Oh. My. Goodness. Guys, I have TWO CHAPTERS left of this! And then we're done! That's nuts! We've almost reached the end! So bittersweet. Can't tell you how much your guys's words and dedication to this story have moved me. Seriously. You all are amazing. I hope you like this chapter.

That's where Bellamy found me.

I really didn't want to think how I must've looked, what with my tear-stricken face and swollen eyes. But Bellamy didn't mention it. In fact, he didn't say anything as he took a spot on the floor beside me, both our backs resting against the wall. The sound of our breath filled the silence.

"How's Octavia?" I asked.

From my periphery I saw Bellamy rest his forearms on his knees, fingers dangling over his legs. "Good." An edge suddenly entered his voice. "The quarterback came to see her."

"Lincoln?" I recalled the boy we'd found Octavia chatting with at her formal. The memory of Bellamy's glare still had me wincing in sympathy.

"Was that his name?" Bellamy asked, feigning confusion.

I ignored that deliberate jab. "Is he with her now?"

"He will be, once I give him the message." At my look of disapproval I shot him, Bellamy shrugged. "I figured a couple more minutes won't kill him."

Of course he didn't. "How's your head?"

"I'll survive." He looked up at me, and I felt the lightness of his mood drop a degree. "Wanna tell me what's going on in yours?"

It was my turn to shrug, and I did so with a heavy sigh. "I'm not sure." At least that was the complete truth. "Hard to sort through some things clearly after the day we've had."

"You know you don't have to spend any more of it here, right?" he said, and then quickly amended, "I mean you should probably eat. Sleep. Maybe take a shower."

"Is that your way of telling me that I need one?"

He scoffed. "No. I'm just saying don't feel like you need to stay here, if it, you know, makes you uncomfortable."

"Why would it make me uncomfortable?"

"Isn't it kind of hard? Being back here?"

"My mom works here."

"You know that's not what I meant."

"Yeah." I did. "It is and it isn't. This time is . . . it's different." It had a happy ending.

But there were other things vying for my focus now. Other things that were still confusing me, more prominent since they were no longer buried behind that avalanche. I was still trying to understand what they were, because after the initial relief had subsided enough for me to catch my breath, I was surprised to find that I was afraid.

Octavia was okay.

Bellamy was okay.

ButI was afraid.

And I wasn't sure why.

"There you two are!"

The emphatic voice perforated the stillness. My eyes flashed over, down the hall to where Maureen was steadily making her way towards us. We must've looked an odd sight, two adults sitting on the floor when there were perfectly good chairs around.

I saw the hesitation crowd her eyes when she looked at my face and again I wondered just how evident the last hour was on my features. But, like Bellamy, she made no comment. "Octavia's asking for you, Clarke."

"Isn't she with Lincoln?" asked Bellamy.

"You mean the young man you were supposed to bring back to her room?" Maureen scolded him, miffed. "No. Octavia would like to see Clarke first. Lincoln is waiting. Like a gentleman," she added.

Bellamy grimaced.

"I'm coming now," I said, standing up from my awkward position. My muscles ached and I shook out my leg that had gone numb from being crossed for so long. I smiled at Maureen and spared Bellamy one last sympathetic glance before heading back down the hall, retracing my steps to Octavia's room.

I rapped softly on the door. "Knock, knock."

"Clarke!" Octavia squealed happily, much like the first time only a little more alert. She beamed once more as I walked in. I wasn't sure where to sit until she patted the empty edge of her bed. "How are you?" she asked, before I'd even sat down.

"Um, I think that's a question I should be asking you."

"Please, no. I can't even count how many times I've been asked that in the last hour. It's nice to check on someone else for a change."

I wasn't about to argue with her. "I'm . . . happy," I told her, truthfully. "I'm really happy. Because you're okay."

Her grin suddenly turned lachrymose, and her blue eyes glistened. "You saved my life today," she said abruptly, the sincerity in her voice so thick, so full of emotion, that I couldn't bring myself to cut her off the way I had the others. "Thank you, Clarke."

"Thank you," I echoed back, almost afraid her words would incur that avalanche again.

"For what?"

"For not dying." I smiled, but it was tainted with sadness at the thought. Again, I felt that dubious fear.

"Anytime."

No other words were spoken for a moment, and we sat in comfortable silence.

"You never told me how you got that scar," she whispered, breaking into whatever reverie I'd found myself in. I forgot what it was the moment she spoke, smothered by her question.

The mention of it made my hand fall over my heart unconsciously. Of anything I'd expected her to ask, this wasn't it. I was surprised she even remembered seeing it, that day I stood before her and her brother in a yellow dress, under her own compulsion. Right after everything had changed, and right before it would change again.

"I mean, I figured it was from the accident," she continued, "But I've never heard . . . like, how you got it. You don't have to tell me if you don't want to," the words came in a rush. "I'm sorry if that's something I shouldn't ask, but I just felt like we sort of . . . matched now. Your scar from that accident, my will-be scar from mine. It's different, I know; your dad would never have willingly put you in danger. My dad . . . well, he was the danger. I've just wondered . . ." she drifted off awkwardly.

I smiled and patted her hand. "We do kind of match," I said. It was an astute observation on her part. "You probably know it's hard to remember some details. When it happened it all just kind of . . ."

"Blurs together," she supplied.

I nodded, still stroking the jagged line beneath my collar bone with my free hand, the ridges like a small mountain range on a map. Scars were strange, like memories in the skin. My body remembered what my mind couldn't. "Yeah. They think it was a piece of glass from the windshield. If it had been any deeper, I probably would've died. I don't remember it hurting though.

"But I remembered what came after. And when I knew my dad was gone . . . it made this hurt." As if to demonstrate, the area around the scar began to ache, duller than it used to be, but still there. "With all the painkillers I was on, in that moment, I remembered thinking that it was the loss of him that had caused it. Like some physical evidence of heartbreak. Because people you love . . . they can't just leave without taking a piece of you with them."

I hastily wiped at a wayward tear, looking up to catch a few of Octavia's spilling over, as well. They tracked down her cheek and created grey spots against her pillow. She looked from the hand at my scar to her own leg, and the memory that was carved there now. "Do you think that's with everyone who leaves?" she asked, with sudden childlike softness. "Or just with those who die?"

I heard what she was really asking. "It's not a crime to love people who don't know how to love you back," I told her. "And this," with the barest of pressure, I touched her bandaged leg. "This is so much more than just what Jae did. This is . . . how much you love your brother. How hard you fight for your family. This is how brave you are."

More tears followed the others' trail down her cheek, and I inched closer. With the pad of my finger I swiped a few of them away before gently wrapping my arms around her shoulders.

And just as I'd done for myself not two hours ago, I let Octavia cry.

Only when Maureen had told me for the third time to go home and get some sleep, was I reminded of something important I'd forgotten. And that something still sat, idle and unoccupied, on the side of Rock Boulevard.

My car.

Right.

Mom was still here, though, almost as reluctant as I was to leave. She would drive me to pick up my car before heading home.

I wanted to tell Bellamy goodbye, but he wasn't in Octavia's room. To my surprise, I found him in another, larger one, seated before an old, spinet piano. His back was facing me, and I couldn't see his eyes, unfocused somewhere ahead, until I came close enough to sit beside him.

He glanced up once at my approach before returning his gaze to that fixed place ahead.

"Not gonna play anything?" I asked. I couldn't deny the spark of curiosity that flared at the sight of Bellamy seated at a piano. It reminded me of the conversation we'd had once, what felt like such a long time ago, his only tell for this secret passion being a stack of music magazines on his apartment floor.

And it reminded me of other things too. Notes cutting through the delirium of shock, weaving a calm in the middle of my first great chaos.

Bellamy didn't touch the keys. "Sometimes I just like sitting here. Like it's as comfortable as actually playing." He smirked halfheartedly and clasped his hands together. "Weird, I know."

But I was already shaking my head. "There's nothing weird about that." I imagined it was similar to how I felt whenever I held a pencil. Sometimes there was a comfort in just knowing it was in my hand, ready whenever I was.

I already had an idea as to the answer, but I still asked. "Who taught you how to play?"

He hesitated and cleared his throat. "My mom."

That's what I'd guessed, but it still made my heart hurt for him. For the boy he once was, forced to grow up without a mother he'd clearly been close to. "It's nice to have something of them, isn't it?" I said quietly. "Octavia . . . music." Sometimes, they left us intangible things, too. I liked to think that maybe I had in me some of my Dad's compassion. Some of Finn's bravery.

"Who I still have, thanks to you." Bellamy looked over at me. "Clarke, my sister is alive because of you." The earnestness he spoke with was like a weight in his eyes, overwhelming me to such a degree I had to look away. My cheeks flamed. And suddenly my thoughts that had been revolving around Octavia this time slipped away. The horror of the accident faded in these moments, my heart pounding for an entirely different reason.

I placed my fingers on the white keys to distract myself. I didn't apply enough pressure to hear them. "It was both of us," I murmured. "Together. We saved her life."

I imagined that line appearing in his forehead, his look of struggle to understand. "Why is it so hard for you to accept any recognition for what you did?" It wasn't accusatory, purely curiosity, I heard in his voice.

"It's not the recognition that bothers me," I told him, my attention only partially on the piano's slender keys. "It's the reminder of it. Of how close she came, and how close I came to losing her." And that just reminded me of all the times before it, too, when saving had never been close. When keeping two people alive became as unreachable as the stars.

"Hey." Bellamy cupped the side of my head with his palms, wiping back a loose strand of hair behind my ear. "My sister is alive because of you. Okay? If you hadn't been there, she . . ." Fear filled his eyes, but he blinked it back. "But you were, and now she is in there, hurt but breathing, because of that. And that's something you need to hear, Clarke. After everything you've lost, you need to be reminded of what you didn't lose, too." He seemed to still be speaking, but not with words anymore. I saw what appeared to be a hundred thoughts cross his dark eyes. Understanding mingled with sympathy. Indignation mixed with anger. I saw hope. I saw pain. And suddenly I realized what I was seeing. Bellamy Blake, open and vulnerable before me.

I'd seen glimpses of this. Moments caught in the midst of worry and panic, when his last priority had been to look strong and unshakable. But I'd never seen it quite like this. And never with intention.

I became aware of that cold fear again, tying my thoughts in confusion and my stomach in knots. I blinked quickly and nodded.

"Clarke?"

I whipped around at the sound of my name to find my mom standing by the piano room's exit, purse in hand. She cast a glance between me and Bellamy. "Are you ready to go? Or do you want more time?"

I swallowed and shook my head. "No, I'm ready. I'll be back tomorrow," I told Bellamy. But it seemed wrong, somehow, to walk away so abruptly. "Hey," I said, low enough so that only he would hear. "Do you think I could hear you play sometime? Maybe not yet but, . . . maybe someday?" When I could bear to listen. When I was ready.

Bellamy flashed me a tight smile. "Maybe someday."

"Bellamy . . . he seems nice." I heard no implication in her voice as we drove along the highway, back towards Rock.

It was nothing suggestive. But her words found their mark, and despite them devoid of anything more than a kind remark, I knew Mom was seeing more than she was currently allowing to slip into her tone.

"Yeah," I replied, trying to keep my tone just as neutral.

"He cares about you."

I looked at her only to find her straight-faced, eyes on the road. She'd said it as if she were stating fact, not insinuating anything. A perfect doctor delivering an irrefutable certainty.

I didn't reply, watching instead as the darkness outside blurred by. Clouds obscured most of the stars.

"You care about him."

I ground my teeth, wishing she would stop. Wishing that what I was trying to understand would stay on the inside of me long enough for me to to get a chance to process it before anyone else could see it and try, too.

But I was slipping up. In more ways than one.

"I do. We're friends."

I heard the soft smile in her voice this time. "I saw the way you were looking at him."

Still not suggestive. Still fact-stating. I wrapped my arms tight across my chest, as if that would shield anyone from seeing anything. As if her words weren't enough to prove what was already strikingly bare.

Once again, I found myself trying to stifle that sudden, cold draft of fear.

"Don't let guilt keep you from being happy, Honey," Mom murmured quietly. "Life is too short to spend it feeling that way over what you can't ever change."

I wanted to say that it was different, but I knew it wasn't. "I just . . . I'm not ready." I'm not ready. I'm not ready. I can't be ready.

"Then give yourself time to get ready," she said. "But make sure you're waiting because you want to. Not because you think you have to."

The memory of her at the hospital this afternoon flashed across my mind, the terror I'd caught in her eyes lingering. I bit my lip. "I'm sorry," I murmured, my words so quiet. "For thinking that maybe you didn't love Dad . . . as much as I'd always thought."

She reached over and patted my knee. "You have nothing to be sorry for. I'm the one who's sorry, for keeping it all from you. That wasn't fair. And it wasn't right. And if you're not comfortable with it, I will . . . end it with Marcus." She sighed. "You're my daughter, Clarke. As long as I have you, I have everything I need."

I almost winced. Did I want that? Her to end whatever happiness she'd found, even if it was with a man who wasn't my father? The answer was simple, even if it was also still painful. No.

"I don't want you to have to do that, Mom. I . . . I forgive you. I can't say that I'm ready to have a family dinner together with him," the words stung, "but I'll . . . I'll tell you when I'm ready to try."

I looked over to find her smiling, not a sad smile, yet one that couldn't help but come with a few tears. "Thank you, Clarke."

The following day, before I had time to leave for the hospital, Thalia appeared on my doorstep, two coffees in hand, come to check in on me. I was slightly surprised to find she wasn't sporting her fishnet stockings today, but ripped jeans and a Nirvana shirt three sizes too big. The hem nearly reached her knees.

Despite having only just reconnected, it was easy to anticipate her familiar ways, and it didn't feel awkward to sit on the couch beside her, our coffees in hand.

"So Octavia is doing okay?" she was asking, legs tucked beneath her. She sipped at her coffee dubiously.

"Yeah. She'll be able to go back home tomorrow morning."

Thalia nodded, thoughtful. "That's still so crazy. Would you tell her I said hi? I mean, if it's not creepy. I just . . . I still feel bad, for saying everything I did about her."

I smiled at this additional peace offering. "I will. You could come to the hospital with me, if you want."

Her eyes widened and she shook her head. "Um, that's okay. Hospitals . . . not really a plus one kind of event, you know? I'll wait. But . . . thanks."

I bit back my amusement with a tentative swig of my coffee.

"And Bellamy? How's he been holding up?"

My coffee caught in my throat and I coughed. "He's good."

"I bet he was pretty grateful to you."

"He was."

"I mean, I'd see you guys in the halls a lot at school. Talking and stuff. You seem . . . close."

"We're friends."

Thalia had no way of knowing this was touching upon the conversation I'd had just last night with Mom. In fact, I would've found the similarities between the two downright comical, if I weren't so taken off guard by them.

I imagined there was probably a blank expression on my face, due to an equally strange one Thalia was giving me. It was speculative. Intense.

"What?"

A funny smile played on her lips. "You like him, don't you?"

For all the softness she asked with, the question seemed to drop out of the very sky, slamming into the ground at my feet. There was probably a rational reaction to her words, but I knew that earlier, glacial fear wasn't it. And yet, the fact that she asked, that she even saw at all, sent my heart pounding.

I clearly couldn't hide anything anymore.

"Nothing's happened," I told her automatically, almost defensive.

"That's a yes," she deadpanned, unfazed. She couldn't hear the way my heart twisted. "When did this start? How did-"

I set my coffee down and moved off the couch. "It didn't start, Thalia."

I suddenly wanted to return to our previous topic of conversation. To how she was. To Octavia. To puppies. To the muted and mundane. Anything but this again.

But perhaps I had momentarily forgotten who I was talking to. Sure, things had changed, but not enough to shake the expressions or habits I had that Thalia still read so well. She knew when something was bothering me, and she saw that now, appraising me with a speculative gaze hemmed in dark mascara. "This is about Finn, isn't it?"

I shook my head. "It's . . ." I tried to find the right explanation."It's complicated."

"You know he'd want you to be happy, right?"

The mention of him, of him in that context, drew me up short. If anyone else had a right to say that, to suggest that, it would be her, and we both knew it. "There's more to it."

"You overthink things way too much," she said, leaning her head back in exasperation. "I mean, I may not have supported it beforehand, but now that I know . . . a little bit more," she shrugged, "I think I like him for you. You're different, but not a bad different. Like . . ." her expression turned pensive. "Like a stronger version of who you used to be."

I stared at her, perplexed. "How?"

She waved a hand and took a big gulp of her coffee. "I don't know how to explain it."

"Please try." Maybe if I understood more clearly what other people were seeing, I'd understand some things a little more clearly myself.

She untucked her legs and drew them into her chest, wrapping her arms around them. She rested her chin on her knees as she thought about it, finger tracing the lid of her cup. "It's like . . . okay, with Finn, you were yourself, right? But you were still lost, after your dad. And you never quite got the chance to learn who you were without him before you suddenly lost Finn, too." She lifted her dainty shoulders. "I think . . . Bellamy has given you the space to figure that out."

I stared at her, struck by her profound insight. Especially since she'd been absent for most of the phenomenon she was referring to. "Are you sure you're not the one overthinking things?"

Thalia rolled her eyes. "Deny it all you want, Clarke Griffin. But sooner or later, you're gonna have to face the music. And you're gonna realize that it's not a betrayal to Finn, and it's not something you need to be afraid of, either."

I winced internally at her choice of words, unable to quite hold back my look of disbelief. She saw it, like my mom did. Like Bellamy did. Maybe not the truth in its entirety, a thing I had yet to understand myself, but certainly pieces of it. Whatever I thought I'd been hiding, I'd clearly been the one most fooled by the act.

I ran a hand across the top of my head. "And you don't think it's too . . . too soon?"

A deep sadness bloomed in her eyes, a stark contrast to the friendly discussion we'd just been having a few moments prior. "There's no penance for healing, Clarke. So what if it's been half a year or more? Shorter even? We all know you loved him. You're probably right, and there's more to it, but I don't think this is just about you struggling to let him go. I think you're struggling because you know a big part of you already has."

I took a shuddering breath, a torrent of emotions suddenly ripping at the insides of me. "And I'm just supposed to let that be okay?" I asked her, telling myself it was a purely hypothetical question. There had never been just one piece when it came to the idea of how I felt about Bellamy, and why I wanted to avoid it. This was simply one reason among many I was only beginning to fully understand, much less disclose. "What if I don't want to move past it so quickly because I don't think I . . . should be able to?"

Thalia chewed on her lip again, as if hesitant to say what she wanted to, overly cautious probably due to our reconciliation, still fresh and tenuous. But if there was one thing Thalia was, it was uncensored, and she wasn't about to compromise that now.

She set down her coffee. Standing up, she placed a hand on both my shoulders and gave them a comforting squeeze. There was no judgment in her eyes. "Then all you're doing is lying, and the only person you're really betraying isn't Finn. It's yourself."