The hospital is empty without you, though I never saw you much here with the exception of our call room rendezvous.

Is it wrong that my body aches at the very thought of the things we did to each other in our call room? Is it wrong that you've gone and I miss the lovemaking along with the other things; your eyes, your whispers in the dark, your arm around my waist while I sleep? Is it wrong to miss the things that you did to me in the dark?

I didn't know how to feel before I met you, what emotions were appropriate in what situation.

I never cared.

You made me care.

And for a while, I knew that it was okay to feel. To have emotion.

And now you're still gone, and I don't know what to feel.

My eyes dart around the surgical unit, and my heart wrenches because I feel like I should see you somewhere, one of your scrub caps tucked behind a desk, you pouring over a chart. Something.

Instead I see Derek Shepherd and waves of nausea crash against my being with such a strong force that I have to brace myself against the nurse's station as I feel the bile rise, stinging the back of my throat and threatening to expel itself.

I tell myself that he didn't kill you, but I know all too well that it's his fault.

Your white count was elevated. So he gave you a quinolone. The quinolone weakened your heart muscle because he gave you such an incredibly high dose because he wanted to prevent osteomyelitis, a painful infection of the bone.

Then while in surgery, he decided to pull a wake-up test that you didn't tell me about.

You hid that part from me.

Your body couldn't handle the stress, and your heart gave out.

Your heart broke.

Along with mine.

You should've told me about the wake up test, you bastard. You should've told me and I could've been there. I could've done something differently. I could've brought you back. I could've figured out the right med, the right dose, the right words to bring you back.

I could've done something.

And you'd still be here.

I wish that I could forget you. That I could forget the way you made me feel that early morning, the last time you walked into this hospital when you promised me that it would just be four days and that everything would be alright.

I wish I could forget the way your lips grazed over my skin.

I wish I could forget the heat of your body against mine while we laid in bed at night, your breath tickling my neck, your arms holding me tight.

I wish that I was the one who had died instead of you, that you had to feel the pain that you caused me in this moment. I nearly lost you one time already.

This hospital is full of people who need surgery. Who can be cut open, their problem removed and sutured closed, and be as good as new.

I envy them.