I wake up the next morning with a heavy feeling, like something is terribly, terribly wrong. It takes me a minute to remember.

Oh.

I force myself to get up and get ready. I have to go to work, whatever my own problems are. I even make myself eat a few bites of breakfast, even though I feel vaguely queasy.

I take the subway and realize on the way that I'm being very careful not to think too hard, which can't possibly be healthy. You've got to face it sometime. You have to think it through. Well, that will have to wait. Work comes first.

I expect Mac to avoid me all day, but he's there briefing the others when I come in and his eyes seek mine across the room. His gaze is troubled and sad. Do I look like that too? I hope not. We're going to give ourselves away if we're not careful.

Danny and Sheldon and Lindsay are already on their way out. Once they're gone, he looks back at me. "So you can take the pizza place?"

"Sure."

"Flack's meeting you there."

"Okay."

I pause because he looks like he's about to say something else, but he doesn't, so I turn and go out the door. My throat hurts again. I feel guilty, like I should have done something, like I shouldn't have left him standing there like that. But what could I have done? Told him to stop staring at me with puppy-dog eyes?

It sounds awful, but I actually feel a little better once I get to the crime scene. Flack is there, full of his usual cheerful wisecracks, and I'm able to throw myself into the evidence collection and concentrate on that instead.

I keep busy all day until shift ends, but then I need to leave my report on Mac's desk and I find myself lingering in the hall, wishing he would step out of his office so I could drop it off and leave before he sees me. Danny passes and I almost ask him to give it to Mac. And then I give myself a little shake. This is ridiculous. I tap on his door, march in, and hand him the folder.

He glances through it and looks back up. "Thanks."

I nod and turn to go.

"Stella."

Always before, I'd loved the way he said my name, the way he seemed to caress it with his voice…but maybe that was just my imagination. Or wishful thinking. I'd never even really liked my name until one time, years and years ago, he'd said that he liked it, and that it suited me.

But now it makes my stomach hurt. I turn back around. He looks the way I feel, I notice. Finally he says, "Good work today."

"Thanks."

He doesn't say anything else, just looks at me with those big, sad eyes. Finally I have to break the silence. "Night, Mac." I'm going home. You can stare at someone else.

"Good night."

Is this the way it's going to be? I ask myself as I take the elevator down. And as time passes, I find that it is. We settle into a pattern of saying hello and goodbye, and little else. When we're working together, we talk about work and nothing more. I find myself escaping as soon as possible, while before I was always lingering, finding excuses to be around him, going into his office every evening to say good night and make sure he was all right.

I wonder who he does talk to, and imagine that he probably doesn't talk to anyone, just keeping everything inside, and then I feel guilty for not taking care of him, and then frustrated for feeling that way because he's not my problem. He doesn't want to be my problem; he made that clear.

Still, my words ring in my ears: We take care of each other. I didn't put any qualifiers on that. I wonder if I'm subconsciously trying to punish him, and if the strain between us is my fault. But then I'll find him staring at me again, not saying a word, and I'll convince myself that he's not trying either, and it's up to him to make the next move. I'm here if he wants to talk.

But you don't act like it, I scold myself. He's never going to open up as long as you treat him like this.

My thoughts go around and around. One night, I go out by myself for a drink to try to think things through a little. I sit alone in a booth and stare down at my glass. What on earth is wrong with you? It's not like anything changed. He didn't break up with you; you were never together. He never said you couldn't be friends, just like you always were.

Then it comes to me. I realize that somewhere, in the very back of my mind, I'd always assumed that one day it would happen. Sometime, somehow, we'd be free of our Frankies and Peytons and the time would be right for both of us, and we'd find each other. The more I think about it, the more I become aware that I'd been thinking that way for years, always looking forward to it without even realizing.

Well, that's it. He's made up his mind. Find something else to look forward to. I can't imagine what that would be, but still, somehow, it helps a little to know what's wrong.

"Lunch?" Sheldon suggests.

"I'm starved," I admit. It's way past lunch time.

We stop at a little sandwich shop and take a table in the corner. I look up to find his eyes on me. I'm going to stop eating with these guys. All they do is sit there and stare at me.

"So…are you okay?" he asks.

"I'm fine."

He nods. "Listen, you don't have to tell me, of course, but…what happened with you and Mac?"

I sigh and look down at my food. "Nothing happened."

"Is that the problem?"

I don't answer, which is an answer in itself. I should have known he'd see it, even if no one else did, because he's so sensitive and never misses a thing.

"Maybe you should talk to him."

"I did." I sound hopeless, but that's the way I feel.

"Well…maybe he'll come around. Guys are pretty slow sometimes."

I smile a little. I've noticed that myself. "Sheldon, I'm sorry. I know I shouldn't let it affect my work."

He shakes his head. "You haven't. I just don't like to see you unhappy. Or him either, even if he is a moron."

I have to laugh at that. "What do you think? Do you think it's a bad idea?"

"What, you and him?"

"Yeah. He thinks we could compromise our investigations."

"You and him?" he repeats, a little incredulously. "I just don't see that."

"Yeah, neither do I."

"You wouldn't even have to work the same cases, anyway." We're finished eating, and we get up to leave. "It's not like there aren't enough to go around."

"It sounds so simple when you say it," I murmur.

He stops me, his hand on my arm. "Stella, it probably wouldn't be a good idea for most people. But I think it's obvious to anyone that you were made for each other. So…don't give up just yet."

Made for each other. I thought I was the only one who thought that. It's good to know that someone agrees with me, anyway. I kiss his cheek impulsively. "Thanks, Sheldon."

He grins. "No problem."

Sheldon makes me feel better—he's good at that—but then when I see Mac again I'm back where I started. We can't keep going on like this. It's all got to come to a head sometime, and I'm both dreading it and wishing it would happen.

In the end, it happens on an ordinary day—or what has come to be ordinary, anyway. He's studying the photos he's hung up on his wall when I come in with the latest trace results. Today he's wearing green, which of course brings out his eyes, so I avoid them as I hand over the sheet and turn to go.

But then he touches my elbow as he thanks me. Just a tiny touch, like he's done so many times before, but for me it's as if the dam has finally burst. I'm going to cry, right in front of him, right here in his office. I keep my back to him, biting my lip hard, my fists clenched. He's probably staring at me in horror, but I can't help it. I want to escape, but I can't go out in the hallway like this either.

He silently hands me a box of tissues, and that only makes it worse. I hold one to my face, trying to regulate my breathing and steady my voice.

"I'm leaving, Mac."

"What?"

"I'm leaving the lab." I take a deep breath, trying not to sound too pathetic, and my words come softly. "I can't do this anymore."

His hand comes down on my shoulder. He's standing close behind me. I know I'm shaking, but I can't stop.

"I need to talk to you," he says after a moment. I don't answer. His grip tightens. "Can you come over to my place tonight?"

I wasn't expecting that. "I guess so."

"Okay." His phone rings then, and he answers, his hand never moving from my shoulder. "Flack's got the hotel manager," he says as he hangs up.

"I'll go with you."

"You need a minute?"

"No. I'm okay."

He turns me around to face him. I give him a little half-smile and drop my eyes again, and we go out in silence.