She was still a few blocks from the once sparkling but now dilapidated Grand Central Station building when she heard the rise of voices and honking of horns, signaling the swarm of angry emotions ahead. The outside rim of onlookers was the first wave of people she encountered. They were just close enough to be nosey, but not close enough to really know what was going on. Monica pushed past them just enough to spot a few of the last unmarked buses waiting in a long line. Squad cars were stopped, lights flashing, pushed as far into the raucous crowd as they could go without running over anyone.

The throng looked even bigger than when she'd seen the coverage on TV a half hour earlier. It had swelled, as had the presence of law enforcement. It seemed all of New York City's police force was there.

People were more compact the closer Monica got to the main bus terminal, where she could now see at least 20 buses were lined up, just waiting to leave.

"Press," she yelled, pushing through a wall of people, holding up her press pass in one hand and a reporter's notebook in the other. "Press! CBS News!"

One police officer spotted her in the crowd and silently created a small path for her to push through. As best they could the officers were keeping the press, families and onlookers a good 20-25 yards away from the confusion. It looked to her that the police were beginning to gain some semblance of control of the situation.

They seemed to have enough personnel now to also push back most of the protestors who were out of Monica's view, on the other side of the buses. They were the people, right around her own age, who she'd seen pushing on the vehicles while she was still watching the events unfold in her apartment - the crowd Phoebe would have been a part of if she'd had the heart to come join the rebellion.

As Monica stood on her tip toes, trying to look past the crowd and toward the buses, it dawned on her that all the plain-clothed people standing on the sides of the buses facing her direction were men. Young men. And the closer she got the more she noticed the army-issued knapsacks each one of them either held or had at their feet.

It was then that she realized all the men who had been drafted, all the men heading out across the country for basic training from Grand Central Station that morning were lined up next to a bus, waiting for the order to board.

Her heart was pounding in her ears as she began scanning each face. Some were laughing, some were crying, some were disgusted, some were showing no emotion at all. She started to jog down the police barricade, getting as close as she was able, her eyes furiously looking from one bus to another, from one face to the next.

She was near tears and almost ready to give up when a figure she recognized took a step out of his line at the next bus to cast an inquisitive glance behind him, and for a moment she froze.

It was Chandler.

She walked another 30 steps or so before stopping as close as she could get to the line he was in.

"Step back, ma'am," an officer said next to her, motioning for her to step further back into the crowd. She stepped back, but her focus never wavered.

She stared at him - no longer seeing other people, not hearing any of the noise all around. She raked her eyes over him, from head to toe, as best she could from 20 yards away.

And every ounce of emotion she'd ever had for him tingled from the tips of her fingers to the soles of her feet. She dropped her notebook and crumbled the press pass into her fist, taking a deep breath, her mind and her heart narrowing in on only him as she finally allowed her feelings to completely overtake her.

She let herself feel him against her once more. Her gaze traveled over his back and she fleetingly wondered if she'd left her mark on his skin under his shirt. She crossed her arms and squeezed them as hard as she'd embraced him, watching as he threw his bag over his right shoulder, gripping it tighter in his grasp. He looked to the ground and she closed her eyes.

A tremor that began at her shoulders spread through her chest and down her body. She started to shake. The tears she swore she would no longer shed falling freely down her face. She opened her eyes again, her gaze immediately landing on him.

How? How in God's name was she supposed to forget him?

Suddenly his head jerked in her direction. She pulled tighter into herself, trying to make herself invisible in the crowd around her. She wasn't sure she wanted him to see her - wasn't sure he'd want to see her - but still, she'd come and found him and couldn't turn away. The protesters got louder and started banging again on the bus as the riot police again pushed them back with batons.

None of it mattered. All she could see was him - now looking with purpose in her direction - seemingly sensing and searching for…something.

"Chandler," she breathed.

And a moment later, his eyes found hers, and the rest of the world fell away.

His mouth dropped open. It took a second for him to register that it was her. Her hair was pulled back tight in a braid, which fell like a black rope over her shoulder. He blinked and briefly shook his head, not really comprehending who he was seeing.

He almost couldn't believe she was there. Almost, he thought, as he felt his heart race faster at the sight of her, as if it was waiting to take off from the starting gate the moment he saw her. For just a few seconds he marveled at her determination, her stubbornness, the sheer force of her will not to break, no matter how hard he'd tried to break her. She looked tiny, far away, yet he knew she was staring right at him. He was relatively certain the entire U.S. Army could try to move her and she wouldn't budge. She was frozen.

So was he. He closed his mouth and took a deep breath through his nose. He let it out slowly between his lips, his eyes locked with hers. He wanted to smile at her, but it felt trite. So he just returned her stare, drinking in her beautiful face. She was a vision in the crowd, and she was the only thing he could see. He couldn't tell if she was crying, but felt she might be - because of him and he hated himself for it.

He watched as she tightened her arms around herself, suddenly looking smaller and more vulnerable, and he felt his heart constrict. If only he'd not been so selfish three nights ago. If only he could have shut her out like everyone else, everything would have been easier - for her and for him. When he knew he was leaving, he should have completely backed off, should have let their little flame extinguish itself. He could have lived his whole life never having known the perfection that was being with Monica, moving in her and having her move in him, feeling fully alive for the only time in his life. Being numb to it would have made everything easier - being numb always did.

He took another deep breath and watched as she did the same, her eyes never leaving his. He licked his dry lips and could still taste her kiss. He heard his heartbeat in his ears and remembered hers pounding wildly against chest when he'd clutched her so tight against him…that final time. He blinked rapidly a few more times, trying to clear his increasingly cloudy vision.

He gripped his bag tighter and remembered her hips under his fingers the night he taught her to throw a strike, the night they danced to the blues, the other night when he'd chased her into her apartment and they gave into their passion the first time. He still couldn't smile at her. The moments for smiling and laughing had passed - it was too much for him. But he couldn't tear his eyes away from hers, or keep them from watering, or keep his stomach from flipping as he gazed at the innocent and sad face looking back at him.

He forgot the heartbroken, disgusted look she so justifiably gave him as she slammed the door behind her just a few hours earlier. Instead, he remembered the softness in her bold, yet delicate features, the shine in her endless blue eyes the instant all the raw sexual tension between them turned into something real and something beautiful. And something right then he deeply regretted he hadn't allowed himself hold on to in the magic of the moment - no matter how much better than him she so richly deserved.

Monica swallowed heavily, fighting back the sob that threatened to tear from her throat. She saw something in the way he was looking at her that caused her heart to soften just a touch, even though his face was stoic, resigned - and if he was scared he didn't show it.

Of course he didn't, she thought. That was the wall, the piece of him no one was allowed to look behind. The "emotionally unavailable asshole" part that told her just a few hours ago to go home and forget him.

She realized suddenly that it was an act of defiance - the reason she'd come. In her own way she didn't want to listen to him and, by God, despite everything her heart didn't want him to be alone in the chaos and commotion, thinking it was a good thing that no one cared he was leaving.

She was carrying their night over to now, throwing herself back in his face, and at the end of the day - if she was honest with herself - she thought doing so might, just might, start the healing process for her destroyed heart. She would either be able to watch him go, letting him go and completely break free; or she would at least be able to forget him kicking her out of his bed and remember the man he was to her less than a week ago - when just the thought of being with him really was a fantasy. Maybe, she thought, she could go back to that and forget the rest.

So she studied his face one more time. She took in the curve of his jaw, the point of his nose, the high pitch of his cheekbones, the thin velvet outline of his lips. And the soft, gentle slope of his eyes - those piercing, ever-changing blues that could match the sky on a cloudless day one moment and the northern lights at midnight the next - and that now, suddenly, squinted at her in confusion…

"Move out!"

The order had burst forth from a megaphone somewhere close to the front of the bus. The doors flew open and the men in line started to quickly board as police held back the protestors as best they could. The man behind Chandler pushed him forward. He broke his gaze from Monica's and looked back at the man, momentarily furious, then turned and found himself quickly at the bus steps. In a matter of seconds he was onboard and out of Monica's view.

Her face fell and she took a step forward into the noise and chaos, still looking at the bus, scanning the windows for him but she didn't see him. In what felt like the blink of an eye the police escort started rolling forward, the buses trailing directly behind.

And he was gone.

For a long time she stood, motionless, looking down the road at nothing. Soon most of the protesters dispersed, having nothing more to protest. Any families or friends who had come to say goodbye were long gone, and still she stood there on the sidewalk opposite the lane where the buses had pulled away. Eventually she was able to breathe without gasping and her heart started to beat at a normal rhythm. The tremors slowed and her tears dried to her cheeks.

"Are you alright, missy?" said an elderly bag lady as she and her grocery cart full of junk tentatively walked a few paces toward Monica and then stopped. She'd been watching the young woman for 20 minutes and didn't know if she'd even blinked the whole time.

Monica turned to her and the hollow, heartbroken, tormented look on the young woman's face answered her question. The older woman looked at her with sympathetic eyes, having seen similar scenes play out for a very long time now. Then she watched as the color slowly came back into Monica's features. She swallowed hard and stood up a little straighter, unfolding her arms and bringing them to her sides. She reached down and picked up her notebook.

"Yes, thank you," she said automatically as she stood again, a forced smile gracing her lips. The woman nodded as Monica turned and began walking away from Grand Central Station. She had an eerie feeling of déjà vu. Was it really less than a month ago she'd felt buried under a landslide when Kip had abandoned her, leaving her broken and alone? Back then, though, she'd been able to claw her way from under the rubble, with the help of Chandler's hand pulling her to comfort and safety.

If that was a landslide, this…this was an earthquake and it was swallowing her whole; and there was no hand to hold, no hero to save her, no way out of her misery. He was gone, possibly forever, and she knew in her heart she would never be able to forget a single moment with him.

But she was alone now, buried alive in the debris he'd left in his wake…and she couldn't stop shaking.

NOTE: This "look" between the two of them at the bus station, in one context or another, was the image that planted the seed for this story in my head months and months and months ago. It wasn't exactly how I first envisioned it, but very close.

FYI… In my mind, if this were a play, we'd be at the end of Act I, heading into intermission. I don't know if there is another 21 chapters to come (21 chapters?! - Dear God!) but there is obviously much more to come - though my life is changing a bit (again) and I don't know just how fast I'll be able to post from here on out.

A couple people have PM'd me, worried that I may stop writing this all together. Rest assured, I haven't left a story unfinished yet and I'm not about to now, unless I get hit by a bus or something ;) I'll do my best to look both ways…

Please review as you can - it's a great motivator, of course - but I know a bunch of you are reading this silently. I just hope you are enjoying it, too. I warned you it was gonna be a long, gut-wrenching ride…

Thank you! :)

Kel