'm not the same girl that I was then. Allison and Scott, they changed me. YOU changed me!"

"Lydia, stop! All I was trying to say was that I understand how much it hurts, and I would never intentionally hurt you."

"Finish the sentence Stiles...like I hurt you…go ahead…say it!"

He rolls his eyes and throws up his hands. "For the love of god, Lydia! We are talking in circles! How could I have known that I could hurt you so much when I didn't even know how you felt?" He runs his palms roughly over his face. "If I had any idea that you felt the same way about me…that you needed me like that, I would have never…I would have dropped everything."

"You had no idea? Really? That is a bold-faced lie Stilinski! Tell me, what the hell have we been doing for the past year? Did I imagine it all? Have we not been there for each other…through everything? How could you not see it? How could you think I didn't need you – during the worst time in my life?"

"You never said anything. I left, and you never even tried to contact me. I figured I had done what you wanted – that you were better off!"

"That is not true! I called you…more than once!"

"And when was that exactly? 'Cause I sat by my phone like an idiot – just waiting."

"I called you that same night – when I woke up…terrified from flashbacks…terrified and alone. I knew you had to have left for a reason…I thought maybe Scott needed you…or your dad. I hoped that you would come back…or at least tell me what happened. I called you but…"

"But what?"

She can't say it. If she has to talk to him about Malia right now, she is going to explode. "Nothing."

"What about after that? You could have talked to me – told me you wanted me with you! Damn it, Lydia, I'm not a frigging psychic!"

"I never said I didn't want you either, but you made that leap! What happened to having an unspoken connection? I thought you understood – the way you always do. I thought you figured it out – the way you figure everything out – by paying attention, by listening to me, by remembering. I kissed you…remember? I kissed you! I know you never really believed that it was only about your panic attack. It was so much more than that."

Stiles hears everything Lydia is saying – she wanted to kiss him that day in the locker room, it wasn't just to help calm him from his panic attack, and it wasn't pity either. Lydia wanted to kiss him – that admission alone is enough to send his mind reeling, but the words unspoken connection are resounding in his head. She is using his own words against him – words she claimed not to have heard at the time. The confession both stings and soothes; he is left flabbergasted.

Lydia can see the comprehension in Stiles's face, but she can't tell if he feels for her the way he used to, and she wants to test the waters. She walks towards him and softens her voice considerably. "Don't you remember?" Her hands reach for his tee shirt, binding the gently worn fabric in her fists as she leans into him. "I kissed you Stiles…I kissed you because…we were so close, and you were always so sweet to me, and the feelings were there. Didn't it mean anything to you? Couldn't you feel it? I did. It was there…between us…it was so bright, and it was so real. I've never felt anything else like it…I thought you felt it too."

She leans nearer and nearer as she speaks, giving in to the powerful force that calls her to him. She doesn't feel completely in control of her actions, there is a mix of fear and wanting in her that makes her shaky with uncertainty. Lydia isn't sure of how Stiles will react, so she looks at him through her lashes, gnawing at her bottom lip to keep it from quivering. Stretching up to the tip of her toes, she nuzzles his jaw with her nose. Slowly, she lets her hands wander down his chest and abdomen, relishing in the way his muscles tighten in response to her fingertips. When she reaches his waist, she stops. She hooks her fingers into the belt-loops of his grey jeans, partly to keep from losing her balance, but mostly to bring him closer.

Stiles feels his breath catch in his throat. The sound of Lydia's voice is spellbinding and seductive. He can smell her shampoo and see the pulse in her neck. The tiny curls that have come loose from her topknot are framing her face in shimmering rose-toned highlights. He can feel the smooth silver bead that he strung on her necklace tapping against his collarbone. His heartbeat changes pace from a rapid and angry, but steady rhythm…to a more forceful and decidedly erratic one. He wants her so badly, it hurts. He feels the familiar tugging at his heart. It's impossible to stand there and not reciprocate some sort of physical contact with her. His hands move to her waist, squeezing the knit of her black sweater in his fingers. He tilts his face towards hers until her lips are at the corner of his mouth.

Her volume level has reduced to a whisper. "When I kissed you, I thought it would change things…and it did, but not the way I hoped."

She is so close, he can practically taste her. Stiles reflexively juts out his tongue to where her breath is breezing along his bottom lip. He knows what Lydia is doing, and he is annoyed at himself for making her think it's necessary. He doesn't need help remembering – he never forgot. She inhabits every cell of his body – every single day. An image of her face is burned into his eyelids. He sees her before he even opens his eyes in the morning, and she is the last thing he pictures whenever he closes them. Thoughts of her are the first to enter his mind when he wakes, they continue to assault him throughout the day, and he dreams about her at night…when and if he sleeps, that is. He hears her voice when he slams his locker shut, missing the days when she was standing on the other side of it. She speaks to him through the click of her heels in the hall and the echoing sound of her cries that have been ringing in his ears for over a month. She sings to him over the sound of familiar melodies on the radio; lyric and verse carried by her sweet voice as they rode to and from school. The dial is still set to her favorite station, and even though she hasn't been inside the Jeep in 32 days, 22 hours, and 13 minutes, he can't stand the thought of changing it. Her perfume lingers on the shirt he wore to Allison's funeral – the one that she clung to at the grave site, that she shed tears on for hours after, that he still can't bring himself to wash. He remembers their kiss – desperate and surprising, then passionate on the locker room floor. If he concentrates intently enough, he can feel her cool hands on his face and her perfect pink lips moving with his as she brought him back from the brink. He has ached for her since before he left and even though they are standing in the same space, he aches for her still. The grip she has on his heart is unfathomably strong and whether she intends to or not, she is clutching so tightly he thinks she will crush it.

Lydia wants to make him remember what it felt like. She remembers. She couldn't forget if she tried. Stiles dwells within every fiber of her consciousness. His eyes are in the endless sky, pierced with golden sun. His smile warms her heart from the inside; his every breath chases away the clouds. The sprinkling of moles on his cheeks and neck are written in the constellations of stars she gazes at during her many sleepless nights. His laughter is transmitted through the engine of the Jeep and the noise of his locker opening at the end of a long school day. He speaks to her through the sound of her window sliding open. It makes her heart leap with memories of all the times…day or night…when he climbed through that window just to tell her something – even when it would have been easier to call or text. He is as solid in her hand as the battered baseball that has taken up residence in her room for the better part of a year, so that when they study together he has something to help him focus his attention. It's still on her desk – where he left it, and even though, until today he hadn't been in her room for 32 days, 15 hours, and 28 minutes, Lydia knows she doesn't want to give it back…because having something of his in her room makes it feel a bit like she has a real home. She remembers their kiss in the locker room – intensely consuming and astonishingly soft all at once. If she focuses carefully, she can feel the heat from his flushed cheeks beneath her hands and the intoxicatingly gentle pressure of his lips on hers as he relaxed against her mouth in the midst of a crushing panic attack. She can tell that she is affecting him as much as he does her. It offers some degree of validation, but it's not enough. She wants him to feel what she has felt for weeks. She wants him to feel the high and the low of being so near and then being without.

After an extended pause, she continues, "I kissed you, and a few weeks later I lost you…and all I could think was…maybe you realized I was never what you really wanted…maybe you realized you wanted someone else…maybe you were sorry that you promised to always come back to me."

Lydia releases him and steps away. She wonders if Stiles aches for her touch the same way she aches for him. When he finally makes eye contact with her, she greets him with an icy stare. She feels wicked for her manipulative act, but pain is reshaping Lydia into a former version of herself – the girl she was before Allison smiled at her and opened her heart, before Scott took her hand and made her part of a pack…part of his family, before Stiles burned down her defenses with the light from his eyes, carefully wove himself into every fiber of her heart, and dared her to fall in love with him. Now, the girl who pretends to be in control to hide how scared she is, the one who is suspicious of kindness and searches for ulterior motives, the one who feels abandoned and unworthy of love is scratching beneath the surface…waiting for the opportunity to take control. Lydia can feel it happening, and she thinks maybe she should let it.

"You could have told me how you felt. I've always listened to you. All you had to do was tell me what you wanted," he comments, looking at the floor and trying to detach his mind from the lingering feeling of Lydia pressed up against his body.

"I tried…the night you left and so many times before that. I tried, and I thought you understood…like you always have. You notice everything. How could you neglect to notice that I had fallen in…"

Stiles paces with frustration, shaking his head in disbelief, "You still can't even say it. Can you?"

She purses her lips and looks at him but says nothing.

His tenor elevates once more. "I realize I'm not what your used to," he motions up and down along his torso with his hands, "but is the idea of us being together so incredibly unappealing to you? Is it because I'm not good enough for you?"

And just like that…Lydia's anger rears up with reckless abandon. She thinks if they had been standing closer, she may have slapped Stiles across the face. It is a fleeting thought, but it horrifies her nonetheless. It slashes through her stomach like a sword…like the one that killed Allison. It impresses a forceful upsurge of guilt upon her that blurs her eyes and makes it impossible to see. She could never do that to him, she knows it, but she is beside herself with agony. This is what he really thinks of me. She holds her stomach, as an invisible wound threatens to split her in two. The gravity of what he has implied drags her tears downward. Large droplets cascade over her lashes, falling like raindrops onto the carpet.

"Are you fucking kidding me right now? Do you really believe that's how I think of you? Is that how I treat you? All of the touching, the hand-holding, the hugging, that stupid smile I couldn't wipe from my face whenever you left me another note, the way we were on my birthday…the way we were at hom— in your house...in your bedroom…none of that was a clue! Is it so impossible to believe that I am attracted to you? Well, I am. You are beautiful to me. I can list all the reasons why, if it will convince you of how much I want you. I want you so badly that it hurts. It hurts, Stiles. How can you have the nerve to say that to me…after everything?"

The already broken pieces of his heart are shattering. Lydia started to say the words at home, and she stopped. His home had become home to her, but he took that from her too. He took that away from her and from himself as well because it's empty and strange now, without her.

Stiles is staring at her, but he says nothing, which only feeds her anger. She feels crazy and hysterical, and her insides are violently shaking from the searing pain that his accusation inflicts. Lydia feels her body rush with adrenaline and then, in the blink of an eye, she is spent. She is quickly going numb, and the change is reflected in her tone as it lowers an octave.

"Has the time we've spent together meant anything to you? It meant everything to me – the past year…the past few months especially. Then for a week, I let myself get lost in you – you, Stiles – no one else. The more you were with me, the more I wanted you to stay. You were…you were literally keeping me upright when I felt like I would crumble. I got to know what it's like to fall asleep feeling safe in your arms and to wake up next to you every morning the same way. I never knew it could be like that – so pure. I've never felt more connected to anyone. You were perfect – you were so gentle and understanding, and instead of pushing…you listened, and you opened me up in ways I didn't think were possible. It was like…you cracked me open with your kindness…and I let you, even though it scared me, because it felt more right than anything should be allowed to feel at a time like that. You were healing me – every second we were together. You made me feel alive…even though I was dying on the inside. It was the worst…the worst…and the best week of my life…and I loved you more in seven days than I have loved anyone in my entire life. I got lost in your eyes more times than I could count…wanted to kiss you so many times. How could you not see that? All this time, I thought I've been showing you how I feel about you…but there must be something horribly wrong with me if I was making it that unclear. I thought we mattered to each other on a whole other level. At the very least…I thought we were friends. I guess I was wrong about a lot of things. It's good to know what you really think of me – that I'm just a cold-hearted bitch…who's been doing nothing but using you to make myself feel better."

She can't believe he thinks so little of her. No wonder he doesn't love her. Her hand reflexively grasps her side; each partial intake of breath causing a sharp ache underneath her left rib. Though she hasn't felt any sensation there in over a year, it suddenly hurts worse than when Peter attacked her. At least then, the pain made her pass out. Now, she is fully conscious.

Lydia loves him. She said she loves him. Stiles stands awestruck by the depth of her affection. She loves him the same way that he loves her. She wanted to be with him and he hurt her because he couldn't see it – no – because he wouldn't let himself believe it. Stiles can think of nothing else. He may as well be paralyzed with Kanima venom, because he can't even move.

He continues to stare at her, wide-eyed with a closed fist over his mouth, watching in dismay as she changes right before his eyes. Her expression is blank, and the rosy color has drained from her face. Her eyes, that are always so bright, become shadowed instead. They are fixed on a splotch of blue ink on the carpet. He remembers inadvertently making that mark a few months ago, when he was trying to scribble a note to her – the one that read: We are pretty good together. Aren't we? He thinks he should have known she loved him then – he should have known by the way she wasn't even remotely annoyed about the stain on her otherwise pristine carpet, by the way she kept looking over and smiling at him for the rest of the night, and by the way she fell asleep sitting next to him, on the floor by her bed, with her head on his shoulder. If those moments weren't enough of an indication…maybe the way she held his hand…just a bit longer…and just a bit more frequently at school the next day should have been a clue.

The silence is deafening. Even the world outside has paused – no distant conversations, nor the sound of cars passing by, no breeze rustling the empty branches of the maple tree, no dogs barking or birds chirping. It's as though they have stunned the entire universe.

Stiles can't believe how far their shouting match has gone. He can't believe what Lydia has admitted to him, and he can't believe the hurtful accusations he has hurled at her. He swore he was never going to be that guy…the one who makes Lydia doubt and think the worst of herself…but anger and uncertainty can make you say awful, bitter things…and maybe Lydia was right…maybe he is like Jackson after all. He didn't even realize how much influence those old wounds still had over him…until the words scuttered across his lips. He wishes he could take them back…but wishing for things doesn't make them happen. If that were true, he and Lydia would have been together already. The culpability that is pressing down on him is suffocating. Apologizing right now will be futile. She is too hurt – he hurt her too much – and she is going to shut down on him.

He tries anyway. He steps hastily towards her with his arms outstretched. "Lydia, I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"

"Yeah…you did," she murmurs, retreating to the opposite side of the room.

It's the worst pain she has ever experienced. Stiles thinks she is incapable of loving him – that she can't see how incredible he is, how brave and strong, how selfless and good, how witty and intelligent. He doesn't know that she could look at him for hours, just admiring how handsome he is. She is lost in the darkness of the tunnels, and Stiles is on the ground beneath her. He is cold and listless; light going out of his beautiful eyes as they roll backwards while his eyelids droop shut. The boy she loves is dying, and she feels like she is dying too. She is dying, and the last thing she will remember is the agonizing feeling of Stiles slipping away from her.

"No. Listen…that's not true. You know I don't think that about you. I told you I saw the real you…and I meant it. You have to believe me. Say you believe me. Lydia…please."

It's the worst pain he has ever experienced. Lydia thinks he doesn't know her, doesn't see how incredible she is – not just her outer beauty, but the kind that's inside – how generous and caring, how pure-hearted and thoughtful, how resilient and strong. He is lost in the darkness of the tunnels, slumped on the damp ground, sensation of pins and needles all over. The wall against his back is cold and unforgiving but Lydia is warm and soft against his chest, her tears puddling at the base of his throat. He is dying. He is dying in the arms of the girl that he loves, and the last thing he will remember is the sound of her crying.

Lydia can't face Stiles. She turns away, moves towards the window, and stares at a sky that is blazing with the radiance of the setting sun. It is a breathtaking sight – and it looks unnatural because she has never felt worse. She beholds a ring of orange and pink clouds that suspend from a turquoise backdrop and glow gold from within. Gold – like the light in his eyes. The similarity makes her flinch, so she looks down at the ground below her window instead. There should be tulips growing there – the ones that she and Allison planted last autumn. Instead, the view is barren and bland from a winter that still refuses to give way to spring, even though it is nearing the end of April. The soil is dark and wet with no sign of life breaking through. It's easier to look at this. It makes sense to her. Allison is in the ground. Why shouldn't the tulips be? After all of the shouting, the room is now remarkably noiseless. There is a strange silence outside as well…perhaps the intensity of their argument created a vacuum effect.

The first sound she hears after minutes of dead silence tells her that Stiles is approaching. She can't see his face, but she knows he is crying too. She can tell by the uneasy breath he sucks in and the number of times that he sniffles…one, two…three…always three times.

"I don't know what to say," he admits.

"I think you made yourself perfectly clear."

"Come on Lydia, we're upset…we both said things—"

"When did you stop?" she interrupts him.

Her voice has taken on a cold and hollow quality. She doesn't sound like herself, and she won't look at him.

"Stop what?"

"I thought you loved me. I was so sure. When did you stop?"

Lydia is barely whispering now. It sickens her that all of her weaknesses are laid raw and ugly before him, but she is tired…so tired of withholding. She thinks she knows the answer to her own question, but she is still afraid to hear it. It was in Eichen House…Stiles stopped leaving her notes after Eichen House.

Loving Lydia is as much a part of Stiles as his need to breathe. It sickens him that she thinks he stopped. Never – never in one million years could he do that, nor would he want to. As much as it pained him, he tried once, last year. He thought it would make it easier for both of them; they could be friends without having his unrequited feelings hanging over them. It was a weak attempt at best. He would have more willingly given up a limb than his love for her.

"What?" He comes up behind her tugging at her shoulder, but she still doesn't face him. "Do you think it's even possible for me to stop? It's not…I know…because I've tried. I've tried, but I can't."

His voice splits over the words and so does her tattered heart.

"Well…why don't you try again? Maybe this time it will work…and you can be rid of me once and for all. I'm sorry I'm such an inconvenience…such a bad habit for you."

"Don't say that. It's not what I meant. I don't want to be without you. Not ever."

He steps to her side, attempting to massage her shoulder, but she shrinks away and continues to stare out the window. The crimson mark on her neck has faded to its base tone of blush pink. She pouts the way she does when she is trying to understand something. Stiles has seen her do this so many times before, but now it injures him to witness it. After a long pause, she speaks, and it seems like she is talking more to herself than to him.

"I knew it would happen. I was looking for it…I always am. In the past, I've been able to see it coming. I don't know how…but I missed it…I thought I had more time."

"What to you mean? Looking for what?"

"For a sign…a warning…that you were going to leave." She finally turns to look at him, still lacking any sign of expression; dazed from so much hurt. "What did I do? I thought I was being better for you…but obviously I deluded myself. No one…not even you, can see me any differently. No one is ever going to think of me as anything other than the way that I was. There has to be something else though…something I did…or didn't do. It can't all be because I didn't tell you? I wanted to…I tried…but I just couldn't. I felt it…but I couldn't say it. Not to you."

Stiles angles himself between Lydia and the window, where the indirect light gradually illuminates his eyes – gold begets gold. It hurts her to look into his piercing eyes, but she is transfixed. She still loves him, even if he doesn't love her back. He is still everything to her, even if she is nothing to him. He moves his hands to her face, but she is so completely numb with heartache that she can't feel the contact. He is looking down at her with such remorse and it makes her feel pitiful.

"Lydia, why couldn't you tell me how you felt?"

She closes her eyes; they burn. "Because I wanted you…I wanted you to stay with me."

"Okay, that literally makes no sense." He slides his hands to her upper arms and gives her a gentle shake in an unsuccessful effort to lighten the mood.

When Lydia slowly opens her eyes, she has the same expression that she had the day of the funeral – one of hollow resignation. She is drifting away from him. The further she gets, the more fierce the tugging at his heart becomes.

"Doesn't it though?" she asks. "I couldn't tell you because…because those words are like poison for me. My entire life – I love you has always been synonymous with good-bye. I said it to my grandmother and she never came home. I said it to my father – I pleaded with him not to leave me. I clung to his coat and cried in the doorway…all the while saying those words…and he left me anyway. I said it to Allison and she died…she is gone because she wanted to save me, because she loved me…and now…I'm still here…without her, but with the burden of knowing I didn't prevent it from happening. I didn't protect my friend. I failed her. So, I tried to learn my lesson, I didn't say it to you…not because I didn't feel it, not because I think you aren't good enough for me…if anything, you are too good for me. I was just trying to break the cycle. I couldn't bear the thought of losing you too…but you left me anyway. What was I supposed to do? What would have been the right thing to say or do…to get you to stay? No matter what, everyone leaves."

"Lydia, I'm here."

His face is stricken with the awareness of the damage he caused. Lydia was trying to express her love, without words. When she asked him to help her…she meant she needed him to understand what she couldn't say. How could I have gotten it so wrong? How could I have refused to see the one thing I've been waiting for since I was eight years old? Presently, Stiles can recall dozens of times over the course of the last few months where her love should have been obvious to him. At the time, he convinced himself that every prolonged touch, every shy smile, every lingering glance was a mark of friendship, rather than a sign of her affection. Reading into those interactions in any other way seemed like wishful thinking. Now, Stiles sees the truth in each of them and he feels like a complete fool.

He moves one hand to Lydia's waist, trying to pull her into a hug – unsure if he means to comfort her, or himself, or both of them. "I'm right here and we can fix this. I came here to—" He feels her body tense and struggle against him.

Her arms are locked between them. She contemplates how it is possible for something to feel so awful yet so comforting at the same time. She is desperately fighting the embrace, but at the same time, she wants nothing more than to accept it. She feels frail and helpless, and the upset gives one last burst of strength to her voice.

She shakes her head. "But you weren't…you left, and I still needed you," Lydia interrupts. "So fine. You want to hear the words? I love you. I love you Stiles…so much that I can't even breathe without you. Are you happy now? I said it! Now you're free…you can leave."

For all of the times she dreamed of saying those words to Stiles, this was never the way she imagined it. It wasn't supposed to happen this way. It was supposed to feel like everything was falling into place, not coming apart.

For all of the times he dreamed of hearing Lydia say those words, this was never the way he imagined it. It wasn't supposed to happen this way. It was supposed to feel like everything was right with the world, not like the end of it.

"Lydia don't do this, please. Don't shut me out now. Tell me how to fix this. We can make it right again. Just give me a chance…to explain."

"Let go."

"No. I can't let go of you."

"You already did," she sobs.

"That's not true. You know it isn't."

Stiles strengthens his hold on her. Despite everything – an emotionally draining shouting match, the hurt feelings, the regrets – he still wants to kiss her. He knows it's not a solution, but maybe she will be able to feel how much he loves her. Maybe it can be the start of something. He has no clue where to begin…how to mend what is broken between them, but he trusts her to stop him if this is the wrong thing to do.

His arms are strong around her, his warmth now burning her skin, and though Lydia can't get out of his embrace, she knows Stiles will stop if she tells him to. She feels him cautiously leaning closer with each passing second. His lips are so close that she can almost taste him. She thinks he is going to kiss her. A big part of her wants to give in, to let him do it, to melt into him and try to forget everything that came before. An equally persuasive part of her wants to deepen it, push him over to the bed, and completely lose herself in him…but she can't do that now. He is too important to her, and it will ruin everything. It will ruin them because after the ecstasy of being together, all of the pain will be waiting for them, and when it all comes flooding back, their wounds will hurt worse than they do now. She will feel ashamed of herself, and he will feel used. She will push him off of her, and there will be more harsh words, and they will both have regrets – and she will turn away, and he will turn to leave. It will twist their connection into something ugly and wrong…and broken beyond repair.

"Stiles don't…not now…not after…"

He stops millimeters away from her lips. "Lydia, I—"

She is so bound by love for him that his eyes practically hypnotize her. She knows he can easily convince her to let him kiss her, so she can't let him speak.

"Don't you understand? It can't be like this. It hurts to have you touch me right now. It hurts to have you even look at me."

"But we can't leave it this way. We have to—"

Somehow, Lydia finds the inner strength to pry herself from his arms, dashing all of his warmth in one fell movement. It feels terrible. She wants to crawl back inside, but one more burst of anger at the entire situation keeps her from doing so. On instinct, she lashes out one more time.

"No. Just go…just get out of here. Get out!" She is straining to shout. The words come out in sobs instead.

Stiles moves away from her, rubbing his forehead with a shaking hand as his lips tremble against his teeth. Lydia covers her mouth with her fist and lets out a cry so guttural and so afflicted with pain that it slashes directly through his soul.

He turns to leave. He is always leaving. He wants to stay, but he can't stand being the one who is making her cry. As he crosses the room, he spots his sweatshirt on the floor near her bed and he is not sure why, but he doesn't take it with him.

She turns away. She is always turning away. She told him to get out, but she can't watch him leave. She knows that when he goes, he is taking what is left of her heart right along with him.

Stiles opens the door and hesitates in the threshold. There is no trace of anger, only sadness in his voice when he says one last thing to her. "Why do we keep hurting each other, when we love each other so much?"

Just as Lydia hears the door close behind him, she spots his baseball from the corner of her eye. She hastily reaches for it and throws it across the room where it bounces and lands next to his faded red sweatshirt. Then, she drops onto the window seat and cries uncontrollably, with her head resting on her knees and the burden of all the loss she has been carrying pressing down on her shoulders.


Stiles is restless from the minute he walks out the door. He sits in his Jeep with the window rolled down. He can hear Lydia sobbing. The sound she makes is visceral and acutely heartbreaking. For twenty minutes, he debates whether or not to go back inside to talk to her. He gets out of the truck and climbs in again. He is waiting for her to stop crying, all the while tapping his thumb on the steering wheel and fidgeting in the seat.

He can't erase the knowledge that he did this to her. She loves him; she has for a while…and he hurt her because he was too insecure and guilt-ridden to believe it. It's killing him to stay away…not to go to her, with what is left of his heart in his hands and beg her forgiveness, but that would be selfish. It would be to ease his suffering, not hers. She needs space from him right now. If he goes back, he will only make things worse. If he has any chance of getting through to her, it will not be now. He chastises himself for claiming to know her so well, while being oblivious to the simple message she was trying to communicate through actions that were more meaningful than words.

He puts the key in the ignition, starts the Jeep, and slowly pulls away from the curb with tears still clinging to his eyes and a gaping chasm in his chest. It is then that he realizes, his heart is already gone – it is with Lydia. He gave it to her nine years ago in a darkened theater, and it has been with her ever since.

After she hears the Jeep pull away, Lydia slams the window shut. She is not sure why, but she doesn't lock it. For the next few minutes, she vacantly watches the changing patterns of light on her walls as the sun continues to set. From the corner of her eye, she notices that Prada has finally crawled out from her shelter under the bed to curl up on the sweatshirt Stiles left behind. The sight sharpens the pain in Lydia's chest.


Stiles is standing on the porch of the McCall home. He doesn't remember deciding to go there or the drive over. With shaking hands, he fumbles for a key, lets himself into the house, and quietly closes the door behind him. He ascends the stairs and steps into Scott's bedroom.

His best friend immediately moves to stand at his side. "Oh no…" he says with dismay. "Stiles, what happened?" he asks, voice laced with nothing but concern and sympathy.

"Lydia loves me. Scott, she loves me like I love her, and I fucked everything up," he answers, kneading his knuckles against the vacant space in his chest and staring blankly ahead.

As soon as the words leave his mouth, Stiles collapses into Scott's arms. He lies on the floor with his head against his friend's lap; lost and filled with despair…unable to cry.

Scott doesn't say a word – just holds Stiles tightly, rubs his back and shoulders, listens to everything he has to say – the same as he did the night Claudia Stilinski died.

Stiles tells Scott everything – explains every awful thing, every mistake and misunderstanding, every way he hurt Lydia.

When he quiets, Scott speaks up, tells him no one is to blame, tells him everything will be alright, tells him Allison's last words – that she still loved him, always would. He reminds him that love like that – true love – the kind that he had with Allison, the kind that Stiles has with Lydia – love that strong can survive anything.

The boys sit in silence for a while. Scott thinks of Allison, and Stiles thinks of Lydia, hating himself for having a best friend to comfort him when she is left heartbroken and alone again…because of him.


A while later, Lydia timidly walks over to where she aimed the baseball. She picks up the relic, along with Prada and the sweatshirt, squeezing them all tightly to her chest. She sets Prada on her bed and walks over to her desk, placing the baseball exactly where it had been before she disturbed it. She carefully unclasps her necklace and deposits it on her nightstand. Once she lets down her hair from her topknot, she removes her black sweater, bra, and leggings, and trades them for a blue lace camisole and grey full-length pajama pants. She has the chills, so she wraps herself up in the sweatshirt and shoves her hands into the pockets. Her right hand is greeted by a small piece of paper and her heart stops. She frees the token from its hiding place – the face of it marked: For Lydia. She holds it for a moment, then slowly unfolds it and reads the letters printed in a familiar hand.

I miss you.

I love you.

I can't live without you anymore.

It is dated April 25 – yesterday. She lets out a gasp, holding the note to her chest; precious fragment pressed against the void beneath her ribs. Her tears resume at the beautiful simplicity of his words and the emotion behind them. She wishes she had read them a few hours ago. It might have changed everything. Stiles is gone again…gone this time because she told him to leave, and Lydia fears he may never come back.