Thank you to all of you who read and commented - I appreciate your kind words.

This probably will not continue. You'll see why when you read. ;)

Seconds, minutes, hours were passing before his own eyes. The heirloom cuckoo clock's ticking was driving him wild; its ticking was loud and incessant, distracting, grating on his last nerve. It seemed as if time was moving both slowly and quickly, his frame of mind in a weird limbo of anger-hurt-sadness. From his seat on the futon couch, he could see the wet sleet-like snowflakes throttling through the sky, falling not gently, but almost angrily, matching his current mood. He could see the park from his high-rise apartment; naked trees were swaying in the harsh winter winds. This wintry mixture, the blizzard happening now, was only adding to that depressing state of snow… the state that occurs after it falls and leaves a perfectly sparkly-white landscape, the state where the people of the city come out from their warm enclaves and drive through it, turning it into white-gray mush. The city's Christmas decorations (and spirit) had been stripped, leaving an almost empty, uneasy feeling in the air. All of this reflected his emotional state.

He sighed and took another sip of the scotch. It was after three a.m. already; as a surgeon, he knew he should have stopped drinking hours ago. He, of course, had a simple solution: he'd call in sick tomorrow. He was in no position to fix others, to clean up their messes and save their lives… when he couldn't even fix his own, when his own life was a mess, when he didn't know what his next move should be. He swirled the glass slightly in his right hand; the ice cubes clinking against the glass, adding to the irritating soundtrack of the storm, the ticking clock, his own internal thoughts.

Derek scoffed slightly as he took yet another sip of the amber liquid; by now, it no longer burned. Instead, the liquor trickled down his throat as if he were drinking water. He was a mess - and that was a fact. The bar had kicked him out shortly after midnight. The bartender was kind, politely explaining that he had called a cab and that he'd have to ask him to leave, considering Derek was way over the legal limit. The bartender offered him a sympathetic smile, which only pissed him off more. He had slammed his glass back down onto the bar, nearly shattering it, before pulling his wallet out of his pocket and tossing several fifty dollar bills at the old man. He slid off the bar stool, slightly unsteady on his feet, and stormed out of the bar; he had ignored the waiting cab and trudged through the slippery sidewalks back to his apartment, giving him time to clear his head a little.

Not that it had helped much.

Five years ago, he had everything he ever wanted. He was graduating near the top of his class from Medical school, accepting nationwide internship offers; he was engaged to the love of his life. The connection he shared with Meredith was unlike any other - every word, every touch, every smile, every ... thing ... they shared was, in a word, intense. He could tell what she was thinking without her ever having to say a word, and vice versa. He knew when she needed a kiss, a hug, a simple shoulder squeeze; he knew how to make her moan with just a simple touch, how to make her happy. He knew every detail about her life - and she knew everything about him, too. He had never felt that way about any of the (many) other women he had been with in his young life. They had dated for just about four years before he proposed, but long before then he knew she was the one he'd want to spend the rest of his life with - with a connection like that, how could one not know?

Things were going smoothly, until they weren't. Everything had changed the day that both he and Meredith received their letters from Seattle Grace Hospital. He got back to their apartment first, so he saw the envelopes before she did; his was a single, plain-letter mailing envelope. Hers came in a thick, large, white envelope - 'congratulations!' in blue ink across the front of it. And he knew before he even opened his that the letter would give the standard statement of rejection - Dear Mr. Shepherd, We regret to inform you that we will not be accepting your application to our surgical internship and residency program at Seattle Grace Hospital - followed by some bullshit generic message about best wishes for the future. He was instantly defeated. And he knew that Seattle Grace... that's where Meredith was destined to shine.

He and Meredith had, of course, talked about going to the same hospital for their residencies. Best case scenario, they would have both been accepted to the program at SGH, moved across the country, gotten married, become world-class surgeons and one day, have a family. That wouldn't happen, though, not with that rejection letter looming over his head. He knew that Meredith would go with him anywhere; she'd stay in New York, or go to Boston, Detroit, Atlanta, Dallas, LA... she'd go anywhere for him, willing to put their relationship and their life together before her career. And he was not willing to accept that; he wouldn't do that to her.

So he had shredded that letter, without ever opening it. He placed hers front and center on the kitchenette table beside a bouquet of half-wilted daisies he had picked up from a street corner market. She was jumping for joy, absolutely over the moon upon opening that letter. Her smile was real, the worry lines and bags that had been under her eyes for months suddenly disappeared. And that's when he knew... in his heart... that he'd have to walk away, to give her the chance to spread her wings. So he sat her down the weekend after graduation and explained to her that his feelings had changed. It was a lie, of course; he didn't dare tell her that he had been rejected from Grace. She'd give that up for him in a heartbeat. He watched her as her face fell as he delivered those cold, meaningless lines - 'it's not you, it's me.' She sat there frozen on the futon couch as he packed his bags silently. Tears were streaming down her face, and he wanted to do nothing more but run over to her and tell her the truth, tell her that he was completely, totally, desperately in love with her, tell her that they'd make a long distance relationship work. But he wasn't strong enough for that. Without another word, he left, the door clicking shut behind him. He paused before hitting the elevator button, hoping that she'd come rushing out of the apartment and beg for an explanation, or beg him not to go... but she didn't.

Within a week, she was gone, clear across the country, and out of his life... forever.

He shook his head and took another sip of his scotch, which by now was watered down. He set the glass down on the coffee table in front of him; his eyes fell to the framed photograph that sat in the middle of the table. It was a picture of himself and Addison - a brilliant red-headed OB resident who somehow became his close friend - at a Yankees game. He picked the picture up and traced his finger over her cheek. Somehow, she had captured his heart; they were newly dating, longtime friends, at the time that photograph was taken. He wasn't head-over-heels in love with her - at least not yet - but he could have been. Maybe... one day in the distant but now never possible future.

Tears lined Derek's eyes. He was moving on, slowly but surely, just like Meredith had. He thought that things were going well between them, that he and Addison could have one day gotten married and lived out the full American dream. A sad tear escaped his eye and trickled down his cheek; he swiped at it before it had the chance to trickle down the entire length of his face. It had only been about seven months since that photograph was taken, and back then, he was at least somewhat happy... but now... after what he had seen a week ago...

He was anything but.

He was late coming home from work - which wasn't at all unusual. As he was moving further along into his residency, the demand for his surgical prowess was greater, so he spent more time at the hospital. He hopped into the shower, quickly calculating an estimated time of arrival; he was supposed to bet at his best friend, Mark's, to watch the Knicks game. He dressed quickly, leaving his hair wet, and - deciding not to waste any more time - left his apartment for his friend's place. Under normal circumstances, he would have called to say he was on his way, but in his haste, he had forgotten his cell phone at home. He parked his car near the building and the doorman, whom he was familiar with, buzzed him in.

Mark's apartment was on the first floor. Derek pulled the key from his pocket and let himself in; he closed the door behind him. Right away, he could tell something was off. The tell-tale signs and sounds of a basketball game - cheers, boos, whistles, friendly jabs about whose player was having the worst night - were absent. He ran his fingers through his still wet hair and flipped the light on. He stepped into the apartment, noticing a trail of clothing that led to the bedroom. He half-smirked; his best friend was notorious for always having women over. He silently cursed himself... he should have called.

His heart sank, his mouth went dry as he recognized the tee shirt that lay on the ground beside the bathroom door. He stopped short in front of the halfway-open bedroom door. Then he heard her voice. He froze in his footsteps, wanting to move, wanting to leave, wanting to say something, anything, but completely unable to. A few long moments passed and he felt sick to his stomach. He took a few deep breaths, trying to suppress the rising bile in his throat, and turned on his heel. He stomped out of the apartment and slammed the door behind him; he didn't even look at the doorman as he left the building, completely humiliated... but mostly hurt.

He had ignored the phone calls, texts and e-mails, and the pleas from both Addison and Mark to forgive them - it was only one time, just one time, they know that's what people say in these situations, but it was the truth - but he didn't want to hear any of it anymore. Who knew what the truth really was? Angry tears slipped down his cheeks now, and he cursed himself for allowing his mind to slip back to 'that day'. He went to set the frame back down onto the coffee table, but his depth-perception was off, and he missed. The frame shattered. Perfect, he thought to himself. He stood and walked toward the kitchen to grab a broom, a dustpan and a paper bag to clean his mess up. He dropped to his knees, careful not to kneel on any glass, and cleaned up the fragments of glass. A shard of glass had cut the photograph, right in the space between his face and Addison's - talk about symbolism. He picked that picture up and tore it to tiny bits, sprinkling it piece by piece into the paper bag.

Behind that picture was a photograph of Meredith, taken the night he proposed. She hadn't been feeling well - still in a funk after midterms and her father's funeral. She was in a terrible state, constantly moody, crying and distant. He proposed during the Christmas Eve dinner - the dinner which only consisted of a box of macaroni and cheese and chicken nuggets - and was finally able to get her to smile. Somehow, he had captured the moment on his camera, and it quickly became his favorite picture of her. It was natural, honest, beautiful, much like Meredith herself. She, of course, hated it; but he had framed the photo immediately.

He sat back on his heels and stared at the picture of the woman whom, at one time, had been the love of his life. Maybe she still was, maybe that's why he hadn't moved on. Even now, he was captivated by her; her green eyes sparkled, drawing him in. Her smile, her worry-free face kept his attention. Even the ratty tee shirt she was wearing - her favorite long-sleeved one from Dartmouth - roped him in. She would have never betrayed him, not like Addison had done. She wouldn't have even betrayed him the way he betrayed her.

He sighed and set the picture down on the table, unable to look at it for a moment longer. He had let her go without a real reason, without ever attempting to offer a real solution. That was a gray area for him - his not being accepted to that program while she was - and he only saw things in black and white. His tears of anger had turned to tears of sadness, regret, guilt by this time. He had never even given her a chance. Nor an explanation. Just some half-assed letter that had only said about half the things he wanted - and needed - it to.

Derek returned home to his empty loft apartment in the wee hours of the morning. He had one of the most exhilarating, challenging, adrenaline-pumping nights of his fledgling career, and was now exhausted. So as the rest of the East Coast was waking up to begin their day, Derek was taking a shower and climbing into bed to dream of aneurysms, hematomas, clear surgical fields, and acing his first solo surgery. That was the plan, however, he never made it that far. Something made him actually look at The New York Times that had been delivered probably only a few minutes before he arrived home.

He flipped through the sports and business sections, his attention unfocused. He sighed, turning the page and scanning it, beginning to doubt his decision to read as he hadn't found anything really worth reading. But then something caught his eye - it was Meredith. Her eyes bore into his. He looked to the headline - Novelist Andy Campbell and daughter of Ellis Grey to marry - and quickly read the words of the engagement announcement, which was more-than-likely written by Ellis Grey. He shook his head and tears lined his eyes. Jealousy tore through his body, rippling like an angry wave during a tropical storm. He dropped the section of newspaper onto the floor. It had only been a little over a year since the break-up; had she really moved on that quickly? Tears slipped down his cheeks.

He thought to call her, to offer some sort of congratulations, maybe explain why he had broken things off. But to admit to that truth... that would hurt his pride too much. So he pulled a notebook out of the desk drawer and began his letter to her. He knew what he wanted to say, what he needed to say, but words failed him. In the end, except for the drying tear stain, the only thing on that paper was a generic explanation and message of congratulations. Maybe she'd never read it. Maybe he'd never even send it. He felt a little bit better, but not much; he had allowed himself to think about her for the first time in ... who was he kidding? He thought about her every day.

Not giving himself the chance to chicken out, he sealed the envelope and addressed it to her mother's house; he dropped it in the mailbox in the lobby before climbing into bed to spend the rest of his day there.

He sighed as he stood, shaking his head to clear the memory from his mind. He had never heard from her; maybe Ellis threw it away, recognizing the return address. Maybe it got lost in the mail. Or maybe Meredith had never opened it, still too hurt by his words and actions. He carried the bag of broken picture frame to the kitchen, stapled it shut, and dropped it into the empty trash can. He winced when he heard the sickening clunk; more glass broke. He stepped over to the sink, washed his hands and pulled a new bottle of scotch out of the cupboard. Derek leaned over the sink, resting his hands on the edge of the porcelain basin and took a deep breath. After a moment's pause, he uncapped the bottle of scotch, and poured himself another glass. It would be a long night.

He stepped back into the living room and sank back down on the couch. He glanced back to the picture of Meredith, his eyes falling once again to her smile. His heart sank as he thought about her now, knowing full well that she wouldn't be smiling - shouldn't be smiling - for a long time.

It made national headlines - Author Andy Campbell, 36, killed in automobile accident. His heart pounded as he watched the news story on his television and visions of a teary Meredith played across the screen; she spoke, her voice strong but still wavering, her green eyes dead of emotion and red-rimmed. He nearly vomited when the reporters mentioned Meredith's little girl, Lilah - she was beautiful, she looked exactly like Meredith, only two years old - now without a father. He wanted to call her, to fly clear across the country and hold her like he had when her father died. He wanted to console her, to tell her that she was strong and that she'd make it out of this okay - emotionally scarred, of course, but alive.

But that wasn't his place - she was out of his life, which was his own fault. So he sent flowers to her house - a large, lavish arrangement composed of lavender sprigs and lilies, he knew those were her favorite flowers - hoping that she'd appreciate the gesture. He secretly hoped that he'd hear from her. He took another sip of his drink, keeping his eyes trained on the photograph. The clock in the other room chimed - it was now four a.m. On a normal day, he'd be waking up and heading to the hospital for pre-rounds, but this day... it wasn't normal.

He sighed, his mind flashing to different parts of his relationship with Meredith. He loved her... no... he loves her. He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket - after all these years, his number remained the same. Much like the rest of his life, he wasn't open to change. And maybe deep down inside, a part of him hoped that she'd call. He had always promised himself that if she made the first move and called that he'd give her the proper explanation, the reasons that he broke off their engagement.

His attention shifted and he stared at the keypad of his phone. Maybe he should be the one to make the first move. Maybe that was the issue - he spent far too much time waiting, hoping, wishing for something that was highly unlikely. He took another slow swig of the scotch.

Maybe he'd make the first move.

He pressed the arrow key on the phone pad, searching through his contacts. Her number was probably different. As he reached the 'M' section of the contact list, his cell phone display lit up. It was a number he didn't recognize, probably a telemarketer or some Med student who needed advice. For a split second, he considered ignoring the call.

After three shrill rings, he decided to answer. "Hello?" he sighed into the phone.

There was a long silence, but he could hear a sharp intake of breath. His heart skipped a beat when she finally spoke. "Derek?"

Her voice invaded his ears. He did a double take and glanced back to the display, just to be sure the seconds of the call were indeed moving and it wasn't just some crazy hallucination. His heartbeat sped up.

"Hello?" she whispered after a few long, silent seconds.

"Meredith?"

The End