Miranda stepped through the doorway into Anderson's—Shepard's—her apartment.

She felt empty; wrung out. Things had been in a whirlwind since the Reapers ceased their assault, and she'd found herself right in the middle of it. People wanted her advice. Her input. She'd been close to Shepard; she'd know what to do. They were all scrambling in the absence of the most powerful woman in the galaxy.

And so was Miranda.

She'd gotten through the memorial service without breaking down, and all the conversations before and after, too. It was easier when they were all just empty condolences from people who'd never even known Shepard in person.

But now she was alone. Alone in the apartment that had hosted some of her best memories with Shepard, but now stood just as empty as her heart.

She drifted through the space like a ghost.

She passed the soaring living room, remembering Shepard's friends and squadmates lounging across the couches; murmuring at the wisdom of the windows and the meaning of the decor. Remembering the mountain of trash they'd produced, and how long it had taken her to clean it all up.

She passed the kitchen, remembering Shepard standing at the sink with suds up to her elbows. She remembered talking, laughing, kissing in this very space, and the fateful conversation after.

She climbed the stairs, remembering the feeling of Shepard's hand in hers, tugging her along the path to her bedroom. She remembered clinging to the banister for support as the alcohol finally caught up with her, and then clinging to Shepard when they reached the top.

She entered Shepard's room, remembering pausing in the doorway to press the commander against the frame and kiss her senseless. Remembering the way Shepard had given as good as she got until they were both breathless, flushed, and hungry for more.

She approached the bed, remembering falling into these very sheets with the love of her life, fumbling and tangling together in their rush to get to the end. Remembering the hours they spent together, making up for way too much lost time. Hours that had never truly felt like enough.

None of it had ever been enough.

Miranda lowered herself to the edge of the mattress and ran a hand over the sheets. The touch of the familiar fabric was the last straw. She took a deep breath, and on the exhale, it broke. With it broke the dam that had been holding back her tears, and they all came at once, now, streaming down her cheeks amidst quiet, wracking sobs.

Miranda sank onto her side on Shepard's empty bed. She clutched the sheets to her face with both hands and the lingering smell of her lover on the fabric was a wound instead of a comfort. She curled around it anyway like if she held on tight enough, the memory might be enough to fill the hole that Shepard had left.

It wasn't.

"Damn it," she cried uselessly into the sheets, "damn it."

What the hell was she supposed to do?

Aspen Shepard was irreplaceable. Not just to the galaxy, the council, humanity, but to Miranda in particular. Aspen Shepard had been the first. The first person ever to truly care about her. To break down her walls. To love her. And in many ways, she was not just the first, but the only.

Move on, Shepard had said.

How was she supposed to move on when there was nothing to move on to? No one had ever been like Shepard, and no one ever would be again.

Miranda wiped her wrist across her face, but any tears she succeeded in drying were quickly replaced by more.

She had so many regrets. There were so many things she wished she'd done differently, while she still had the chance. She wished she'd been brave enough to confess to Shepard the moment she knew what she was feeling. She wished she'd told the Illusive Man to fuck himself and gone off with Shepard the first chance she got. She wished she'd been able to contact her during her stint in Alliance prison. She wished she'd met her in person on the Citadel, rather than letting the threat of assassins keep her away. She wished she'd been there for the final assault.

Most of all, she wished she'd said the three little words that Shepard deserved more than anything to hear.

I don't know what to say, she'd dissembled, during that stupid vidcall that had turned out to be her final conversation with Shepard.

It had been a lie. She'd known exactly what to say, but she'd stopped herself. Told herself she wasn't ready. Told herself she'd save it for after Shepard saved the galaxy. Told herself that it wasn't the right time.

She knew better now. It had been the perfect time—the only time—and she'd wasted her chance. Shepard had died without ever hearing the words I love you from the person who really, truly did.

And now it didn't matter.

Oh, the world would keep going without her. The wheel would keep turning. The relays would be rebuilt, societies would recover, and people would move on. Commander Shepard would be remembered, for a while, as the one who had made it all possible.

And then she'd be forgotten. The Reaper threat would fade into legend, and Shepard along with it. The efforts of people like Miranda and Anderson and Garrus and the rest of Shepard's squad would be lost to time, less than a memory.

No one would care whether or not she'd confessed her love to Shepard when she had the chance. But to Miranda, right now, it seemed like the most important thing in the world. It haunted her, reaching into her chest and scooping out her heart and leaving nothing but hollowness in its wake.

"I'm sorry," she said into the void, and it was too little, too late. "I'm sorry, Shepard. I loved you all along."

Somehow it only hurt worse to know she'd never receive an answer.