Time slipped by unnoticed, the changing of the seasons passing in an instant. Slowly the years performed their terrible dance; memories began to fade, pain began to recede, and life moved on. The pictures still held the memories, happy time captured in an instant and bound for an eternity. Here was their legacy, the people they used to be, when adulthood and responsibility were just a blip on the radar screen. That was how she realized how much time had passed. The pictures were changing, from candid shots of couples to wedding pictures of new spouses to professional portraits displaying happy and smiling families. They changed from images of best friends relaxing on the beach with long-winded message penned on the back to snapshots from family vacations, accompanied by a hastily scrawled note.

It had been three years since Buffy had moved into the penthouse and she was still in awe of how perfect it was for her. The transition from California to New York had been difficult, she hated leaving her friends and nearly a decade worth of memories behind. She had been pleasantly surprised when she had finally settled in to the penthouse, it was an ideal size, just the right number of rooms so she didn't feel cramped. Even though it was already furnished, she had added her own touches over the years, giving every room her distinctive signature.

Her penthouse was filled with pictures, hundreds of photos chronicling her life and the lives of those she loved. Every table held at least one framed photo and large frames were prominently displayed on nearly every available wall. Each room was filled with its own pictures, grouped together because they amused her or reminded her of something. The frames and the photos always matched the tone of the room, thin metal in the bedroom, fine glass in the study, thick wood in the dining room, black and white modern designs in the kitchen, delicate silver in the bathroom. The glass coffee table in the den was buried under five enormous albums, the most current pictures displayed prominently. An entire bookshelf in the study was devoted to her other albums, so many pictures, so many memories.

It wasn't just the pictures that gave the Manhattan penthouse a feeling of home. Plush area carpets covered the wooden floors and lightly layered curtains softened the high windows, allowing maximum amounts of light to stream in. Various awards were tacked on the walls along with magazine articles citing her as a "leader in the fashion industry," a "modern day muse," the "answer to the buyer's prayers," and as "the breath of life fashion needed". The penthouse was a mixture of classic and modern, old and new, a perfect balance. Strange sculptures from Giles accented lonely corners and exotic plants from Tara brightened the window ledges. Antique furniture like her desk were blended seamlessly with her overstuffed sofa and matching ottoman. Bright colors helped to enlarge the rooms, giving the penthouse a warm and inviting feeling.

The sunlight was bursting into the bedroom when the alarm clock went off, the interruption of music jarring her from the comforting realm of sleep. Buffy pushed back the blankets and smiled lazily. It was Sunday, her one day to relax, and she was pleased to see the sun shining into her bedroom. The rain that had been plaguing Manhattan for the last three days had finally relented, leaving blue skies overhead. She swung her feet onto the hard-wood floor and slowly stretched her arms over her head. Absently she hit the alarm clock, silencing the radio and stepped out of bed, savoring the soft rug under her toes.

The light reflected off neighboring buildings and shone into her bedroom, making her squint as she padded down the hall to the kitchen. Turning on the coffee pot, Buffy surveyed the calendar that hung on the kitchen wall. A dozen colors of marker brightened the large pad, each color signifying another appointment or event. She glanced at the refrigerator, buried under sheets of to-do lists and reached for the one marked "Sunday" that read "Buy milk. Get nails done. Start Christmas shopping." Buffy smiled and turned her attention back to the coffee. She poured the water and left the pot to simmer, walking into the sunken living room.

Padding across the living room, Buffy turned on the stereo system and listened as the music filled her penthouse. She shuffled through her music collection and not finding anything soothing, she began to turn the dial of the radio until a particular song stopped her. The piano was so sad and melancholy but appealed to Buffy in the early morning light. Even though she never listened to country music, the tone of the song seemed to fit with her mood, wistful and filled with memories. The female voice wafted through the speakers as Buffy sank into the couch, her mind drifting back to the past, to a life she had left behind.

Unbidden, tears sprang to Buffy's eyes as the song played on in the background. The vision popped into her eyes, black leather and blonde hair. In her mind's eye, she could see his turbulent blue eyes, chiseled cheekbones, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. She could see him standing on the porch, his duster swirling gently with the wind as he looked out into the darkness. Spike, she thought, I wonder how he is. The memory of their last argument was still clear in Buffy's mind. They hadn't talked to each other since that night on the porch, and she hadn't really thought about him in years. Buffy had sold everything from her house on Revello Drive, there were too many memories, too much emotional baggage to bring into a new life. She had loved and lost so many people in Sunnydale; three years ago, it seemed like a good idea to start fresh in New York, with no reminders of her failed romance. As Buffy floated amid her turbulent past, the song played on relentlessly in the background, adding to the melancholy mood.

She had occasionally thought about calling Spike but had never gotten up the courage. The days turned to weeks and there never seemed to be enough time to call her undead ex-lover. Buffy had convinced herself that there was nothing she needed to say to him. She had made everyone around her believe that it was over between the; as the years passed she had gotten wrapped up in her own game of pretend. After a while it became easier to think of Spike as the unfeeling jerk who left her, rather then the lover she had pushed away by not being honest.

The truth hurt and Buffy didn't allow herself to think about it. No amount of talking or analyzing could change what had happened, Spike was gone and she was powerless to get him back. She had placated herself with the thought that Spike would hold a grudge against her, he would hate her for the pain she had caused in his life. Throwing herself into her work, Buffy ignored the dull ache in her heart that refused to go away; after a few months, the ache turned to a numbness that Buffy pushed to the furthest edge of her being. Over the last three years, she had tried everything to convince herself that she and Spike were never meant to be; they were darkness and light, living in two different worlds where the lines could never be blurred. "It never would have worked out anyway," she told anyone who would listen, trying to convince herself along with her audience. Eventually she started to believe the lies she was feeding to her friends and family. She had pushed away everything that reminded her of the life she had left behind in Sunnydale, anything that made her think of Spike; that chapter in her life was closed and she needed to move on with her life.

Dawn still talked to him occasionally; he had sent a graduation card to her little sister last spring. The bold Victorian script stood out amongst the sea of brightly colored envelopes covered in bubbly letters. Buffy had turned the card over in her hands, searching for trace of Spike; yearning for something would break the walls that hid her memories of their affair, but all she felt was the coarse paper beneath her tanned fingers. She knew that Dawn probably had an address for the vampire but Buffy's wounded pride wouldn't allow her to ask. Now that Dawn was working towards her master's degree in Colorado, the two sisters didn't get to talk as much as they used to. There was hardly an opportunity to ask about anything remotely personal, much less Buffy's former flame.

It shouldn't have ended the way it did, Buffy thought, wrapping her arms around her slender waist. Through her thin bathrobe she could feel her protruding ribs. Another side effect of moving to the city was that she had become more waif-like then petite, but Buffy didn't seem to notice or care anymore. "This is crazy," she whispered, wiping her face with a shaky hand, "I haven't seen Spike in years and all the sudden I'm wallowing in memories." She reached for her coffee but the thoughts continued to assault her, "I drove him away," she said, her voice a wisp barely audible over the music, "I did this." Her nose reddened before more tears spilled down her cheeks. Getting off the sofa, Buffy wandered into the bedroom pausing to study her reflection in the hallway mirror. Her cheeks were hollow, her eyes dull and her golden tan had faded to a pasty white. Licking her lips hesitantly, she pushed a few locks of hair behind her ear as she tried to overcome the crying jag that was ruining her morning.

"It's been over for years," she said loudly, her voice quivering with pent- up emotions. The thoughts assaulted her, memories flying like daggers. All the facades she had created, all the lies she had hidden behind, they all seemed to collapse before her. She wasn't whole without Spike and somehow she could no longer ignore the gaping hole in her heart. Everyday since she had left California, she had been pretending that she was strong, that it didn't hurt to walk into an empty apartment everyday. No one could fill the void that Spike had left in her life, no one else could ever see her the way that he did. She had hidden away her feelings, building more and more walls around herself until it was too overwhelming. Buffy fell to the floor, sobbing bitterly for the man she had chased away, for the life she had destroyed, for the happiness that had eluded her.