Mulder, sometimes I wonder what the point is. After all, it's not as if you're interested. If you were, you'd hardly keep on ditching me all the time. Would you? But I don't know. Sometimes when you look at me in that special way you have, with the puppy-dog eyes, I'm almost won over. Perhaps you do feel something for me, after all. I'm not holding my breath, though. I know you wouldn't risk our partnership for anything; whether or not you love me is quite irrelevant, compared. But I do sometimes wonder where Samantha figures in all of this. You certainly seem to have scaled down the search quite considerably. You say that my illness means you want to be close at hand, in case you are needed. In case you are needed? Mulder, if you only knew how much I need you ... if you had the slightest idea, you'd not be questioning it. Mulder ... it's me. Scully. Where are you? Not physically. Right now, you're sitting beside me, terribly concerned about me, but not quite all here. I don't know, maybe it's too hard for you to deal with. Maybe this is your way of coping. If it is, I can't complain.
But Mulder, if there's something worrying you, please speak out. Don't ever think that there was something you could have said or done that could have prevented this. Why do I say this? Because I know you, Mulder. You have a guilt-complex a Catholic would be proud of. I know what you're thinking, and I know why. But knowing doesn't change a thing. I'm dying, Mulder. You and I both know that, know this to be a cancer that cannot be controlled through any normal means. To say that chemo is useless is an understatement, but I continue with the treatments anyway. Hoping, always hoping, for that elusive miracle.
I'm not really suffering, Mulder, beyond the physical aspect of it all. To a degree my mother is going through hell, but she has it easy compared to what I think you're going through. My bright angel. I only wish I knew how to soothe it all for you, but I don't; I can only watch helplessly from the sidelines, as my cancer grows within me like some malevolent fetus, and know that it will get a million times worse for you before it can even begin to get better.
Mulder, it's me. Don't shut me out. I need you, more now than I've ever done before.
But Mulder, if there's something worrying you, please speak out. Don't ever think that there was something you could have said or done that could have prevented this. Why do I say this? Because I know you, Mulder. You have a guilt-complex a Catholic would be proud of. I know what you're thinking, and I know why. But knowing doesn't change a thing. I'm dying, Mulder. You and I both know that, know this to be a cancer that cannot be controlled through any normal means. To say that chemo is useless is an understatement, but I continue with the treatments anyway. Hoping, always hoping, for that elusive miracle.
I'm not really suffering, Mulder, beyond the physical aspect of it all. To a degree my mother is going through hell, but she has it easy compared to what I think you're going through. My bright angel. I only wish I knew how to soothe it all for you, but I don't; I can only watch helplessly from the sidelines, as my cancer grows within me like some malevolent fetus, and know that it will get a million times worse for you before it can even begin to get better.
Mulder, it's me. Don't shut me out. I need you, more now than I've ever done before.