I'm beginning to let go.

Maybe.

Just maybe.

It's been so long since he died that I can't hold onto hope anymore. I mean, no Scooby ever manages to really die (with one exception – poor Tara) so I thought he'd be back.

He was always around somewhere. In the shadows, the Magic Box, his smoking tree, his crypt, so many places where he was. He was everywhere I was or wanted to be, offering his help, such as it was. He didn't care what I did to him, not much at least, and I never realized jut how deep his devotion ran. He followed me to so many places.

They're all gone now.

In a way it's helped me move on. I can't go to his crypt and sleep in his bed or sit under his smoking tree. I haven't been able to hold onto much, just memories, photos and a shard of metal.

I sit in my bed at night and feel so alone but I'm getting used to it. I've tried anything and everything I can think of, sleeping pills, one-night stands, even spending the night with Angel. We do still love each other but not romantically. We'd die for each other but I know that for him Cordy comes first and I rank second with Connor. I've accepted that.

So now I spend my nights alone in the dark he loved so much.

Tonight I feel restless and can't settle. I toss and turn for ages but I'm on edge, my nerves being scraped raw by something. I finally give up and go downstairs to work out my energy on my unfortunate target, aka a punching bag. I hear voices as I go down the Hyperion's grand stairs and see a light coming from Angel's study.

I squint my eyes against the light and venture closer, opening the door. The voices stop when I do. I fully enter and see Angel and . . .

Oh God.

It's him.

It's him.

Lounging in a chair, feet up on Angel's files, looking up at me with shock that melts into a mix of emotions that are too many to name, mouth forming my name.

Buffy . . .

Angel rises when I enter, saying my name, trying to stop me. I hear him as if from far away. All I can see is him and all I can hear my ragged, erratic breathing. He moves to reach for me but I shy away.

No no no no no no he's dead Spike's dead you're not him not real am I hallucinating? No not him he's dead saw him dust can't be here too much can't stay gotta escape gotta run

I bolt, sprinting for sanctuary in the form of the streets of L.A.

I don't care that all I'm wearing is a tank and red flannel pants, I fly through the streets, just trying to escape the tsunami of emotion trying to engulf me at the sight of his face and the sound of his voice.

Buffy.

My name echoes all around me and I blindly turn corners, pushing my body ever harder. I end up at the beach and collapse on the dark sand. My body shakes with sobs and I curl into a ball, hugging my knees to my aching chest.

Buffy.

His voice is amplified in my ears. I hear him call my name every time a wave crashes onto the coarse sand.

Buffy.

Buffy.

Buffy.

Buffy.

I hear it again and again, ever louder and more real. I've lost all sense of time when sobs stop wracking my body but his voice, God, his voice, it won't stop. I feel my stinging eyes closing and I do nothing to stop them. Gracious darkness, blessed oblivion claims me.