Author's Note: Abby's POV, same deal as with the first part. See part one for disclaimer and other relevant info.

The Things We Leave Behind

By Kate

Part 2 – Abby

I know he's watching me walk away. I can feel his eyes on me. I want to run back, to think of some snappy comeback and fling it at him. But my mind is blank, so I keep walking. I count my steps under my breath to drown out the memory of his words. 1, 2, 3, 4…You're not that pretty…9, 10, 11, 12…You're not that special…17, 18, 19, 20…Carter can have you…It isn't working. As I turn the corner, I breathe a sigh of relief that he can't see me anymore. And all of a sudden, my legs can't support me. I sink to the ground, almost in slow motion, and hug my knees to my chest. What just happened? I rock my body gently back and forth, feeling lightheaded. How could we have let it come to this?

A car speeds by on the street, and I realize that I'm sitting on a sidewalk in Chicago, alone, in the dark. I stand up, stumbling towards my apartment. I can't feel safe anymore, not without Luka. The realization comes to me – he always makes me feel safe, protected. The thought is a bit embarrassing, even demeaning, but it's true. I think I have never been afraid in his presence.

Until tonight. I unlock the door to my building and trudge up the stairs. Tonight I was afraid. Not afraid for my physical well-being, but afraid of what we were doing to each other. Afraid of what would come out of his mouth next. He has never had anything but gentle words for me, but tonight he let it all out. I press my lips together tightly, a well-practiced anti- crying technique, and open my door.

As I walk into my apartment, I suddenly notice things that I never have paid attention to before. Luka's baseball cap is hanging on the hook next to the door. My heart squeezes as I remember him asking me if it makes him look American. I touch the cap lightly, not wanting to remember anything more about our time together. But remembering is inevitable, because reminders of him are all over the apartment. There is a Croatian book lying on the couch and I flip through it absently, my eyes stinging. I always tease him about his Croatian paraphernalia, saying that he could be reading steamy romance novels and no one would ever know.

I keep walking through the apartment, my eyes somehow drawn to anything that will remind me of Luka. His coffee mug is on the kitchen table, with the remnants of that horrible Turkish coffee he loves so much in the bottom. I have to get out of the kitchen, with its reminders of Luka making dinner, the proud but shy expression on his face as he watches me enjoy whatever he's prepared. Or ordered, I remind myself, spotting the number of his favorite Thai carry-out posted on the refrigerator door.

I go into the bathroom and find I can barely breathe. On the counter is a can of Luka's shaving cream. I close my eyes as more memories come, unbidden. In the mornings when Luka is shaving is one of my favorite times with him. He can try anything to wake me up – kissing me, tickling my feet, even blowing coffee steam into my face – but nothing gets me out of bed like hearing Luka get out of the shower and knowing he is going to start shaving. I love to walk up behind him and wrap my arms around his bare back. His body is always warm from the shower and I press myself against him, reveling in his nearness. He always reaches down with his left hand and strokes my arms as he shaves. What a way to wake up.

I press my fists against my closed eyelids as I realize I am thinking about Luka and me in the present tense. Angrily, I grab the can of shaving cream and toss it on a high shelf so I don't have to look at it. I don't remember when Luka's life and my life melded into 'our' life. When we ceased to become 'you' and 'me' and started being 'us.' And tonight we – no, he – had to go and throw 'us' away. Taking my pajamas from the bathroom floor, I change into them despite the fact that I know I will never get to sleep tonight.

As I brush my teeth, Luka's angry words still run through my mind, mocking me. "You're not that pretty; you're not that special," I whisper to myself. I look in the mirror and have to agree with him. I stare at my hollow, defeated-looking face and berate myself for believing him when he told me I was beautiful. I should have known the happiness I had with him would never last.

Happiness. Yes, happiness. He said tonight that I never seem happy with him. I get into bed, sitting up because I don't think I can stand lying down with such a cold void beside me. I look to the ceiling, thinking about happiness. I was happy with Luka. I know I was. I remember the night before he went to Croatia for Christmas. He took me out to dinner, and the place had a live piano player. Despite my protests, Luka dragged me to an open spot in the middle of the restaurant and we held each other, swaying gently to the music. I remember thinking if being with him that night was the only Christmas present I received, I would be happy. Then there was the time last summer when we took a picnic lunch to the park and ended up spending the entire day there, just lying in each other's arms. There are so many other moments in my memory – glances shared at work, murmured conversations in the dark of night, kisses in the lounge – that convince me that I was happy, that we were happy. I was even happy to be going home to him tonight. But look where that got us.

Suddenly, I can't stand being in this big bed alone. There is too much of Luka's presence still here. My emotions are threatening to spill over in the form of tears, and I get out of bed. I am angry now, angry that I let myself become comfortable with Luka and his gentle care, angry that Luka somehow needed to throw everything back in my face tonight. His things suddenly seem to clutter the apartment, suffocating me. I move methodically through the rooms, collecting everything that is his. His baseball cap, his book, his coffee mug, even the number for the Thai restaurant comes off the refrigerator. I end up in the bathroom, where I reach for the can of shaving cream. Seeing it again brings back such sweet memories that I almost falter. But I add the can to my pile and toss the entire bunch into the laundry hamper. I will deal with them later. But for now, out of sight, out of mind.

For some reason, though, getting rid of Luka's things just makes the ache in my chest more pronounced. Despite my anger, despite my hurt, I long for him to be here right now, holding me. I climb back into bed and am met by the one thing I couldn't bring myself to toss with the others. Reaching out to touch Luka's pillow, I finally let a tear escape my eye. "Damn you, Luka," I whisper brokenly as I clasp the pillow to my chest. I don't know what went wrong with us. Or maybe I do, but don't want to admit it. But knowing or not knowing does not fill the void in my bed, in my heart.

Burying my face into the soft fabric, I try to pretend I am holding him, instead of something that just smells of him. But a pillow is no substitute for a warm body, for a hand stroking my hair, for a gentle voice whispering in my ear. I let my tears soak into the pillow, praying for the escape of sleep.

END part 2