What have I done?
I look over to her empty side of the bed, and I feel empty inside.
What have I done?
I pushed her out the door.
I pushed her out of my life.
Maybe for good.
She was trying to protect me from myself, and once again, I couldn't face up.
I couldn't shoulder the responsibility for my own actions.
Blame is a convenient creature.
A creature of habit.
A creature of necessity.
A creature I'm familiar with.
I was Preston Burke.
Preston Burke was untouchable, perfect, guiltless.
Then I met her.
I fell in love with her.
And she changed me.
Maybe for the better.
Maybe not.
She challenges me.
She confuses me.
She makes me second guess myself.
She's there when I need her in a way that's uncommon.
'I won't bear a grudge.' I told her.
It was like I was telling her it was okay to walk away.
I should've said, 'I need you.'
I pause for a moment, running my hand over the cold empty spot she left in my bed.
In my heart.
Immediately I sit up and my heart begins to race.
"I have to get her home." I mumble. "I have to get her back."
My mind begins to race.
I threw her out of my apartment, my heart, my life for the same thing I've been doing since I got shot.
Because she couldn't tell me what she wanted in a straight forward manner, clinical, cold, textbook explanation.
I complained of her 'emotional shortcomings'.
The very same emotional shortcomings that I myself have.
How could I be so stupid?
I frantically grab my keys off the kitchen counter and race out the door.
My heart is pounding.
I am Preston Burke.
A stubborn, cold, complacent man who pushed away the last positive thing in his life.
I am Preston Burke.
A man with a heart of steel, a man who is unaffected by tragedy. A selfish man who couldn't learn to be selfless at the expense of the woman he loves.
I am Preston Burke no more.
My breath quickens as I reach the door of Meredith's house. It's the only place she could be.
Through the Victorian glass doors, I see George scampering about, and he freezes when he takes notice of me.
He opens the door cautiously, and Meredith appears beside him.
"Don't you think you've done enough this morning?" she spits at me, a disgusted look painted upon her mousey features.
"I need to talk to her."
I try to step into the door, but George places himself in front of me.
"O'Malley, I am not a violent person, but if you don't remove yourself from the path that leads me to Cristina, I cannot be sure of the acts I may commit." I mumble in a low and threatening tone.
"You can't hurt her again. She may be a little weird sometimes, and she may be indifferent, but she is my friend, and I don't let my friends get hurt." he says in a trembling voice.
He's obviously intimidated.
I give him a curt nod and he moves out my way.
"She's in the last door on the left." he mutters at me, obviously upset at my words.
"George!" Meredith hisses, slapping her tiny hand into his side.
"Stay out of it, Grey." I call back down the stairs as I race up them.
I reach the door to the room that contains the love of my life and my hand tremors as I reach for the antique brass knob.
With a slight squeak and a low click the door opens and I find her sprawled out on the bed, still in jeans and a pink tank top, her leather jacket strewn across the side of the bed.
I instinctively pick it up and set it neatly at the foot of the bed, and lie down next to her.
"Cristina." I say in a hushed voice, pulling her hair back from her face.
Her eyes are puffy and red.
I made her cry.
Again.
"Cristina." I repeat, stroking her cheek, my hand still tremoring slightly.
She opens her eyes and startles slightly.
I pull her close and she fights it for a moment.
I shush her, "You have to listen to me." I tell her in a near whisper. "Those things...those things I said, I didn't mean them. I didn't mean any of them."
No response. She just lays there in my arms, her body tense.
"I accused you of the very same things that I do myself. I expect you to tell me exactly what you want, when I can't tell you exactly what I want." I continue slowly.
She begins to relax a little, but still no response.
"I got angry with you for trying to preserve my career when I told you that the only thing I valued was my hands."
She looks up at me with those perfect eyes, her lips parted slightly.
"I held you accountable for things that were beyond your control. Things that I should've held myself accountable for."
She nods slightly.
"And I expected you to be there after the shooting, after everything went down by telling you that I wouldn't bear a grudge if you left, when what I really meant was I needed you."
"Burke..." she begins.
"No, let me finish. I needed you then, and I need you now. I need you in my life, now and forever. I need you to come home with me, and I need you to stay there. I need you to get through this. I can't take care of me. I said that I had to take care of me, but I can't take care of me. I need you to take care of me. I need to take care of you. I need you."
I find myself at the point of rambling, and I know what I need to ask her, but I can't find the words.
She closes her eyes for a moment, as if in deep thought, and she opens them again. "What are you saying, Burke?" she whispers.
But she knows what I'm saying.
She knows what I'm asking.
"Cristina, I want you to marry me."