Hi, it's Clarke! Leave a message after the beep and I'll get back to you as soon as I can.

Hi Clarke.

It's me again.

You know that.

I'm sorry I didn't call sooner.

Work's been busy recently.

I

I met someone today.

She's nice.

I think you'd be friends.

She helped pick out your flowers.

I miss you.

Please wakeup.


It's cold, the wind bites into you for a moment, enough to make your muscles freeze and for your mind to urge you back into bed but you push forward, let your feet slap rapidly against the pavement and you let yourself be taken, let your body move through a routine much too familiar.

Your thigh pains you just a small bit less, just a soft ache and you think yourself glad, you think yourself thankful that your head is the only thing that throbs and burns in the morning. The words you spoke last night haunt you quietly, you know you regret them and you think that when you get back, when you see Costia again you will have to apologise, will have to discuss what lingers between you both. But for now you push yourself further, push yourself faster, if only to try and run from what hangs quietly over you. You still feel the torn edges of the paper, you still feel the bleed of the ink that holds the only lifeline you have to Clarke. And perhaps if you weren't so selfish, if what you were feeling wasn't guilt then you wouldn't think of calling her. But you think yourself both those things.

But isn't it for closure? For Clarke and yourself?

Isn't that what Abby said?

But, when you think, when you listen to the beat of your heart and the tremor in your chest, when you let the lie fade for a moment you think you know that what you really feel, what you really want isn't closure. Isn't acceptance and for a chance to move on. You think you never moved on, never really gave up.

Isn't that why guilt exists?

Your feet continue to hit the pavement until the sun shines painfully in your eyes, until the cold that hangs just a moment too low over the ground rises, a soft warmth replacing its cruel grasp and so you come to a tired rest, your lungs burning, your legs aching and your mind still throbbing painfully with each thrum of your pulse.

And as you look around, as you cast your eyes over the path before where you stand you think you feel a stab of pain, a stab of loneliness when you notice that Gustus' food cart no longer sits quietly, no longer a steady guiding beacon in the rising sun. But, you think your mind whispers to you cruelly, taunts you with a quiet prose, a soft chant of all good things must come to an end. And hasn't everything good in your life reached an expiry? Reached a point where it tastes bitter and foul? But you know it not true, you know it for a lie and a cruel, twisted thought, if only because Costia still stays, still holds you together. And you think you don't deserve her. You think she deserves better — someone who doesn't still long for a past and a faded memory, someone who doesn't at times think of another during the moments when Costia loves your body and holds you through the breathless nights.

You shake your head roughly, let the thoughts break free from your mind and you turn, let your feet begin the slow path back to your apartment and you try and focus your mind elsewhere, try and focus your thoughts to a happier time, a happier memory.


You feel your pulse beat frantic and sore through your veins and you are sure you must let cruel sounds escape your lips as Clarke continues to push back into your lower thighs and you are certain that running will one day kill you, will one day cause your legs to crumble beneath your weight.

"Is this really going to work?" you hiss out, your teeth clenched painfully as she continues to knuckle her way up your thigh, her legs straddling your lower half.

"Who's the one doing medicine?"

"It—" you are sure you yelp when she again digs painfully "— It hurts — oh God."

"Look, all the athletes do it, so if you don't believe me, then believe the TV," she growls behind you and you are sure you can picture the way the scowl sits on her brows, how her lip fits between her teeth in thought and how brows furrow and you think the image brings a smile to your lips.


You smile at the memory, your legs a familiar ache beneath you. And perhaps it's funny, perhaps it's perverse or even just pathetic that you now run, that you now embrace a lost pain, if only to keep part of her with you.

Your thoughts turn to the phone call you had with Abby, of her telling you Clarke has begun to remember and you think you feel a slight beat that exists for just a moment stronger as it pushes the blood through your veins and you think you feel a sense of dread, of excitement. Of want. That lingers within you.

You think of the torn piece of paper that sits somewhere in your room. A last vestige of something that faded, a last handhold of a crumbling life. But you think yourself guilty. And you know yourself guilty if only because it exists, if only because you think you will break and reach out for the paper, reach out for that lifeline. If only so that you can hear her voice once more. And it's for closure, isn't that what Abby said?

It's for closure.

You know it is.

Why do you feel guilty?


Your key scrapes into the lock carefully, and as you push open the door you're greeted by a quick turn of a head as Costia looks over her shoulder, a careful smile gracing her lips. You let your eyes linger for a moment longer as you trace the silhouette she casts as the sun streams steadily through the open window and you think you smile at the image. You think you smile at the glow and the prose that she is in the way her eyes dance in the light.

"I'm sorry," you think she deserves more, "I wasn't nice last night," and you think you feel the regret rise up slowly. You think you feel the guilt laugh in your face for a loud moment, "I'm sorry."

She turns fully to you then, her eyes still moving a careful arc over your face. She wipes her hands on her sleep shorts quickly before stepping closer, "do you want to talk about it?" and perhaps if you were less a coward, less afraid, less guilty you'd see the way her lip trembles for just a beat of time.

"I think I should call her," you let your eyes rise, let her look into them and you hold her gaze, to reassure her that you are ok.

"Ok," it's a soft whisper by the time it reaches your ears but you lean into her touch when her hand reaches out, when her fingers grasp carefully at your waist. And you sigh and let your head rest against her shoulder as her arms embrace you softly.

You let her hold you for a moment, you let the steady warmth you feel linger around you both and you think yourself content and safe. And you are sure you haven't done much to make amends with Costia. But you think just staying with her in this quiet moment is enough for now.

"I'm sorry," you whisper again, but perhaps this time you aren't so sure, aren't so confident that you know what you apologise for.

"It's ok," she presses her lips to your neck carefully, lets them linger for a moment longer and you smile when she breathes quietly to you, "I love you."

"I love you, too."

I still love her, too.


The paper burns a careful weight through the palm of your hand and you think that maybe if you turn it over, if you let your eyes gaze upon the string of letters that maybe it won't feel so insurmountable, won't feel so uncertain in your grasp.

But you think you will do it now. You think you must, if only because Costia gave you the time, gave you the space and the quiet. And so you reach out with your free hand, let your fingers turn over the paper and you let your eyes linger for a long, finite moment.

You are sure your hand must tremble, must sweat and clench painfully at the phone in its grasp.

You are sure your fingers must feel weighted, heavier than they should.

You are sure your eyesight wavers, unfocused and uncertain as you trace the numbers that appear on your screen.

You are sure your breath catches painfully in your chest, a constant pressure and a constant taunt as your eyes burn into the green icon.

You take a steadying breath, your fingers digging painfully into your thigh and you hold it. You hold it and you feel the burn in your lungs. And when you release it, when you let the air breathe freely once more you turn into the light, let the sun burn your eyes and you press down with your thumb.

You are sure the phone buzzes painfully against your ear, and you know your breaths must be coming fiercer, a struggle and a victory. You wet your lips for a moment, your tongue tasting the sweat that must cling uncertain in its path and your throat bobs with the swallow you force upon yourself, an attempt to clear your drying throat.

It's faint at first, a quiet click. A sudden intake of breath and a scrabbling of noise. And it must happen within a second, within a fraction of a second but you think it lasts a time. An eon and a too short moment. You think you feel your heart beat frantic, you think you feel your veins thrum and you think you feel the adrenaline that courses painfully with each beat of your heart.

You hear it then.

Uncertain and tentative. Familiar.

"Hello?"

You smile for a moment, for just a fraction of a heartbeat. You recognise the quiet rasp. You recognise the inflection and the way her tongue shapes the sounds and the way her mouth forms the words. You recognise the curl of her lips as they part in greeting. You remember the flash of teeth in the bright of a too early morning.

But then you feel.

You feel the years of pain that sear into your mind and you feel the stinging ruin of loss as it leaves you stranded.

You feel a flash and a spark and a burning of hope and you feel a stab of want that wreathes guilty through the recesses of your mind.

And it hurts. It crushes and bruises into the fibres of your flesh and you think it vicious and fierce. You think it brutal and cruel. And you think it destroys you, deconstructs your mind and shatters your heart.

And so you break.

You break.

You break and you think your hands shake and your breaths come pained and frayed and you think you must be trembling, must be choking out hopeless sobs of ruin.

Clarke

It must sound horrid and desperate to her.

Clarke

It must sound grotesque and feeble to her.

Clarke

Her name falls from your lips, and you hold onto her voice, onto the way it lives within your mind and pulls through your veins.

It makes you feel impotent and helpless to not be able to hold her. To not be able to see her.

But you hear the gentle gasp. The quiet intake of breath and the shuddered release.

And you feel your heart as it beats frantic and ecstatic. You feel your mind bend and twist and scream out at you, a question and a truth and a plea and you think your eyes burn in the sun and you think your blood boils through your veins.

"Lexa?"

You want to laugh, you want to cry and you want to scream.

Clarke

You think you do cry, you think your tears must be falling, must be leaving stains of your guilt behind.

"Lexa…?"

"Cl—" it comes out broken and ragged, "—arke."


Walking up the stairs while simultaneously drunk, your head throbbing and your skirt hitched far too high for appropriate is something you've come to realise is a recipe for disaster. But, regardless of the challenges you think face you both she pushes firmly against your door, her hand finding purchase somewhere between you both and you whimper and groan into her touch.

"Fu— Fuck, don't — don't sto—" her mouth cuts you off and she fumbles behind you, her own keys already in her hand as she gropes for the lock. You smile into her touch when you hear the familiar click and the slight fall as the door opens, but you're ready for it, and perhaps you'd be impressed if you weren't so consumed with the buzz of a too strong drink, that you were able to catch you both before you landed on the ground.

She guides you to the bedroom, her lips hardly leaving yours and as your legs meet the soft of the bed and as she grips your waist forcefully, lets her fingers burn into your skin you are sure your breath screams out in a wail and a prayer as her fingers leave a burning trail up your sides. You let her fingers tug at the clasp of your bra, let the light of a silent moon shine upon you and you smile and smirk as you see her eyes gaze steadily. You laugh and you whine when she presses down on you then, when her fingers hook into your underwear and you whimper when you feel the bite of a cold night.

You roll her over then enjoying the whimper before you descend, pull the soft red of a dress down her figure and you smile as your teeth bite into her flesh softly.

"Oh—Jesu— Go— Lex," perhaps you'll feel proud at her inability to form full words in the morning, but for now your mind is elsewhere.

"Roll over," you growl out to her, your hand already fumbling for the handle of your bedside drawer.

You press yourself to the back of her then, and you smile and smirk a victorious thing when you are sure she feels the bite as you push forward carefully, You are sure you smile when you feel her shudder, when you feel her tremble and so you let your breath brush her ear. And as she pushes back, as her hands grasp frantically for you, when she whispers out quietly, breathlessly,

I love you, Lexa.

You lean over her, let your words brush against the shell of her ear and you bury your face into the crook of her neck and bite down softly, And you reply with your own truth.

I love you too, Costia.


You aren't sure how long you spend in silence, her breathing the only thing grounding you, calming your pained sobs and your heaving chest. You don't even realise at first that she counts out slowly through the choked words that must fall from your mouth, that her voice helps to steady and calm your broken mind. But when you think your shuddering lessens, when you think your breathing calms for a moment and when you are sure your hands cease their pained shaking you hear it again, soft and guiding.

"Lexa?"

You've missed her. You know that much.

"Clarke," you think it's a whispered breath.

"I'm here, Lexa," you think you hear the uncertainty, the confusion. And you think the silence again hangs for a moment longer than it should, but you think you smile for a moment, if only because her voice rings out quietly through the speaker, "how…" you think you can feel her grimace at the question you think will follow, "how'd you get my number?"

"Abby gave it to me."

"Oh."

"I— I just—" you don't think you can really voice what lingers within your mind, but you are sure your next words will once again come out broken and pained, "how are you?" you finish finally, a quiet sob escaping you.

"I'm ok," you think you hear her own voice shake, her own breaths uncertain and unsteady.

You think you hold the phone painfully to your ear, you think the hard bite of the screen pushes angrily against your head.

"Are you free?" you aren't even sure which answer you want to hear, but perhaps you do, if only because you feel a pull somewhere in the recesses of your mind.

"Yeah."


You feel the unsteady shaking of your hands as you clutch your jacket to you, the cold a chilling bite that digs beneath your skin. Your mind races and your thoughts flinch at what you think you will see, and if only for a short while you try and picture a memory of her when she was vibrant, happy and full of joy, and not the memories that pierce your mind with images of blood and pain and suffering. You try to remember the happy moments you are sure that exist, that live.

Your hand presses against the door and you hold yourself steady for a moment, let your breaths even out as much as possible and then you push forward, and you are sure your legs shake and your feet come unfamiliar to you. You cast your eyes around then, let them linger on the faces you see, all in the hope of seeing a familiar smile.

You see her then, her hands clutched painfully before her, her fingers gripping each other in what must be a painful embrace. You think your mind throbs for an aching moment as you take her in. You see her eyes that scan the people around her, you see the shadows under her eyes that you are sure must live within your own mind. You feel a familiar tug at the way her hair curls and falls gently across her shoulder and you think you smile when your eyes meets hers. And you bite your lip softly, let the pain linger for a moment and then you push forward, let your feet take you to her and as you near, as you approach what you feel is a startled, cornered beast, she stands, a hand raised tentatively, awkwardly before her and then she waves softly.

"Hey," you're sure it comes out choked, broken and awkward, but you see her smile, you see her shoulders relax for only a moment and you think you see her fingers twitch towards you, to touch you, if only to reassure herself that you are there, before her.

"Hey," she whispers in turn, and you think you can see the red that lingers in the corner of her eyes, the faint wet that still clings below her lashes.

You sit before her, unsure in your movements and you follow her eyes as they track you. And you think you see disbelief, see longing and loss and a refusal that lives within her eyes. And you think that those same must reflect in your own.

It's a strange feeling that sits within you now. You know she is familiar and known to you, but you think she looks aged, different and unfamiliar to your eyes, to the memories you have of you both together, and you think you feel a stab of pain, of hurt and loss when you think of the years you missed. But perhaps this is what you needed, to face the loss of love and of a broken life that never really settled for you. And isn't that what you've been searching for? Closure?

"How are you?" she whispers again from earlier, the noise of what was once a bar falling away, leaving you both to contemplate what lingers between you both in a silent embrace.

And so you repeat, "I'm ok," what else can you say?

She reaches out then, tentative and careful, slow enough that you could pull your hand away if you wanted, but you let your hand linger, let it rest on the table between you both and as her fingers close around yours, as she squeezes softly, you think you remember the motion in its familiarity, in its want and its loss.

"I missed you," you see her lips tremble, her eyes water, "so, so much," and as the last truth falls from her lips you see her eyes close tightly, a refusal to acknowledge what must sit in front of her.

You think you've missed her too. And so you squeeze her hand softly, and you wait until her eyes open again, until the green looks back at you.

"I missed you too, Lexa."