A/N: this is a companion inner dialogue piece for Carol - it is a match to the previous Daryl chapter

thank you all for your reads and reviews - to know that people actually read this means a lot to me

I like watching him from a distance when he isn't looking. The way his muscles roll and flex under his shirt, the way he arches his back to release a kink, the way he rocks his hips back and forth when he is waiting for something. I love those rare occasions when I can observe his facial expressions when he isn't paying attention. The squinty-eyed confusion when someone enters his personal space, his hidden joy when he catches sight of Judith, and his downward concentration when he is focusing on working through something that puzzles him.

I watch, and I smile, and I keep these little moments stored in my memory for when I am feeling lonely or down. I know it is risky to put such reliance on external factors for my happiness, but there is really little else, and though I share special moments with him, there is a lot of uncertainty on my part.

He is private. I get that. He needs his personal space. I get that. He is honorable and respectful. I get those things. He does not think he is deserving of love. My heart breaks.

I have yet to convince him otherwise, though I do feel that he is starting to come around. He doesn't flinch like he used to and he doesn't run away from me even when I tease him a bit. He has warmed to my company, and there I times I actually feel like he wants me near, if only for the security of it.

There are many nights I can't sleep and I listen to the quiet echoes of the cell block. Sometimes he dreams restless, and I sit up in my bed. I keep watch with my ears. If I felt he needed me, I would be by his side, but he has always calmed and settled back into sleep. On those nights he stays fitful, and I stay up with him through the night, silently in my own bunk. I could keep an eye on him better in my own cell, but I don't think he would be comfortable if I asked.

There are some nights that I swear I can hear him breathing right outside my door. I've thought to whisper his name softly to see if he would come around the corner, but I never have. If he is there as I believe him to be, I think prefers to stay undiscovered. So I stay quiet and find solitary comfort in the fact that he is there, watching over me.

I feel strong but it is an earned strength, and one that I was not quick to. My life before this one is nearly all but forgotten now, with only the faded traces of my little girl. I forget now, often that I was ever married, that I was accepting of a brutal force that I mistook for love. I knew it was never love - but life mutates at the edges, and the things that seem concrete and simple never really are. You don't start out weak, you start out strong and full of hope. But time is a river that wears your edges down, and sometimes you soften for the worse, sometimes for the better. To say I have all but forgotten that life is to say that it only had the hold I gave it. The world we live in now does not suffer the weak, and I no longer suffer.

Losing a child is the essence of devastation. To cope I have detached that part of myself. My daughter lives in my memories, and too often now she feels as if she is a dream. With the business of being on the run, there is not a lot that can be clinged to. No possessions, no places, not even a grave. So it is the memories I cling to, and the memories in which she lives whole and free. I am not denying death. Death is everywhere. Everyone has lost someone. Most have lost many. I did not have the luxury of proper mourning, no one did. So instead of mourning, I honor her with my memories.

I watch him wrestle the demons of his own unresolved past. The not knowing the fate of his brother is worse than knowing for sure if one is alive or dead. That not knowing keeps one searching, and treading the delicate dance between hope and despair. To say I am grateful we found my little girl in the barn is a painful admission, and one that I do not make lightheartedly.

He is watching me. As I clean the dishes and organize the food stores, he sits at a nearby table cleaning his bow. Even though my back is turned to him, I can see his reflection in one of the pots. If he knew I knew, he'd be mortified. I think he feels safe because my back is turned. I can feel the blush rise in my cheeks, I've caught him actually scan up and down. He is getting bolder. Just to see what he will do I drop my the cloth I am using to dry the dishes and I bend over to retrieve it. I feel giddy and carefree for a moment, lost out of time and context. In such a moment I feel alive and I forget my own mortality for a short while. He clears his throat and rises quickly from the table muttering something about arrows. I can only smile, I must have some effect on him.

I feel cruel. I want to be wanted. I want to feel something in this dead world.

Somewhere in my past, I accepted that I didn't deserve love, and when that happened, something died inside of me. But now I want to feel alive. I want to love and be loved again. I want to experience passion and quiet and eternal embrace. I want to feel, even if only for brief moments, that I am among the living again. To exchange in electrical dance with another living breathing human being. But not just any, with the one that makes me feel safe in my own skin and loved and cherished beyond the boundaries of my imagination.

I feel the electrical impulse dance across space when our hands are near touching. I see the bright spark in his eyes when he is listening to my mundane observations of our tiny world. I want to kiss him with my being and not just my lips.

He is my steady. He is my constant. He is my divine. When I have succeeded in shutting most of the world out, I have felt him creeping in. He has a home here in my heart. I will invite him to stay.