I turn on the water and let it run down my back and shoulders, I have to wash this filth from my skin.

I have to wash him off of me.

I have to forget that I ever did this to you.

God, if I could just kiss you one more time, so I could honestly say that you were the last man that I kissed.

I spit towards the drain, trying to rid his taste from my mouth and I scrub more fervently to wash his scent away from my skin, thinking that if I just scrub hard enough, I can scrub away my sin.

My mistake.

My betrayal.

I close my eyes and try to picture the last time we were in here together, and my stomach churns as I remember that it was the morning that we went to the hospital together.

So I shove the memory from my mind instead of trying to remember it.

I still have your shower gel, and every time I get in the shower, I open it up and smell it, and try so very hard to remember when I'd spread it across your back, my fingers tracing every etched line in your back, and shoulders. How I used to genuinely smile when I could make you shiver under my touch.

And how every time you just couldn't take it and you'd have to turn around, and pin me against the shower wall, and spread kisses every where you could.

The way your hands used to grasp my waist while we made love.

My hands come to my stomach and my touch lightens unconsciously and I freeze, dropping the loofah to the shower floor.

There's nothing there now, really.

No lump, no hardened spot.

The uterus is still a pelvic organ until about 16 weeks, meaning that it will be at least another 10 weeks before I can see it.

And another six until I can breathe a little easier and know that life will not be cruel again and take away this last living piece of Preston Burke.

I wonder if I should give the baby Burke's last name, if I should name it after him if it's a boy.

But then I wonder again what I'll tell him about you.

How I'll tell him about you.

I still don't understand how this could happen; I still can't comprehend the levity of this situation.

You left.

You're dead.

We were doing better.

You were going to marry me.

And now I wear your ring without protest.

You wanted a family.

And I'm pregnant.

The picture has come together.

Your dreams are fulfilled.

But you're not here to see them.

And I hate you for leaving me with your dreams, and taking mine with you.