What is love?

Is it leaning on a fence rail, looking out over the city on the hospital rooftop, gazing at his ragged features and dark, stormy eyes?

Is it long nights spent downing glass after glass of Scotch, smiling supportively when your soul is dying inside, watching him cry over a woman who left him miserable and alone like you swore you never would?

Is it shaking your head knowingly as you watch him push everything and everyone he loves away, except you, and you wonder if that is because he loves you too much or doesn't love you at all?

Is it weeks spent stretched out on his lumpy couch pretending to sleep, just so that you can hear his soft, peaceful breaths and be sure he is alive and well, that the Vicoden and the pain and the leg haven't taken him away from you forever?

Is it jerking your sandwich out of his grasp as he tries to steal it, even as he claims he hates your cooking, but secretly loving the way he needs you, even if it isn't half as much as you need him?

Is it closing your eyes and turning your head as she says how hard it was to almost watching the man she loves die, when you know you have been watching the love of your life die for 6 long years?

Is it waking up one faithful morning and turning and wishing it were him lazily sleeping beside you, not caring that your are crying and crying and crying with the realization that it will never be his head on your pillow?

Is it facing him later that day and knowing you want something he can never, ever give you, but you need him so badly you will settle for what he can?

Is it finding him one evening, lying on the cold, hard ground and realizing he had gone too far this time, that in the end you weren't enough, you were never enough, and you couldn't save him?

You stare down at the smooth, flawless pebble.

Gregory House, MD Brilliant mind and cherished friend

1959-2006

Is this love?

You aren't sure. But there is one thing you do know:

This is good-bye.