I don't even know where the keys to my apartment are, I realized when I was deciding which El line to take, leaving me with two options:

1. Go back to the ER, or

2. Go to Kerry's.

I don't want to face Kerry at all, but by choosing the latter of the two I picked the lesser of two evils: I didn't have to deal with her right away; I was giving myself time to prepare.

Eight hours later, as I walk down the staircase from showering to see her sitting on the couch with a glass of wine hanging nonchalantly from her hand, I feel as if hours of preparation wouldn't be enough for me to clearly elaborate on what exactly it is that I'm afraid of.

I guess part of the problem is the fact that I don't even know what it is that I'm afraid of.

I clear my throat slightly and awkwardly amble towards her. "You're home early…" I state.

Obviously, Abby.

"Came home as soon as I could." She replies sharply, sipping her wine and not turning around.

My limbs feel heavy with guilt and fear and I have a hard time pushing myself to cover the remaining few feet between us.

"I'm sorry I left…"

She nods her head once, sips her wine, and responds in a few short words, "Why'd you leave?" she asks, before adding, "Why'd you leave me?"

That hits hard.

Damn hard.

God, damn, hard.

She turns when she says it, and I see faint tracks of tears running down her cheeks.

My eyes start to burn as I respond, "I…I'm…I…" I'm afraid to respond, afraid to tell her that I'm scared and worried. Afraid to tell her that I'm weak.

It seems like all she can do is stare at me and I know I have to answer.

Have to be strong and admit that I'm weak.

Deep breath...1, 2, 3, 4, 5…Exhale.

"I was…" my voice is shaky as tears start to blur my vision and I bring my hands up to wipe them away. "I was afraid…"

I crack, tears flowing freely.

She cracks, too, and stretches her arm toward me, pulling me to her.

I drop onto my knees in front of the couch and she wraps her arms around me, allowing me to put my head to her chest.

I know what she's thinking, what's upsetting her so drastically: she's reliving what she went through with Kim, except now- well, now the tables are turned: rather than turning her back in fear, she's having a back turned on her.

And the guilt that comes from the fact that my back is the one that's turned is what's breaking me.

Our bodies are both shaking as tears rack though them, but we hold onto each other, the emotion and the fear coursing through our bodies.

"I'm sorry…I'm sorry, Kerry…I was so scared…I'm sorry…" I repeat the same few phrases over and over in through my sobs until they're coming out with a handful of deep, shaky breaths in between.

Releasing my head, she brushes my hair back from my face and pulls on my chin so I have no choice but to look her in the eye.

Her eyes are a bright blue and the whites surrounding them are glowing red.

"I'm sorry…" I repeat quietly, my voice raspy from crying.

She gives me a small, but genuine smile and shakes her head. "It's okay…" she begins, "I was just…I was scared and you weren't there…I was alone, but I don't think having you there would have changed anything…" she admits.

I lean back on my haunches. "What happened?"

She shrugs and wipes her eyes with the heel of her hand. "Susan said she'd known and at that very moment, John walked in and asked what Susan knew. And Susan, apparently having some aversion to lying, started stuttering and looking at me…" she rambles but I manage to keep up, "and then I pulled her out of her misery and told him."

"You told him?" I ask, my eyes wide with shock.

"I told him." She sighs in exasperation, "And then I told them that they can tell whoever else they want, and then I walked out."

My jaw has dropped and I stare at her in awe.

"And…did they?" I ask.

She shrugs. "I'm assuming so: the atmosphere was like Sandy outed me all over again and, when I left, I could have sworn Luka winked at me."

I find myself smiling slightly at the latter part of her statement.

"So I guess that's it…" I say.

She nods. "We've gone public."

And going public is what we did. The following day at work, we walked in together, hand-in-hand until we got to the ambulance bay; there was a rig at the backdoor and Gallant was looking like he needed a hand.

I got no "you're going to hell" comments, though Frank seemed no cheerier than normal, and Kerry received no snide remarks from Romano about anything besides the ER being a cesspool.

It was scary, for a few weeks…but scary in a positive way. It was new, and it was exciting, and then it became natural. We didn't flaunt our relationship; we didn't make a big deal; Kerry and I were one, and those who knew it, knew it, and those who didn't, didn't.

It was easier that way.

At least until the thin line that separated work and play was erased; the barrier we had created, crumbled.

It was five or six months into our relationship…I was now permanently living with Kerry, and we were subsequently spending close to twenty-four hours a day together at least once a week.

It became hell.

Not only did I learn that there were some days she had to down an excess amount of ibuprofen to get through the day, but I also learned that she couldn't start the day without showering while blasting her music. Not only did I learn that she rarely watched TV, but I also learned that she thought lesser of those who did, and made her opinions known.

And I'm sure- hell, I know- there were more than a few habits of mine she disliked.

And so we separated…civilly, of course.

It was for the best, really, and I'm happy we did it.

There are some occasions when I'll look at her, and the memories and feelings and emotions will come flooding back, but then I think of Kerry, my friend, and Kerry, the doctor, and I know what we did was the right thing.

I still love Kerry- she's one of the best friends I've ever had, even to this day, and I'm not so sure that, had we not shared what we did, our relationship would be the same.

I'll always love Kerry.