Present Day: March 26

On Tuesday, Lydia doesn't go to school. She spends much of the day reading through the collection of notes that Stiles has left for her over the past few months. The last one reads: Remember, I'll always come back to you. It's dated March 14, and it is the only note he placed directly into her hand.

Lydia remembers that it was just after dark when she heard a knock at her window and the sound of it sliding open. She remembers the wild fluttering in her stomach when he climbed into her room and the sinking feeling that followed when she saw his expression; beautiful face wracked with fear, uncertainty, and culpability. She remembers Stiles telling her that he would be checking into Eichen House that very night. She remembers not being able to breathe as she heard the words: I have to leave you for a while. I don't want to. I wouldn't…if I thought I had a choice…but look at what I've done. I've already hurt Scott, and I can't risk hurting you too. Lydia silently protested, shaking her head and gripping his hoodie. She remembers standing ever so close and pleading, with words – asking him to wait, to look for another way, working ardently to convince him that they could figure it out together.

She remembers seeing love in his eyes…even through all of the pain. She remembers feeling that love in the way Stiles touched her face with shaking hands and hearing it in the softness of his voice. Her heart and her arms were drawn like magnets towards him, and he met her embrace just as passionately. His soft lips were pressed against her forehead while both of their tears trickled down her face. She remembers the quaking she felt as they cried, and not being able to tell if it was Stiles or herself – then being struck by the realization that it was both of their bodies, shivering in the silence.

She was so caught up in not wanting to let go of Stiles that she never felt him slip a small piece of paper into her palm as he clenched her hand. Lydia didn't notice the precious fragment until he reluctantly let go, whispering I'll come back to you into her ear before kissing her cheek, turning to leave, and closing the window behind him. She remembers not sleeping that night, tossing and turning with worry. She remembers thinking nothing could feel worse.

Now, she knows it can…and it does.

She also remembers that Malia was a patient at Eichen House during the time Stiles was there, but she pushes the thought from her mind. She doesn't want to think about Malia, or Malia and Stiles.

Lydia can't believe that the devotion Stiles conveyed for so long could disappear in just a few days' time. She can't believe that the boy who has always been there for her, the one who whispered sweet words and held her through the darkest hours of the night, who wiped her tears and kissed her hands, who knows her better than anyone…even her own mother, she can't believe that he would abandon her now, when she needs him the most.

She looks for tangible proof of his affection. She lies down, on his side of the bed, goes back to the very first note he gave her, and begins reading through each one. Tracing his penmanship with her fingertips, she wishes she could relive every minute she spent with Stiles, even the difficult ones. She still sees love in his writing. It was there.

Don't start doubting yourself now, she hears. You knew it…you felt it.

She laughs; cruel hollow sound echoing in the vast empty space that surrounds her. Maybe it was there, but he left anyway…and this time, he didn't promise to come back to me. He didn't even say good-bye.

Scott calls her in the afternoon. They talk for a long time, and both agree to make an effort to go to school the following day. He doesn't mention Stiles and neither does she. Lydia assumes he knows everything. When they hang up, she wants to call Stiles…one more time, but she is afraid Malia will give her the answer she doesn't want, so she puts the phone aside and shifts to her side of the bed, shivering against unwelcoming cold sheets.

Stiles goes to school on Tuesday. Lydia and Scott are not there again, and he didn't expect them to be. Everything is the same as it was the day before, except it's more difficult because the more time that passes without hearing from Lydia, the more indisputable it becomes that she wanted him to go, and the more it hurts.

When he is in class, he rips a segment of paper from his notebook, scribbles another message, and puts it in his pocket. He still sees Lydia everywhere he goes. Today, he looks down at his hand and sees her fingers laced with his and feels her little gold ring pressing between his knuckles. He flips through the copy of Catch-22 that she lent him, tracing the notes she wrote in the margins with his fingertips.

He is relieved to learn that Malia won't be at lunch because she has a session with her tutor. Stiles spends the time with Kira, and it's easier to be around her because she is sympathetic and doesn't ask so many questions. There is an aura of disappointment and uncertainty about her, but she puts on a brave face when she asks how Scott is doing. He knows how she feels. He has been there – heart captivated by a person who is preoccupied with thoughts of someone else. He wishes there was something he could say to make her feel better, but he can't think of anything.

Getting through another day is trying. There is the same tightness in his throat and chest, and the same overwhelming feeling of loss pressing down on his shoulders. When he visits Scott after school, Stiles almost makes it through the entire visit without thinking of how he twisted the blade inside his best friend's stomach...almost. The two boys talk for a long time, and Scott tells him that he is going back to school the following day. Stiles wonders if Lydia will be there, but he doesn't ask Scott. In fact, neither of them mentions Lydia.

March 27

On Wednesday, Lydia wakes up alone, for the third consecutive day, to the blaring sound of her alarm clock, instead of the comforting sound of Stiles's morning voice. Having grown accustomed to the dim provided by overcast skies, the sunlight pouring through her room seems abnormally bright. She slowly gets out of bed wishing for clouds to reappear so they can ease the sting from her eyes.

She showers with the hot water cranked as high as it will go. After brushing her teeth, Lydia meticulously blow-dries her hair, parting it at the center and leaving it down around her shoulders; an extra layer of protection from the outside world. Then she picks out a plain black romper to wear, matching it with opaque tights and a heavy cream-colored sweater to combat the chill in her bones. She sits at her vanity and puts on a layer of makeup to conceal her grief. The aching in her chest intensifies as she slips on her boots and fiddles with the zipper that always sticks. She remembers warm hands circling her ankle and long fingers adeptly managing the stubborn closure for her. Pushing the thought from her mind, Lydia picks up her books, says good-bye to Prada with a heavy heart, and drives to school in silence.

At school, she cautiously steps into the hallway – the very place where she and Allison met. The same hallway where the two girls had one of their last conversations. The same hallway where Stiles clung to her as they backed away from the Nogitsune. The same hallway where he dropped to the ground from exhaustion – ceasing her lungs until he drew breath again. She doesn't have to remember that awful feeling for very long, because when she sees Stiles standing down the hallway, she cannot breathe – only this time she can't imagine how she will be able to start again…because she is without him, and because his beautiful brown eyes are now facing Malia. She walks by them, hoping to remain unnoticed, even though her heels click too loudly with each step. The tugging in her chest nearly jolts her backwards, but she keeps moving. Her cheeks flush when she thinks she hears Stiles say her name, but it doesn't sound real…so she doesn't look back.

The relentless deluge of memories continues throughout the day. Allison is everywhere – not just in her barren locker, her empty chair, or the memorial crafted by complete strangers, so that other complete strangers can stop by to gawk at it. She is in the echo of a laugh that the world will not hear again, the olive-green scarf that hangs in Lydia's locker, and in the conjugation of the verb protéger in French class. Stiles is everywhere – not just in the hallway, in the only available seat in algebra class, or passing her in a stairway that suddenly feels suspiciously narrow. He is in the tapping of a pen against a desk, a piece of paper being torn from a notebook, the sight of a pale blue Jeep in the parking lot, the inescapably distinct light that filters into the hallway from the locker room, and the profound distance between them.

Every inch of the school and its grounds assaults Lydia with another memory. She senses the rising water and struggles to fight her tears. She misses them both so much that it hurts. The pain is made worse because she wouldn't have to be missing Allison if she had been able to save her, and she wouldn't be missing Stiles if she hadn't ruined everything by falling in love with him.

The day is long and even more trying than anticipated. Lydia goes to all of her classes, but she doesn't raise her hand to answer questions or volunteer to solve equations on the board. She thinks she knew the answers once, but things that used to make sense to her don't anymore. When Stiles is near, Lydia feels pulled towards him…even when she can't see him. It is just as intense as before, except now it hurts. He is distant. He doesn't look at her, doesn't stand close, goes out of his way not to touch her. She sees the change and it hurts, but she takes his lead and does the same.

At lunch, she talks to Kira and Scott, but only if they initiate conversation because she finds she has little to offer. She tries not to look into either of their eyes. In Kira's, she sees empathy and a glimmer of hope – but it is hidden within the maze of grief that separates Lydia from the rest of the world, and she is just too worn down to search for it. In Scott's, she can see his pain as well as her own and it is so distressing that it draws the ground out from beneath her feet. He offers his lunch to Lydia when he notices that she didn't get anything for herself, but she has no appetite for it. When he pushes his tray in front of her, all she can think of is Stiles. Stiles who is positioned at the opposite end of the table…as far away from her as possible. Malia is next to him. She is always around. She stands too close to Stiles, touches him too often, looks at him in a very specific way. Lydia recognizes that look – she has seen it before. She knows what it means, and it hurts.

She gets up from the table before anyone else, muttering an excuse about forgetting something in her locker. Not a single note makes its way into her orbit. She is not surprised, but it still hurts. It's an effort, but Lydia pushes through…makes it to the end of the school day. She drives home alone. She studies alone. She cries herself to sleep – alone and missing Stiles.

Stiles is not prepared for school on Wednesday. Being in the same place as Lydia but not being able to stand near her, talk to her, or touch her is far more painful than when she wasn't there at all. In the morning, when sudden brightness lures his eyes upwards from the floor, he sees Lydia standing down the hallway…and he can't breathe. He thinks she became even more beautiful in the last two days. She makes his bruised heart beat faster, and it hurts. He hears Malia talking to him, but he doesn't know what she is saying. He directs his eyes at her, trying to read her lips because his ears are ringing so loudly. When he looks for Lydia again, she has already passed beyond his reach. He wants to call out her name. Three syllables fight their way up his throat but never make it past his lips. He swallows them, watching as a strawberry-blonde glow disappears into the masses, and it hurts.

The next time he sees Lydia is in algebra. When he enters the classroom, the only available seat is directly behind her. He thinks he sees her shoulders tense when he passes her desk. Throughout class, she keeps her head down and her back turned. He tears out a piece of paper from his notebook and writes a few lines: Please turn around. Just for a second. I miss you. Then he carefully folds and tucks the message into his pocket, rather than reaching over to drop it on her desk, like he normally would have done. He spends the remaining part of the hour trying not to look at her. Instead, he stares at his empty left hand – a hand that should be holding Lydia's.

At lunch, Stiles sits at the opposite end of the table from Lydia, so he doesn't make her uncomfortable again. He can't see what she is doing or hear the few syllables she voices because Malia is sitting next to him, firing off question after question about the history homework that is due in the afternoon. He senses when Lydia is the first to leave their group because something suddenly tightens around his heart and tugs in her direction. His eyes catch a shimmering glint of sunlight reflecting off of her hair as she turns away.

It's an effort but he pushes through…makes it to the end of his last class, then drives home alone. He studies alone. He crawls into bed, covering himself with the blanket he wrapped around Lydia just a few days ago. It still smells like her. He pulls it up to his nose and stares at the ceiling until he dozes off – alone and missing Lydia. Thursday and Friday are no different.

For Lydia, Thursday is much the same as its predecessor. She wanders the high school on auto-pilot, all the while, missing Allison, missing Stiles, missing the glimpses of what her life could be like if they were still a living, breathing part of it. She burnishes a forced smile when necessity calls for it, pushes as much emotion away from her heart as possible, and resumes her new routine.

As she walks to her car after school, she passes the line of school buses, harsh blast of heat from the exhaust mixed with the smell of gasoline, attacking her senses and triggering another memory. She remembers the night at the Glen Capri. She was seated next to a sleeping Allison on a grimy bus in the middle of the desert. She remembers not being able to sleep – heart still pounding in her chest, head still swimming with gruesome images of the Darach, as well as thoughts of what might have happened to Boyd, to Isaac, or Scott…of what could have happened to Stiles. He was sitting just across the aisle from her. She remembers turning to look at him, somehow knowing he would be awake too. He was already facing her, eyebrows raised in question as he ticked his head towards the door in silent communication. She distinctly recalls Stiles holding out his hand for her and how she accepted it without a second thought. She remembers the pressing need to connect with him, to touch him, to make sure he was really with her – alive and unharmed.

She remembers the cool, early morning air underneath a gradually lessening, slate-colored sky that was scattered with charcoal-grey clouds. They sat on the steps of the bus, warming their hands on cups of hot coffee that looked far too unpleasant to drink. She remembers how Stiles hesitantly reached out to tuck her hair behind her ear…for the very first time, and how her heart skipped beats as his hand skimmed the rim of her ear. She remembers swarming with emotion, barely able to maintain eye contact with him as he thanked her for saving his life, extra emphasis on his gratitude when he thanked her for saving Scott. She remembers when she noticed his arm, battered and bruised, scraped from wrist to elbow, marking where he fell to the ground beneath her. Her mind went blank at the realization that he was not unharmed – she hurt him. She wanted to save him, and she hurt him. She wonders if he hurts now too…or if he is just relieved to be free of her.

Lydia remembers the note that appeared in her locker at the end of the next school day. The very first one Stiles left for her. The one with a cherry-flavored Life-Savers candy taped to the inside and which read: Wanna get some REAL coffee? When she turned around, he was standing behind her; keys jingling in his right hand, broad smile spread across his face, and a twinkle in his eyes. It was the first time she remembers thinking maybe she loved him…but it certainly wasn't the last.

On Friday, Danny gives her a hug when he spots her at the end of the day. It's all she can do not to break down in his arms because it's the only physical contact she's had with anyone in days. As nice and as thoughtful as the gesture is, it leaves her feeling the void that Stiles left even more profoundly. All she wants is to be held by the boy who captured her heart – the boy who called her beautiful and smart in the same night, as though he were oblivious to the world's misconception that those are mutually exclusive qualities, unable to exist in the same place at the same time. All she wants is for him to tell her he still cares and make her forget the hours they have been apart…but he disappeared into the mist, and he didn't come back.

After school, Lydia drives to her house with a pit in her stomach the size of a grapefruit. She leaves her books in the hallway and calls for Prada, who skids across the wood floors, leaping into her open arms. She kneels on the floor, holding her companion tightly to her chest as she rifles through the mail. At the bottom of the pile, she finds a thin envelope for herself...orange and blue letters marking the return address in Flushing, New York. Her eyes widen. She had forgotten.

Clutching Prada, she gets up from the floor, leaving the rest of the mail to fall at her feet. She runs up to her bedroom, heart pounding in her chest, pit rattling around in her stomach, heavy as lead, branding invisible bruises into the walls of her abdomen. She grabs a letter-opener from her desk, slices through the top crease of the envelope, and moves to the bed. She stops – heat rising in her cheeks and bottom lip relentlessly quivering. Her attempts to take a deep breath are in vain because her lungs continue to resist opening to full capacity, so she settles for half of a breath. Gingerly, she glides her fingers into the envelope and pulls out what is inside. Lydia stares for a minute, blinking as her vision goes blurry, warm liquid flowing over her lashes and dripping down her face. She returns the contents to the envelope, tucking it into her night stand, and slamming the drawer shut. She kicks off her shoes and sinks into her pillow, which still smells like Stiles. Heart aching with the shrill bite of loss, she cries…and she cries with Prada curled up to her neck, sympathetically whimpering alongside her.

One Week Later

Lydia thinks she should have run out of tears by now, but somehow every day there are more. Stiles now speaks to her, on occasion, but generally in single syllables and only when necessary. He still doesn't touch her…not even accidentally. He still doesn't stand less than three feet away from her. She aches for the seven nights she spent tucked into his embrace, soothed only by the vibrations of his voice and the scent of his skin enveloping her with comfort. She aches for the grey-sky mornings when Stiles coaxed her awake with two warm hands and the brilliant light that radiates from his gold-flecked eyes.

At school, she fights the pain in her chest, the need to cry, the tightness in her throat, and the knot in her stomach. At home, she surrenders, gives herself permission to sob until her pillow is soaked and her body is numb. She lathers, rinses, and repeats until it becomes part of her routine.

The pieces of her careful façade, which Stiles had almost completely broken down, are now snapping back into place…with every shallow breath. This time, however, the illusion that its presence was making her stronger and safer is gone. It merely imprisons the lighter version of herself that was fighting to be set free. It weighs her down and causes her to mourn the loss of the girl she was becoming – the girl who had a close-knit group of friends showing her what love really is, the girl who wanted to believe in birthday wishes again, the girl who was waiting for the right moment to reach for the brass ring and never let go.

Stiles may have removed himself from her life, but the love he nurtured inside of Lydia has remained. The sight of him, if only from the corner of her eye, steals her breath and makes her shudder. Her heart hastens at the sound of his voice. She loves Stiles, no matter how much space is separating them. Without him, the world lacks sense and reason. She loves him, but she is angry at him for leaving, for moving on with his life and forgetting about her. It's awful enough to realize that he doesn't love her back, but he also doesn't seem to want her friendship either. She wonders why it's so easy for him to ignore her. She would hate him if she thought it would make things easier, but she knows it won't and there is no part of her that could ever hate the one person who made her feel alive when she was dying inside.

He is still the best thing that ever happened to her.

Stiles thinks he should be getting used to the pain by now, but somehow every day it feels newer and more significant. Whenever he ventures a step closer to Lydia, she seems to drift farther away. There is something different about her, but he can't decide what it is because he won't let himself look at her long enough to figure it out. He desperately wants to talk to her – about anything, everything, or nothing at all. He remembers how they would get caught up in conversations for hours, completely losing track of time, often into the early morning hours. He aches for the seven unforgettable nights he spent with Lydia leaning against him, all of his pain eased by the way their bodies fit together and the feeling of silky copper curls looped around his fingertips. He aches for the bleak colorless mornings when the first image to come into focus was Lydia's sleeping face, and the most outstanding sound he heard was that of his name on her lips.

At school, he fights to keep his eyes off her, to stand at a distance and not touch her. He reminds himself this is what she needs so she can heal. At home he lets his mind wander... He pictures her face, remembers her molding herself around him, and the softness of her skin against his. He wonders if there is any part of her that can begin to forgive him, that maybe misses him, or at least wishes things were different. He is afraid he won't like the answers to any of those questions – not that he is in the position to ask.

He can't be with Lydia, but he loves her still. A second's long glimpse of her is all it takes to knock the air from his lungs. His heart races at the sound of her voice. He loves her no matter how much space he allows between them. The tugging in his chest seems more determined to pull him in her direction. He doesn't know how much longer he can keep this up. Without her, the world is one without sense or reason. He loves her, but it hurts that she accepted his absence so willingly. He knows she can't love him…especially not now, but he can't completely let go of the hope that things will change. She is still the only girl he has ever loved and the only one he wants to be with. She is the center of his life – the girl who made the sun come out.

She is still the best thing that ever happened to him.

Two Weeks Later: April 18

It's late afternoon on a Thursday. Lydia and Scott are sitting on the floor with a stack of chemistry textbooks. As he works through his last set of practice equations, she looks around the room. Although they are in Scott's bedroom, Lydia hasn't been able to stop thinking of Allison or Stiles since she arrived. Their group of four spent so many hours in this space – strategizing, talking, laughing, sharing pizza, watching movies. The dart board reminds her of Allison; no one could best her score. There are photographs of her too; her smile calls out to Lydia from across the room. She notices Scott's lacrosse gear in the corner, his little league trophies on the bookshelf, and the unopened Star Wars DVD collection on the nightstand. They remind her of Stiles. Even the soft gold color of the walls makes her think of the flecks in his eyes. She has not seen those sparkling glints for nearly one month. Lydia can feel the grief expanding in her chest, so she shifts her gaze to Scott's paper, reviewing his work upside-down.

"Scott, those are all perfect. You're going to ace that exam tomorrow."

A pair of expressive, dark brown eyes meet Lydia's as Scott looks up from his notes, shaking his head. "If I do, it will be because you helped me."

Lydia purses her lips. "You had the concept down, you just needed to be pointed in the right direction when it comes to balancing the formulas."

They both sit for a moment; the silence is heavy but not uncomfortable.

"Well, I should probably get going," Lydia says, passing the bulky text that has been resting on her lap over to her friend.

As Scott reaches for it, his hand bumps against her thumb for a split-second and he experiences a sharp flicker of hurt. He looks at her pensively. He can't remember feeling someone else's pain so intensely from such fleeting contact. It makes him worry about her more than he already has been…especially since his conversation with Stiles a few weeks ago. It's obvious that Lydia has not been the same since Allison died – none of them have been – but he is fairly sure that her strained relationship with Stiles is intensifying her grief.

When Scott realizes he is staring, he breaks from it, leans back on his hands, and scans the room trying to think of something to say. "It's uh…a long time since you've been here."

Lydia notices the way Scott has been studying her. She would turn away if she thought she could hide the emotion that is compiling inside. There is really no point in doing that with Scott – he can sense how she is feeling anyway. It's slightly uncomfortable, being so exposed, but in a way, it helps to know that he cares enough to look so closely. She appreciates that it must be awkward for Scott to be poised somewhere in the middle of the space between Stiles and herself, and she is grateful not to have lost his friendship along with everything else. She knows Scott understands the kind of heartbreak she is going through – he lost Allison and she lost Stiles.

"Yeah, I guess it has. Things have been…different lately," she points out.

Scott ducks his head to meet her eyes. His voice is saturated with sincerity when he speaks. "I hope it doesn't stay that way. You're always welcome here. You know that… Right?"

She blinks back tears and smiles, but it doesn't touch her eyes. Scott returns the gesture in a similar manner. This is how they smile now.

"Hey…why don't you stay a while? If you're hungry, I could pick up some take out," he suggests hopefully before nibbling on his lip. "And…uh…Stiles is going to stop by later."

Lydia's heart races at the sound of his name, and she knows Scott will be aware of it. Her eyes widen in response to the dangerous direction the conversation has headed. "I don't think that's a good idea," she replies.

Scott notices the change in Lydia's heart rate and demeanor. He doesn't want to upset her further, so he rests a reassuring hand on her arm. In doing so, he gets a greater sense of her pain, and it is so severe that he startles. He immediately wants to do something about it. He figures it's not his place to get involved in Stiles and Lydia's relationship, but neither of them has been able to budge and he can't stand knowing they are suffering.

"Aww…Lydia…it's worse than I thought."

She knows he is referring to the state of her relationship with Stiles, as well as the pain she is emitting. She says nothing, puts her head down, and fiddles with the zipper on her boots – the one that always sticks.

"You guys need to talk. It can't go on like this."

"I can't. He doesn't want to see me…because of what I said."

"I don't believe that. I know he misses you."

Lydia shakes her head. "Scott, you don't have to say that. He has gone out of his way to—" She pauses for an abbreviated breath. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to… You guys are best friends, and I don't expect you to see my side of this…but I can't. I tried but—"

"Lydia, we are friends too," Scott interrupts. "We're more than friends. We're family."

Touched by his words, Lydia's eyes begin to mist again. She willfully fights the current onset of droplets because if she starts to cry now, she doesn't think she will be able to stop.

"Scott, you don't know how much that means to me. You are one of the kindest and most genuine people I know. You're my family too, and I don't take that lightly because…let's face it…I have so little family as it is…but that is exactly why I won't put you in the middle."

Scott didn't think there were any other ways that his heart could break, but Lydia just demonstrated there is at least one more. As much as she is trying to hide it, she is radiating loneliness, anguish, and fear. He already knew that Lydia was strong, but he never fully comprehended the depths of her strength until this moment. Considering the amount of strain she is under, Scott is amazed that she is able to function, let alone actively work to conceal herself from the world.

"It hurts me to see you like this. It hurts me to see my best friends not talking. There has to be some kind of misunderstanding. You two can figure it out – you always do."

"I'm not sure this time. At least not now." She tilts her head upwards to contain her tears, repeatedly blinking towards the ceiling until they dissipate. Then she rises from the floor and wraps her arms around herself. "I had better go. I'll see you tomorrow."

Lydia looks towards the door and back to Scott, then picks up her bag and begins to make her exit. When she reaches the threshold, she stops. She just needs to know one thing and Scott is probably the only person whom she can ask.

"Scott?"

"Yeah?" he asks, as he follows her to the door.

"Is… Is he okay? I realize things are…different, but I just need to know that he's okay." Lydia winces as she hears her own voice cracking over each word.

Scott steps closer and places both of his hands on her shoulders. "He'd be better if you two were talking again. So would I." There is nothing but honesty in his voice, in his face, in his touch. "If you just talk to him, I know it will get better for you too."

She marvels at his ability to remain hopeful. Scott has been through just as much trauma as she has, yet he hasn't succumbed to the darkness. No matter how deeply he has been hurt, his kindness never wavers. He remains supportive of his friends in every circumstance; not a single bitter bone in his entire body.

"How do you do it?" she asks.

"Do what?"

"With everything that's happened…how do you keep…from getting lost in the dark?"

He hunches down to meet her gaze. "I look to my friends. You can do that too, you know. There's no shame in asking for help."

Scott's words hit her – hard. She knows Scott means to be comforting, but the last time she asked for help…Stiles left her. She surrenders to the pain, unable to control her tears for a second longer.

"I've ruined everything," she gasps. Smashing her eyes shut, she covers her mouth with her hands and begins to turn away, but Scott pulls her into a hug.

"Hey…come here. I'm sure you didn't. Shh…it's going to be alright," he soothes. "The two of you can work through this. I know you can. Okay? And until then, if you need anything…anything at all, I want you to come to me. I don't want you thinking you are alone…because Lydia you aren't. I'm here for you."

He brings her close and holds her as tightly as he can without hurting her. Lydia's arms are caught between their bodies, and he can feel her grabbing onto the front of his shirt. As Scott rocks her back and forth, the tension and aching start to leave her body and flow into his. The pain is crushing, but he is more than willing to take it from her. It's the least he can do for the girl who saved his best friend's life, as well as his own.

The embrace has a powerful effect on Lydia. It is a genuine, Scott McCall bear-hug. No one has hugged her since Danny, and that was several weeks ago. She almost forgot what it feels like to have someone's arms surrounding her. For the first time since Stiles left, she isn't as cold on the inside. She feels something other than pure pain. She feels comforted and she wants more.

She lifts her head abruptly and Scott is right there – rich brown irises and beautiful tan skin, distinct crooked jawline and small scar on his left cheek. His head is angled towards her, eyes soft and sympathetic.

Scott is my friend. I can trust him. He wants to help me…and maybe he can.

She thinks about kissing him. She's done it before, and she wonders if he would let her now – now, when she is so lost and so deprived of affection. Maybe it will make her feel…better…if only for a few seconds.

She turns her head to the left and her nose bumps Scott's upper lip…a fraction of an inch more and their mouths would make contact.

Friendship is a form of love, she thinks. Scott and I love each other. We are both grieving. We can seek solace in each other, and it doesn't have to be romantic.

She knows Scott understands the kind of hurt she feels. He lost Allison…and she lost…everything.

Scott freezes. He is pretty sure that Lydia is about to kiss him, and he knows it would be a mistake; it isn't what she really wants. He understands that she is heartbroken over Allison and something instinctual tells him that she is heartbroken over Stiles too. So, Scott does the only thing he can think of – he gives Lydia time because he knows she will do the right thing. He doesn't move. He just waits...

Lydia stops. Maybe she could kiss Scott, but she wants to kiss Stiles. Her Stiles. She misses him, and she wants him…only him. Suddenly aware that her discomfort is lessening, Lydia drops her head to Scott's shoulder. She is not ready to let go of the pain. Right now, it is her only link to Stiles, and she would rather ache for him than be consoled by someone else…even if that someone is as incredible as Scott.

She releases his shirt, relieved that he didn't embarrass her by pulling away with disgust and infinitely grateful that he let her make the decision to stop. Scott is the real deal – True Alpha, even truer friend. She slides her arms around his neck, presses a kiss to his cheek, whispers a thank you, and steps through the doorway.

"Lydia, wait."

She turns back.

"Please, just think about talking to Stiles. Don't give up on him. I don't believe for one second that he has given up on you."

She looks at her friend a bit longer before quietly heading down the steps, pondering the advice. Scott knows Stiles better than anyone, and he sounded so certain that she starts to believe he could be right. Just as she reaches the last step, the front door opens, and Stiles comes into view.

As he enters the house, Stiles's jaw slackens and Lydia's posture tenses. Both stand still – paralyzed with love and fear – their eyes connecting for the first time in twenty-four days, neither sure of what to do next.

Lydia finds her voice first. "Hi," she says breathlessly.

Stiles is at a complete loss for words. He certainly didn't expect to run into Lydia, and until she speaks, he is convinced that he is imagining her; a figment conjured up from weeks of intense longing. It's difficult enough to maintain composure when he knows he is going to see her, but at least then he can brace himself for the force of the wave before it knocks into him. Being caught off-guard like this makes him more unsteady; he may as well be fourteen again and barely able to stand in her presence. He holds onto the doorknob for support. It is impossible for him to focus on anything besides Lydia.

He can tell by her wide-eyed gaze that she is just as surprised to see him. Her cheeks are turning pink and her left hand is pressed flat against her stomach. His insides liquefy when he recognizes the pale blue dress she is wearing – the one she wore the day she kissed him. For weeks, she has been appearing to Stiles in this same blue dress. But the reality of her standing in front of him…in that dress…in this moment, has an even more powerful effect on his mind. She is so beautiful that it hurts.

A thrashing upsurge of love washes over him, and he uses the energy of it to quickly clear his throat, so he can respond. "Hi."

At the sound of his voice, Lydia's heart reaches a furious pace. It is obvious that Stiles is stunned by her presence. His lips are quivering in a way that tells her he wants to say something else, but he is obviously searching for words, and his face is painted with emotion which she can't quite discern. The afternoon light glows behind him through the open doorway and he so remarkably handsome that it makes her lightheaded. He is wearing his favorite dark grey baseball jacket, a two-toned grey tee shirt, and red pants. The sight of him transports her to the day she kissed him. The memory makes it impossible for Lydia to deny the swell of butterflies that have been released, and the trembling hand she has placed over her stomach does nothing to settle them. Feeling out of place, she nervously licks her lips, which have gone completely dry.

"I was…just leaving," she finally says.

"Oh," he replies with disappointment. It seems she can't get away from him fast enough.

Thoughts are rushing through his mind, but there are so many things Stiles wants to say that he can't decide how to begin. He is annoyed at how quickly he has regressed from having the ability to talk to Lydia for hours at a time, to the poor excuse for communication he is currently exhibiting.

Lydia notices Stiles shifting his gaze towards the floor. His body language tells her that he is uncomfortable, and his tendency towards single word responses dashes out the hope that Scott encouraged in her just moments ago. She wants to stay and talk to him, but concludes it is best that she leaves before she says or does something that she will regret.

"Scott's upstairs."

"Okay."

"Well…bye," she replies in a hushed tone as she heads for the door.

The two reluctantly move forward, awkwardly crossing each other's paths a few feet from the doorway. Neither wants to part; both assume the other wants the opposite.

Stiles feels Lydia's shoulder brush against his arm as she passes. She is so close – closer than she has been in weeks, and he can't control the urge to stop her. They are headed away from each other, but he turns quickly and catches her hand in his.

"Lydia."

She doesn't turn around; she merely halts in her tracks and closes her eyes at the warm contact she has been missing. This is not only the first time Stiles has touched her since he left, it is also the first time she has heard him say her name since that night. Despite weeks of estrangement his hand is still familiar, and her own name sounds strangely beautiful when it passes his lips.

"Yeah?" she responds softly.

He knows that he is taking an unfair risk, but he needs to look at her again. Stiles tugs on Lydia's hand once…then a second time.

Despite all of the uncertainty between them, she knows what he is asking. When she turns towards him, the right side of her face is masked by a strawberry-blonde waterfall.

Without thinking, Stiles lifts his free hand and gingerly brushes her hair aside. His thumb grazes over her cheek and lingers at her jaw for a fraction of a second. He is trying to look into her eyes to see if fear still resides there, but she is looking down at his hand.

Lydia silently follows his hand with her gaze. She wants to look into his eyes, but she is afraid she won't see any love there, so she doesn't. It seems better to leave the memory of that image untainted. Her heart continues to thunder against her ribs. She understands its message, and she is pleading with Stiles to understand it too. It's calling for him to say he misses her, to reassemble all the shattered pieces and make her feel whole again. He doesn't, and it hurts.

He is waiting for her to look up, but her eyes remain shrouded by rows of thick lashes. There are tiny shimmering droplets clinging to the ends of them. He wonders why she has been crying. He thinks if he can just keep her there for a few seconds more, maybe he can figure it out. He can't, and it hurts. He is relieved if she has been able to confide in Scott, but he still longs to be the one she goes to when she is upset. He reminds himself that he can't be that person and that it's selfish to hold onto her.

"Don't forget your sweater," he says quietly.

Stiles lets go of her hand, then reaches towards the coat rack that is positioned behind her. He lifts her light grey knit from its hook and drapes it over her shoulders. Then he steps aside, shoves his hands into his pockets, and averts his eyes from his love.

She is still holding the half-breath she managed to intake when he touched her hand. When Stiles covers her shoulders, Lydia finally exhales with a barely detectable shudder. He is so close that she feels too week to avoid eye contact any longer.

By the time she gathers the courage to lift her head, Stiles has already increased the space between them and aimed his focus on the wood floor. Lydia reminds herself that he left, and that she should let him go, if that's what he wants.

"Thanks," she whispers. Then she turns away, closing the door behind her.

Stiles watches her go and it is painful. More than anything, he wants to follow after her and beg her to stay with him. He thinks if she had looked at him, if he had been able to detect one tiny hint of forgiveness in her eyes, then he wouldn't have been able to stop himself. He imagines he would already be out the door, hastily calling her name. When she turns back to him, he would crash into her, slide his arms around her waist, and bury his face in her silky hair, filling his lungs with the scent of her. He would draw her close enough to stamp out the space between them once and for all – and she would let him. She would tell him she forgives him, that he doesn't frighten her anymore, and that she loves him too. He would cover her face in kisses, until neither of them could see straight. By the time Stiles snaps out of his daydream, his hand is extended towards the doorknob. He drops his arm to his side. He knows he can't do any of the things he imagined. Things like that don't happen in real life.

He turns towards the steps when he hears a creak in the floorboards from above. Scott is standing on the top landing looking dejected. "What the hell happened? Why didn't you talk to her?" he asks.

"What was I supposed to say? Do you forgive me yet? Are you still afraid of me? I'm sorry I killed your best friend."

"How about the truth?" Scott says plainly.

Stiles looks at him with a blank stare.

"How about I love you…and you are the best thing that ever happened to me…and I want to fix things between us – right now," he suggests, before heading for his bedroom, shaking his head with frustration. "That would have been a good start," he calls over his shoulder.

Stiles follows with a loud sigh, "Yeah…in my dreams."

Slowly, Lydia walks to her car…waiting, hoping that Stiles will come after her. She is praying that she will hear the front door of the McCall house opening. She wants Stiles to call out her name and hasten his movements to catch up with her. She wants him to surround her in his comforting embrace and whisper that he loves her in between kisses that make her forget all the awful time they have spent apart. She misses him so much that she knows she would melt into him – consumed with love, thankful to finally have him close again. She would kiss him back, and the words she has been withholding for so long would flow so freely from her lips that it would shock the both of them. She grows more disappointed with each step. When she reaches the car, she takes another look at the doorway. Stiles is not there. She realizes how foolish she has been. None of what she hoped for can actually be. Things like that only happen in movies.

She settles into the driver's seat replaying the last few minutes in her mind. She wonders how there can be any possible chance for them, like Scott implied. If Stiles had just let her see his eyes, if he had looked at her like he used to, then she would have poured her heart out to him. Maybe it would help him remember how he used to feel about her. Maybe he could love her again.

Lydia wishes she had tried harder – insisted that he look at her. She is angry with herself for not making him talk to her, whether he wanted to or not. She regrets not making him explain why he left or why he doesn't want to be around her.

She is thoroughly confused because Stiles hardly spoke to her, but when he said her name it was laced with such sweetness that it made her think he could still love her. He hasn't touched her for weeks, but when he caressed her face, he was so gentle that it made her feel as though she was precious to him…and it felt like before. She wants to believe that things could change again, that they can find their way back to each other. She wants to believe that perhaps this encounter was the first step in that direction.

Lydia is met with further disappointment when she goes to school the next day and finds that nothing has changed – Stiles is still miles away and hidden from her view.

One Week Later: April 25

After school, Stiles is standing in the parking lot with Scott when a dynamic breeze carries a band of strawberry-blonde into his peripheral vision. It's not the first time this has happened, but today feels different. Stiles leans his forearms atop the hood of his Jeep, struggling more than ever to keep his eyes down.

"It's an abbreviated school day tomorrow. She told me she's going to spend the afternoon at her house…so she can get ahead in her AP classes," Scott informs him.

"Huh—What?" Stiles stutters.

"You heard me," he replies, stepping closer and nudging Stiles in the upper arm. "Dude, this is ridiculous! Look, I've tried not to get involved…to let the two of you figure this out on your own, but it's been a month…a whole month…and neither of you are budging. Would you just stop being so damn stubborn? I mean seriously, just for one minute…look at her and let yourself remember what it feels like!"

Scott is right. Of course he is. Stiles has reached his limit. Every day for one month, he has fought the desire to give in to his feelings, and every day for one month, he has felt his resolve weaken and his anxiety grow. Today, he is just too tired to keep pretending that Lydia Martin doesn't have a massive hold on his heart. Today, he risks a glance and is shocked to find that her eyes are already pointed in his direction. Today, rather than immediately breaking contact, Stiles allows himself to look at her – really look at her.

He is not sure how it is possible, but Lydia is more beautiful than she was one week ago, when he ran into her at Scott's house. Her hair is cascading over her shoulders in pretty waves, and she is wearing a dark blue floral dress with her favorite denim jacket. She stands by her car talking to Kira, but her eyes are definitely locked on him.

Stiles cannot withhold a smile. He sees Lydia's eyebrows arch with surprise, and he thinks she is going to look away, but she quirks up one corner of her mouth…then the other…and it nearly knocks him to the ground. The love for her that is always pumping through his veins, is now rushing at such a rapid speed that he is taken with a sense of dizziness. The sight of her is so profoundly encompassing, Stiles thinks his heart will burst into flames and possibly be reborn from the ashes, just so he and Lydia can start again.

"Stiles, I can hear your heartbeat," Scott informs him through a clenched jaw. "The two of you need to talk. You deserve the chance to work it out…to be together. Can't you see? You are only hurting each other more this way. I can't take it anymore."

"Neither can I."

"SO…what are you going to do about it? Because I won't stand by and watch the two of you suffer like this anymore. It's killing both of you…and honestly, it's killing me too."

Now that he has finally looked up, Stiles can't take his eyes off Lydia. He is more certain than ever that he can't live in a world where they barely speak; a world where they don't even look at each other, let alone touch each other. He is determined not to let his nightmare continue – not after everything they have survived together.

The vision of Lydia, his perfect Lydia…smiling back at him again, reignites hope in his heart. It opens Stiles up to the awareness that things between them can be made right. So, instead of working to convince himself that the only way to help Lydia is by continuing to keep his distance, he considers the possibility that the time apart may have helped. He considers the possibility that if he takes his time and works to prove himself to her, perhaps she can start to trust him again. He will do anything to get back to her – whatever it takes, she is worth it to him.

"I'm going to see Lydia tomorrow."

"Finally! It's about freakin' time!" Scott exclaims, clasping a firm hand on his best friend's shoulder.

Stiles keeps his eyes fixed on Lydia as she says good-bye to Kira and eventually breaks eye contact with him to get into her car. "Hey Scott?"

"Yeah?"

"I…uh… I'm…" he stammers, finishing the rest of his thought only in his mind. I'm nervous…and excited…and terrified…and hopeful…and god, I love her so much.

"I know. It's going to be alright though. I know it."

"What if I…" screw everything up?

"Just tell her the truth and listen to her…the way you always do."

Scott gives him a tight hug, then steps back, picks up his helmet, and hops onto his dirt-bike. He looks at Stiles, who is suddenly fascinated with his sneakers, eyes glued to them as he shifts uncomfortably in place.

"You alright?"

He can't find the words, every emotion coursing through his body as he thinks of Scott's steadfast encouragement. "I think so. I just…thanks, Scott…just…thanks."

Raising the kickstand and straightening his bike, Scott answers with a smile. "Don't mention it. Just make things right with Lydia and let yourself be happy. That's all the thanks I need."

Stiles tries to swallow the lump of gratitude in his throat and waits as Scott starts up the engine and rides away. Then he pulls out a notebook from his backpack, props it on the hood of the Jeep, and carefully tears out a piece of paper. He searches for a pen, neatly writes three lines on the blank slate, then folds it, marks the front with two words, and tucks it into the pocket of his sweatshirt.

Pulling open the door and settling behind the steering wheel, he turns his head to face the passenger's seat – Lydia's seat. He remembers her next to him in a pale blue dress, her hair in a long braid resting along the curve of her shoulder, loosened wispy strands carried aloft by the breeze of the open window. As he parked outside Deaton's animal clinic, she nervously fiddled with the hem of her skirt. He remembers the setting sun turning the sky to a shade of crimson streaked with amber and indigo, last of its rays glinting off the narrow gold band on her index finger. Her eyes were still wide and shining…just like they were in the locker room…just like they were when she kissed him, but there was an unexpected shyness in her that he hadn't seen quite as intensely before. He remembers how she reached for his hand, the one that was clutching his father's badge, jagged metal pressing into both of their palms. Stiles, we are going to get him back, he hears her determined voice say. We are going to get them all back.

After she said those words, they embraced. He doesn't remember who leaned in first, and it doesn't matter. All that mattered was that they held onto each other. When it came down to it…uncertainty, and fear, and hopelessness creeping in…they held onto each other. They used their bond to push it all aside, anchored themselves in love to gather enough strength to take that fateful leap together – below the icy waters, into the dense empty quiet, then back again. Back to each other; heart to heart, bound by an unbreakable tether.

He can almost feel her in his arms again as he remembers that day – the day of the lunar eclipse. The day he knew he would never be the same. The day his heart was shadowed in fear and anxiety, until Lydia cast them away with the touch of her cool hands, the softness of her warm lips, and the sweet breath of her lungs filling him with calm and courage. What she gifted him, is still in his possession – he can feel it, deep in the most sacred caverns of his heart. So, tomorrow he will draw on them and take another leap…blindly perhaps, but faithfully, nonetheless.

Tomorrow, he is going to see Lydia, and he hopes it can be the start of something…good.