He sat in the back of the bus, staring at the grey Boston skyline. It was January, a boring, dismal month with no purpose but to ring in the New Year and to drive everyone stark raving mad. It seemed to be made just for his purpose.

He wore his sunglasses, despite the fact that there was no sun. He felt as if he could hide his identity behind the glasses, keep the real world out. The world full of crime and murderers and poverty. The world that he was trying to make a better place.

But he found that he couldn't make it a better place. Ever since he lost her, the world didn't deserve to be a better place. In his eyes, it should stay the shitty, mean place it was to begin with. She had been his everything and yet, he still managed to fuck it up.

He had met her exactly six months ago, in the miserable heat of early August. And it was on the same bus, going to the same destination. Christ, it had been the same everything. The same feeling of loneliness, the same feeling of loss, the same feeling that the world couldn't be right. For fuck's sake, back then, it had only been a few months since he lost Rocco. And even though he could never forget him, she made the pain numb and eventually, it faded. She had placed him back in the spot where he hadn't been in almost six months.

But, as Connor always said when he caught him sulking around, he had been the one to fuck it up. He knew how she felt on what he did. He promised her that he would never do it. But still, he had managed to slip and screw everything over.

He had been occupied with the scenery flashing before his eyes when the bus stopped. The doors opened and a young woman, no older than 25, walked onto the bus. Her jeans were old, but they still looked incredibly good on her. Her red converse weren't new, but just like her jeans, they fit her look. Her black pea coat hit her waist and like everything else she had, was worn and somewhat dirty. Her dark blonde hair was long, far past her shoulders in deep waves and her bangs were side swept across her forehead. Her grey eyes were lined with kohl, but still gave the impression that she wasn't wearing eyeliner.

He watched as her hand slid the $1.25 that was needed for fare into the machine. Her nails were turquoise and chipped, but the skin on her hands was pale and smooth. She looked around the bus to find a seat when her eyes landed on him.

"Fuck," was the first thing that came to his mind. He hadn't seen her in two weeks and he thought the burning in him would at least settle to a tolerable, manageable state. But no, it was as if they were still dating. He wanted her to sit next to him so he could kiss her and kiss her and kiss her some more. He wanted to apologize and beg for forgiveness and make her not hate him. But he knew how she felt on this issue and that forgiveness wasn't in the picture. He was royally screwed.

Her eyes didn't get cold as he suspected they would. Instead, instant sadness and sorrow flooded them and she quickly took a seat close to the driver.

"I can't talk to her now," he thought, silently cursing her broken heart. If only he hadn't been such an idiot to do what he did, he could be sitting with the one thing that helped to keep him sane.

He saw her take out a piece of paper and a sharpie out of her old, green messenger bag. He smiled and cracked his knuckles.

"Always carrying a fuckin' sharpie with her," he thought in his head. He remembered what kind of things she would do with that sharpie. Draw on her shoes. Write on her notebook. Color something on the bus. She fucking loved sharpies.

She was writing furiously now. "She doesn't have a long bus ride. That always confused me why she even bothered with it," he thought. He had seen her write fast before. For Christ's sake, she was a journalist. She could write faster than Satan himself if she wanted to.

It had been ten minutes and she was still writing furiously. He was curious now to see what she was writing. He knew it had to be about him. She had only started writing after their breakup. He saw her hand reach up and pull the dinger.

"This is it. I'll never get to see what she was writing," was running through his head. He knew that she rarely shared her writing with anyone and if she did, it was supposed to affect you. And, almost all the time, it did.

The bus was coming to a stop and she turned around and started walking towards him. His heart was racing and his palms were sweaty. Was she going to say something to him? Should he say something to her?

Her grey eyes bore into his and he knew that despite his sunglasses, she could see how distraught he was. She extended her arm and in her hand with chipped nail polish, was a note. He looked up at her and on her pretty, heart shaped face, was a look that said, "This will explain everything." He took the note from her hand and she smiled a sad smiled. The bus now stopped and she walked to the back door, pushed the lever, and walked into the frigid Boston winter. He watched her walk away and to his surprise, she looked over her shoulder right at him. He felt as if he was being zapped to dust. She smiled and looked away, continuing her walk. He sighed. If he didn't get over her soon, he might as well practice celibacy for the rest of his life.

He turned around and looked at the note in his hand. His name was written in her favorite sharpie color: sky blue.

He opened the note with bated breath and his eyes started reading it slowly.

Murphy,

Someone told me that love would all save us.

But how can that be, look what love gave us.

You know that you broke my heart. Fuck, you shoved it in a blender and then gave it back to me, sliced and diced. And every friend and family member I have tells me that I should fucking hate your guts, that I should want to castrate you. But I don't. Shit, I could never hate you. The only thing I could ever feel for you is love. But I don't want to.

I'm tired Murph. I'm tired of being lonely, even though it's been only two weeks. I'm tired of listening to everyone say that you're lower than a piece of shit. I'm tired of having this feeling that life isn't right without you. I'm just tired.

Seeing you on the bus today made me think. What if I did take you back? What if I did forgive you? Would I be the idiot? Fuck, I don't know. I'm writing this as I'm thinking all these thoughts. And my stop is coming up. But all I know is that I can't take being heartbroken any longer and I don't want to be single anymore.

God, this is so hard to say with words. I'm a journalist and I've never had this big of a problem with words until now.

I haven't stopped loving you, Murphy Kieran McManus.

I've only just begun.

Katherine "Kat" Lara Dooley.

He stared out the window, his heart still racing.

She loved him. And, if he was correct, was going to love him. For a very, very, long time.

A/N: Um, yeah. The lines, "Someone told me that love would all save us/ How can that be, look what love gave us" is from the song "Hero". I don't own it. This isn't going to be a long story, about three chapters. Reviews would be lovely, please and thank you.