"Oh, fuck, don't stop," you whimper when her fingers press deeper.

"Here?" And it comes breathless and eager and you nod again.

"Yeah," and you're sure you make a much less dignified noise than you should when she gives another hard press, and you whimper her name softly, letting it fall from your lips.

She looks up at you then, the blue of her eyes dancing in the light, "I can't believe you're legs are still sore from running," and she laughs as she continues running her hands down your thigh, the muscle aching terribly, "I did tell you that you'd regret trying to get home before the package was delivered," and she chuckles as you wince, her fingers digging into a particularly painful knot.

"It's not my fault. They sent an email. And it was supposed to be a surprise," and you try and glare at her, level your chin and pin her with a stern look. But you're sure it doesn't work when she smirks softly, letting her fingers smooth over your leg.

"So…" she pauses, bites her lips, "what'd you get me?" and she looks up at you through her lashes, lets her hair fall around her face.

"That won't work," you hiss out as she again pushes hard into your protesting muscle, "It's supposed to be a surprise," you say again and you see her roll her eyes and let out a huff, her hair blowing with the exhalation.

"You ruin everything," and a pout graces her lips before her tongue pokes out with laughter in her eyes despite the tight grip she still holds around your upper leg.

"That's why you love me," and as you look up at her she turns her head briefly, bites her lip softly before she looks to you again.

"Yeah," She smiles gently then, the sun shining fiercely in her eyes, "I do."


You hear the soft patter of rain, you hear the drops as they creep their way down your bedroom window and you think you hear the soft rolling of thunder in the distance. And it's cold. Your ears feel cold and you think your face freezes for a moment and so you roll over, you roll closer to the warmth that shares your bed and you press close to it. And you linger for only a moment, only enough to fully wake and then you open your eyes. The soft light of a soon to be dawn touches briefly across Costia's shoulder and you smile when your eyes fall upon her face, peaceful in slumber and you enjoy the way the sheets lie against her, you enjoy the way they mould to the curve of her bosom and you think that if you squint, if you try just a bit you can see her. You think you can see the softer curve of her waist and the slope of her shoulder and the rise of her breast and you think if you let your imagination take hold you can even picture the blonde of her hair as it crowns her face. But you can't. She isn't here anymore and so you turn, and it hurts. It still stings and lingers within you.

And when you close your eyes for a moment and try to hold onto the memory, however faint it grows, you hear the whisper in the back of your mind. You hear the question that still lingers, you hear the truth and you know the confession that still lives within your heart,

Where'd you go?

I miss you.

I still love you, Clarke.


You let the sheets slide from your body and you let the cold of the morning air prickle your skin. And when your feet touch the cool floor you let out a soft gasp and you think that you should be used to this routine, should be used to the dark of the outside still lingering. So you find your way by the small warmth of a desk lamp and you dress yourself quickly. You feel the tightness of your underwear as it hugs the curve of your waist and you grimace softly at the pull of your leggings and when you pull on your top, when you feel it hug your chest you think it settles your heart and eases your mind and keeps you steady.

It's a short walk down the flight of stairs. It's a quick wait at the lights, your feet shuffling with the cold, an awkward dance in their attempt to heat your cooling body and then you let your feet take you. You let them strum against the pavement and you let the cool air chill your lungs and so you let yourself forget.

You nod quietly at Gustus as you pass him, and you let your eyes wander over the park as you race by. You think you see the drops of rain that still linger a moment longer than they should on the grass and you think you feel the cool mist that still clings too close to the trees and you think yourself a fool to run when it so cold out. But you do so anyway — you would always do so. You run your first lap, your legs warming and your muscles a soothing stretch that takes you further and further.

And you've always liked the park and its circular shape. You've always liked the circle you run, always the same and always predictable. You even like the trees, some large and solitary, quiet guardians that watch. And there's even smaller, younger trees, ones that are expressive as they dance easily with the rustling of the wind. And as your feet continue to push you forward you see a woman who sits lonely and quiet on a weathered bench. And you think you see her. You think you see her in the blonde of her hair, a soft rose in the morning sun and you think you see her in the gentle slope of her shoulder as she holds a sketchpad in her arms and you think you see her in the furrow of her brow. And you know you see her as her hand moves softly over the page, a small pencil held comfortably, familiar and constant in her left hand. And you remember.


It's cold. It's rainy and the weather sucks. You don't even know why you chose photography over the winter break. But you do know. It was easy. A first year subject and you didn't mind the extra credit. But you think you can still resent, still grumble and protest the assignment.

You find yourself walking through the park. Quiet and void of life — and really, who would have been dumb enough to walk around when it was raining? Other than yourself. Probably no one. You think you walk for minutes. Ten? Twenty? You don't care. But you look for something. Anything that you think would satisfy the requirements and so you keep walking, keep letting your feet take you where they wish and when you round a corner, when you come across an open field, just a few trees dotting the area, you see a lonesome figure, hunched and furiously running an arm over a pad. And you think it strange. You think it unique and you think it just right. And so you quickly drop down to a knee, hide yourself behind a tree and you pull out your camera. And you think you can regret the voyeurism of what you do at a later stage. At a stage when you have your final grade and so you point. You aim. And you click. And you gasp and grimace and curse when the flash goes off.

Fuck.

You see the figure look up at the flash then. You see them scan towards you. And you see their brows furrow.

You see her.

And so you stand, a slow, measured beat and you raise your hand softly, awkwardly. And you call out to her, "Sorry," and you grimace when you see her eyes narrow. "I — I wasn't —I, uhh," you swallow hard and you know how it must look, "It's for an assignment," you finish lamely. And now there's space between you, but only a few paces. Only a small arm's throw and you see the blonde of her hair and you see the blue of her eyes and you think you see the water that clings to her lashes delicately despite the fierceness that you think lives within her eyes.

"I can delete it," you offer than, already looking down to the camera in your hands, already scrolling through the gallery, but she cuts you off, lets her voice carry through the space between you.

"What's it for?" and you think her voice gentle and firm. And you smile at the rasp that clings to it for just a moment.

"An assignment," and her eyebrow raises softly,

"You said that already."

"Photography," you offer then, your hand hanging awkwardly between you both, "I needed to capture a moment in time," and she laughs at that. It's quiet and soothing but you think you relax for a brief beat of your heart. If only because she might not think you someone to be avoided.

"Clarke," she says then, giving you a soft smile. And your eyebrows twitch together. And she must see your confusion because she continues quickly, "my name."

"Oh," it comes out awkward and dumb. And you think for a quiet second.

Isn't that a boy's name?

But you don't voice it. Instead you roll the sound in your mouth and you smile, "Clarke," you think you like it.

And so you hold out your hand, and when she meets it with her own you let your fingers close around hers and you smile once more.

"Lexa."


You let your eyes follow her as you race past, and you think her head looks up, you think her eyes catch yours and you think she looks so, so familiar. But you shake the thoughts and you know it not possible and you think her eyes follow your retreating figure as you let your feet take you where they wish.

You come to a heaving stop, your lungs taking powerful gulps and you try and organise your thoughts. You try and make sense of what you think you see and you know it can't be. You know it shouldn't be but you think you've seen her three times. You think you've seen her hair as it glows a soft amber in the morning sun and you think you've seen the blue of her eyes in their intensity and you think you've felt her presence.

It takes you longer than it should to find your way home and you think your thigh pains you a moment more than it should. But you ignore it, you let your mind wander and you try and forget. You rise up the first flight of steps, your thoughts still drifting and you rise up the second, your thigh still aching and when you reach your door you pause. You stop for a quiet moment and you let your breathing steady and you let the shake in your hands ease.

And you think you must be going crazy. You think you must be seeing things. And you think it is this month that makes it hurt more, that makes it sting more and cut deeper than it should.

But shouldn't you be used to this by now?


The water beats down on your skin leaving behind a red, burning bruise and you think it soothing and constant and you think it grounding in its intensity. You still grimace when your fingers trace the jagged of your thigh. You still grimace when you catch the red of it in your reflection but you ignore it. What more could you do? So you let your hands continue to rub in the soap and you think the ache lessens for a moment. And you stay for a still second as the water burns away your morning run. And you let the water wash away the soap and the shampoo and when it stings your eyes you embrace it, you let it linger and you think yourself happy. You think yourself content knowing that you still feel. That you still remember to feel.

You bring the razor to your leg then and you feel the soft scrape as it glides down and you think you enjoy the normalcy of it. If only because it lets you feel normal. If only for a moment's time.

You feel it then. It's a soft, sharp scrape and you hiss out a curse and you grimace for a moment as you see the red drip and wend its way down your leg. And your eyes follow the trail as it mixes and dilutes with the beating of the water and you remember. You remember the blood. You remember it spreading and you remember reaching out. You remember trying to hold it back, trying to keep it at bay. But you couldn't. It wouldn't stop and you think you can feel it ooze and worm its way through your fingers and so you clench your eyes tight. You shake your head and you fall to your knees quietly under the stream of the shower.

You don't think you want to remember anymore.

You think you stay kneeling under the shower for a long stretch of the sun's path through the morning sky. You think you must when you hear a soft knock on the bathroom door and when you hear your name called out in question you rise, you quickly rinse yourself of the soap that still lingers and you call out softly, brokenly.

I'm ok.

But you think she knows you aren't.

You think you know you aren't.

But you've grown used to lying to yourself.


You sit at your desk, the sun a shining wall that backs you and you think it overpowering and you think it dramatic in its intensity. And you think it annoying, if only because Anya looks at you for a moment, her eyes glaring sharply and her face angled from the light. And then she rises, a swift stride to your window and then she pulls the blinds closed, the room darkening instantly, a cool, colder room raising to replace the warmth of the sun.

"Daniels won't be a problem anymore," you say then, already rifling through the latest report held in your hands and you see Anya nod, you see her fingers tap quickly against the armrest of the chair she settled herself in.

"Good," she hums, eyes looking at you for a moment. And you notice them linger and stare and you think you see her debate a question, you think you see the argument flicker within her eyes, and when she opens her mouth next you think that maybe she will voice her question, will voice what bothers her, "I didn't tell the client," she says, and you think it wasn't what still lingers, "they never knew about the loss," and you look pointedly at her.

"How much did they end up making?" and you chase the number through your mind for a brief second, "Twelve?"

"Almost thirteen," she says then, eyes rolling, "minus the three,"

You continue working through the report, quiet words passed between you both, of a gentle prod in the right direction or a stern rebuttal of an idea not worth pursuing. And you notice her look to you often, you see her eyes linger longer than usual and you feel the twitch in her body as she shifts an uncomfortable dance in her seat. And so you look her in the eye and you hold it when her eyes meet yours.

She takes a quiet sip from her coffee, a grimace playing across her face when the cold of it reaches her lips. And as she replaces the mug she sighs, lets the sound linger between you both for a painful moment, "Something's bothering you," and her eyebrow raises sharply, and so you merely shrug, a lone shoulder rising for a moment.

You contemplate ignoring her. You contemplate shifting focus and changing topics and you think she would let it be, you think she would leave it, merely another long battle left to perish between you both but you think she deserves answers. If only because. If only because what? She cares?

Maybe that's enough.

Shouldn't it be enough?

You open your mouth for a moment, and you think of the blonde haired woman you saw earlier in the park. You think of the blonde you think you saw standing before your office building.

And so you let your fears be voiced, "I saw Clarke," you whisper and you feel the shuddering of your breath. You feel the words as they foul your mouth and you think your hands must shake, must tremble and so you grip your pen tightly, you let it dig into your palm and you let your eyes gaze unsure and unsteady into Anya's.

"What?" You see her eyes darken and you grimace when she leans forward, when her body leans closer.

"I saw her," you whisper again and you think it hurts. You think it digs painfully into your chest and buries underneath your mind and takes hold, takes root.

"She isn't here," Anya whispers in turn. "She isn't here anymore, Lexa," she pauses, lets the words sink in, and she leans closer, her voice rising with each utterance. "You. know. That."

You know.

You do.

But it still hurts.

You want to scream those words. You want them to be true. You want them to be a lie and a falsehood and a prayer.

"I'm going crazy," and you think it comes out broken and defeated, tinged with a sadness not supposed to exist and you think your heart clenches and cools beneath your chest. "She's not here," you know the truth of your words. "She hasn't been here for years," and as the last of your words escape you think you break, you think your lips tremble and your chin quivers and your eyes glisten.

And it's not fair. It's not fair and you think the world a cruel, heartless foe. But you think it a truth. A cruel truth, but a truth nonetheless and so you drag your hand across your face. You let your fingers dig into your cheek and you feel the wetness that clings to your palm.

But you feel it then. You feel the steady pressure across your shoulder and so you lean your head against her arm, let it rest softly for a moment and you let yourself feel. If only for a short time.

And so Anya whispers to you, "I'm sorry," but you shake your head, you don't think she has a reason to apologise, a reason to feel sorry or to be sorry.

"It's ok," you wipe your eyes quickly once more before looking to Anya and you see the doubt that lingers.

"It's ok," you say it more sure, more confident and firmer. And perhaps you think you should tell Costia. Doesn't she deserve to know? Doesn't she deserve better?

You think she does.

You think she will always deserve better.

And so you say once more, your eyes steady again.

"It's ok."


You leave earlier. You leave knowing Anya can handle your few hour's absence and so you find yourself in an empty home. You find yourself in a cool, dark room and you think it strange. You think it foreign and alien. You don't think you've ever come home, ever been home before Costia has.

And you think it's guilt that lives, a steady beat within your heart.

The lights flicker on as you move through the rooms, and you leave your shoes, a lazy place resting against your side of the bed and you leave your shirt, careless and crumpled at the foot of the bed and you leave your pants, a small pile by the bedroom door.

And you don't recognise it. You don't recognise the curve of your waist or the lines of your stomach. You don't even recognise the shape of your legs. You think you've changed. You think yourself harder. Less kind and less unknowing of the harshness of the world. And you think grief and loss and running an endless, stupid, senseless routine will do that. But isn't it enough that you remember? Isn't it enough that you can remember?

Perhaps you can remember for you both.

You think you must.

Aren't you already?


You lie back on your bed, the soft of the sheets wrapping you in a cold embrace and you let your eyes close and you let your mind wander and you think you feel your hands twitch by your sides and you think yourself cruel and selfish when you think of blonde and when you think of blue and when you think of her voice and her smile. And you think yourself pathetic, defeated and ruined when your hands wander. You think yourself sad and lonely when you feel your breath hitch and your pulse thrum and you think yourself lost when you let the tears fall.

And as the soft fog of sleep creeps ever closer, ever sure and certain in its touch you think your mind whispers out.

I still remember.

I still love you.

Clarke.


You wake to a gentle touch on your shoulder and a soft presence by your side. And you hear the whispered words, you feel the soft fingers and the soothing hum.

"Wake up Lexa, dinner's ready."

Clarke?

Your eyes open and you see her gaze, tender, soft and understanding. Accepting.

"Dinner's ready," It's whispered again, a soft smile in her eyes, her hand soothing your shoulder, "put some clothes on," she smiles again, her eyes flickering over your body and you think your mouth a sheepish thing, "You'll catch a cold," she finishes, already passing you warm pants and a loose shirt.

It's simple, tasteful and warming. And you think you've always enjoyed her cooking, always enjoyed the simplest of dishes she makes and the softness of her company. And you think yourself guilty when you look into her eyes and you think yourself guilty when her hand lingers a moment against yours or when she smiles softly, her lips pulling up in a gentle curve.

And perhaps you should tell her. You should tell her your troubles, your demons and your visions. Doesn't she deserve to know?

You let your mouth open once, and you think it closes, you think it kills the words before they have a chance but she must see the uncertainty in your eyes and she must feel the words you try to say so she pauses, lets her eyes linger on you and she waits.

"I'm not sleeping well," you whisper then, "I — I," you pause, a shaky exhale frees itself, "not as well as usual," and you grimace at the all too familiar memory of waking her with the rising of the sun.

"It's ok," you think her beautiful when she smiles softly.

"It's this month," you whisper and you think you feel your breath begin to break against your chest once more, "I just—" you think you choke on the air that fills your lungs, if only for a moment, "It's hard," you finish, and you curse your weakness. You curse your memory. You curse being able to remember.

"I'm sorry," it's quiet, broken and you think you could never say those words enough, never really tell her enough, but she interrupts your quiet thoughts, she lets her body break your mind. And you're thankful for it. You're thankful for the quiet hold she takes on your hand and the gentle pressure she gives your fingers.

"It's ok," she whispers again and you lean into her, you lean into her neck and you think you let the tears fall. You think you let them soak her top and you think you feel the steady rhythm of her heart as it beats a careful tempo through her veins.

"I'm sorry," you whisper it again, the sound broken by the quiet hiccups that escape your lips.

"I'm sorry," you press your lips to her neck, let the words linger against her skin and you feel the slight tremor in her throat as you press firmer, harder, more desperately.

"I love you," you let your hand wander, you let it explore and you let it roam a soft, gentle trail.

"I love you, Costia," it's a truth. It's a pledge and a reassurance. And you think you must smile despite the shine to your eyes and the wetness that clings to your cheeks. You think you must smile when you feel her breath quicken and her muscles tighten and her pulse race a frantic, erratic beat. You know you smile when you feel her unwind, when you feel her clench and tremor in your arms and so you whisper to her once more, if only to reassure yourself.

"I love you, Costia."

I love you, Clarke.


You wake to a quiet, shrill, painful sound. It's a harsh thing. An evil thing. And you know you should fear it. You know you should run and flee. But you can't move your legs, you can't move your arms and you feel an ache that lingers and claws its way into your bones and muscles and you think you know what it means. You know what it means and you think the memories must come crashing through your mind.

It's quiet, broken, and helpless.

Please don't leave me.

Your eyes open to a room, too white, too sharp and too dark. Your eyes open to a solitude that hangs cruelly and too calm around you.

You search then, if only with your eyes, if only for reassurances needed and pain felt. And your eyes dart left and right and you think yourself dizzy and sick and tired. You think you don't like surprises and so you call out her name, but it's broken, hoarse and dry to your ears.

Clarke?

You wait for a response and you wait, and wait.

Clarke?

You choke on the sound and you splutter and curse and claw out with your mind.

Clarke?

Your door opens, and your heart clenches and your mind freezes and you think yourself alone.

You think yourself broken and helpless.

Where's Clarke?

You ask and it must sound desperate. It must sound horrid and wounded.

Where's Clarke?

You think you cry, and you think you rage and scream and break under the truth.

Where's Clarke?

You think you know.

Where's Clarke?

You think you stop liking this surprise.

Where's Clarke?

She's not here anymore.