It's Thursday and she falls asleep around midnight with re-runs of Temptation Lane on the TV and silence clinging to her sleeves. The strings of her couch bore into her back but it doesn't matter. She's tired but she knows sleep will do nothing to take away the exhaustion that tears at her insides and eats her alive.
"Please," she's been reduced to these whispers, silent prayers at the dome of her mouth and they do nothing.
She used to believe in god. She's not so sure now. All she knows is that if there is one, he doesn't believe in her.
She's so tired of praying with no one to hear. And so she just waits for the night to tiptoe away.
She wakes up at 5am and it's raining. When she was a child her mother told her that storms were, "the angels in heaven tipping out their bath tubs."
Now they're just comfort.
She gets up, blanket wrapped around her shoulders like a shield and moves over to the window sill where she is closer to the rivers of rain. They hit her window as if they were trying to get inside to find some kind of warmth. They won't find it here.
She thinks about those months up in the cabin and how her father told her over and over, "the sky is allowed to break apart and so are you."
She thinks about all those tears she shed inside the bathroom, shower running and cherry shampoo filling the air.
Alone.
She doesn't go back to sleep. It's too loud and whenever the storm knocks at her walls she flinches away.
There's no one coming for you.
You're safe.
She clings to her chest, willing to rip out that stupid heart of hers that is beating so hard she can feel it in her ears and mouth, its drums battling the storm outside.
She used to be better than this.
She used to be better than pulling a blanket on top of her.
She used to be better than curling into herself, arms reaching around her legs to pull them close, making herself as small as possible.
She used to be better than wondering whether she'll be able to fold herself into strength like paper cranes.
It's 3pm and she thinks about the times she didn't have to use two hours to prepare herself for human interaction.
She looks at her reflection in the mirror. It's just glass and she thinks that with one flick of the wrist she could break it apart into tiny fragments.
She'd break apart just as easily.
It's just glass.
She removes the thick NYPD sweater she's wearing. It's used and light with the washing detergent and for a while she stares at the skin it exposes. Even though the light is dim, the circular white skin in the valley of her breasts still beams brightly and she thinks that it could set the world on fire. Her index finger traces the edges of puckered skin that still manages to haunt her dreams.
She hates that it doesn't fade.
She hates that this man managed to tattoo her with misery.
Her eyes find hers in the reflection. The soft skin under her eyes is dark and deep and she doesn't remember the last time when it wasn't.
She narrows her eyes at herself, leans in closer. Her fingers are still grasping at her chest, eyes desperately seeking out something familiar. Something screaming, "Here I am, please find me."
She reaches for the eyeliner and starts applying it like war paint.
The lines come out uneven and only draw more attention to the darkness underneath her eyes.
She knows it will take a while to piece herself back together.
She thinks about cancelling on him more than twice. But whenever she reaches for her phone she thinks about his eyes.
She thinks about the hope shining in them. She thinks about the mischief and the smiles and she thinks about the sadness somewhere deeper, well hidden by a carefully constructed mask.
And so she leaves her apartment at 4:40, keys firmly clasped by her fingers and even though the steps resonate through her entire frame she manages to hold herself and keep on going.
He's already inside when she arrives at 5pm sharp. He took one of the tables right next to a window. She thinks about broken glass and rushed voices, ambulances and a lifeless body next to the table. She isn't happy about his choice but slides into the boot across from him anyway.
No one is coming for you.
You're okay.
She leaves her jacket on and the purple scarf wrapped firmly around her neck and she manages to offer him a small smile as she says, "Hi."
"Hey," he says and smiles back rather awkwardly.
After seconds of just staring at the other, trying to come up with something useful to say, she finally reaches over for the menu, even though she already knows it by heart, to study it as if it was the most interesting thing she's ever seen in her entire life.
In her peripheral vision she sees him wringing his hands and straightening the already straight table cloth.
"So," she hears him eventually and her eyes find his across the table, "how are we supposed to do this?"
"I'm not sure."
There is silence again and some kind of sickness has taken hold of her throat again.
She's not good at this. What do you talk about on a meeting that was suggested by a mutual therapist to get them to heal, because they were already bad at speaking in the group? What was Dr. George thinking, pairing them up together?
She can't speak about the weather when they are only here because neither one of them really knew how to handle life. What is she doing here?
"Have you seen Doctor Who this weekend?" His question is so absurd that for a second her mind is too confused to make her feel like crap and a breathy laugh escapes from her lips. The sound is strange to her ears, like an unheard remnant of another life and it startles her for a second.
"I can't say that I have." She shakes her head and the words are breathy, as if carried on a laugh, and she thinks that she likes the taste of them on her lips.
"What's wrong with you?" He looks seriously disgruntled and she rolls her eyes. "Okay but how much do you know about it?"
"I don't really know much about it, only that the main character is the Doctor or something."
"I can see how you made Detective," he nods earnestly and she almost smiles again.
"Aside from that I really don't know anything."
"But how?" He asks and at her raising eyebrows adds, "I've been talking about it so much."
"You must have not been doing a very good job at that then"
His jaw drops and she can already tell she's made a mistake because for the next thirty minutes he keeps on ranting about the show and shipping and after every sentence he adds an "isn't that amazing?"
She nods at his remarks, still trying to keep up the mask of indifference, but finds herself actually enjoying listening to his exuberant stories while sipping the peppermint tea the waitress has brought for her.
He does change the topic eventually and for a good while they talk about mindless things that still seem to weigh much more than they would have to.
It's 7pm when they are standing on the sidewalk, ready to part ways.
Her teeth are worrying her bottom lip as she looks up at him with an uncommon shyness to her eyes.
"So how do we do this?" She asks.
"I don't know," he shrugs and it's not enough. "But for now, maybe we can just be two people, talking about whatever, until we figure it out."
She nods at that.
They'll work it out.
He asks for her number the next Friday. "Just in case there are any changes."
She rolls her eyes but types it into his phone anyway.
He then proceeds sending her ridiculous pictures of pugs wrapped in costumes or blankets and fanvideos of the Doctor and a woman called River. She tells him she won't watch them because she doesn't care but finds herself googling this show of his one night anyway, and maybe, maybe she'll give it a shot one day.
Doctor George asks her whether the one-on-one is helping, whether she thinks that partnering them up has been a good choice for her individual case.
"Yes."
She tells herself it's because that's what he wants to hear.
But she can't find the lie. And for once a word slips past her lips with ease.
"I read a book about a zombie apocalypse last night," Castle tells her, pouring sugar into his coffee like there's no tomorrow and blood glucose levels are a myth.
"Why am I not surprised?" She smiles and sometimes it still takes her aback at how easy it is. She remembers the first smile, a foreign concept on her lips, she remembers the stretch and the way it seemed too painful to be good.
She getting used to the weight of it again.
"You mock me now but when it's happening you'll still come running."
"You do realize that I was a cop, I can protect myself."
"We can protect each other," the smirk and wiggle of his eyebrows takes the weight off the words and she is glad.
"How do I know you won't sell me to the zombies at any opportunity given?"
"Come on Kate, we'll be partners, like Starsky and Hutch or Tango and Cash or," he seems to ponder on this for a second, "Turner and Hooch."
"Yeah, you do remind me a little of Hooch," she feels her lips curling up into a lopsided grin at the way his eyes widen comically before he cocks his head and smiles.
"I'll take it."
"You know I was friends with a conspiracy theorist once," he tells her and she finds herself smiling into her fries.
She likes that habit of his, where he just starts a conversation about the most random topic he can think of. There are nights when he sends her messages going, "do you think a place selling only products made out of potatoes would be successful?"
"Yeah?" She asks. But she knows he'll elaborate anyway.
"Yeah, he told me all about an alien base under the ice of Antarctica."
"You believe that don't you?" She pops another fry into her mouth.
"No, but how cool would it be?" His voice is gliding into frequencies that should not be humanly possible and she laughs. Clear and honest.
It doesn't surprise her so much anymore. She doesn't flinch away from the sound. And her heart still hasn't collapsed with it.
"You make a very cute couple," an elderly woman beams at them. She is wearing a knit, pink sweater and a bright smile as she nudges the man standing next to her and holding her hand.
"Don't they Arthur?"
He nods and looks at them, slightly embarrassed.
When they leave neither one of them has corrected them.
It's Thursday and she finds herself staring at the ceiling. The alarm clock on the nightstand next to her draws the red numbers 3:23 into the darkness and her fingers grasp the blanket so tightly she knows her knuckles are white as paper.
She doesn't know why exactly it is that her heart has become an ellipsis.
She looks over to where she knows her phone is. She didn't plug it in tonight.
She feels the words, "See you tomorrow" still burning holes into her retina. She still feels the small flutter in her chest that dared to be hopeful that there was one tiny thing to look forward to.
She doesn't even like him.
And even if she did.
She's not good with people.
She's not good at this whole being alive thing.
She knows how to be alone.
And she knows how to prevent herself from hurting.
She knows that with hope comes pain.
She knows destruction. She knows how to live despite the wreckage.
And finally she understands why they called the hurricane that destroyed so many "Kate".
AN: This chapter is such a mess idek. Thank you so much for sticking with me though and thank you for your kind words.