You guys are freaking awesome do you know that? I know I haven't replied to you reviews, but I appreciate it! thank you all so much. And due to the overwhelmingly positive reviews, her's the second installment.

This is basically just Robin's side to the story, so nothing new here. But I will kiss and hug you virtually if you still read it.

This one's for NoraMills who woke up at 5 and the first things she did were drink water and check my update HAHA.

Enjoy lovelies!

Chapter Two

Breakeven

"The best part of me was always you."

It is ironic how the very thing that comforts him and relieves him of his misery is the very one that's caused it in the first place. He'd laugh at it if he isn't so goddamned desolate.

He swirls the amber liquid round the glass, his eyes blurred with the tears he barely stops himself from shedding. His heart is shattering, breaking in so many million pieces, and he's not sure he has enough pieces of it to put back together, not sure he has it in the first place, because he knows, he's sure that she must have taken it with her when she'd left—he feels so empty. He can't even recognize himself anymore, he's not himself, not the man he used to be before, and he feels like it's right, it's just right that he'd let her go—she deserves better, so much better than who he is now and what he can give (more accurately what he can't give), but it hurts, it bloody hurts to not have her by his side.

It's his fault. He knows that, at least, even if he doesn't know exactly to make it right. He'd been frustrated, angry. He'd been laid off work and weeks and weeks of looking for another had turned out without pleasing results. He'd been angry at himself, at Keith
Nott who had been his boss, and had unjustly let him off work for some sort of misunderstanding, he'd been angry at his inability to get a job, therefore making a bum out of himself and letting his girlfriend shoulder all the burden that he's supposed to take, or at least share with her. She'd been supportive, whispering her words of love and support, her unwavering belief in him had been his strength at first but as the frustration ran high and his determination faltered, his will burning out as the months wore on, he'd turned on to alcohol. The fights had become a permanent fixture in their household then, every night had been spent with them being mad, and he can honestly say that he'd spent more nights with his back turned to her in those months than in the whole duration of their relationship.

He supposes he should have done something more, could have done something more, should have asked her to stay and forgive him for everything, but pride was all that he had left at that point, and he'd held on to it, had told her that he was done being coddled and treated like a child when she'd thrown her promise ring at him and told him that she was done with him being a bum that he was. She'd implied that he was being a drunk, something she knew he'd never want to be (his father was once a drunk, and he'd been the worst person that Robin knew, right up there with Regina's ex husband, and it had stung when what he'd heard from her words was that he was becoming like his father). She'd told him they were over that night.

It had felt so final.

He'd slept on the couch, wanting to give her space, wanting to let her stew and cool off from her anger, and he'd left the house early because he had wanted to give her the day to herself, hadn't wanted her to awaken to the sight of him still on the couch and further increase her ire. He told himself that they could still work it out, that she just needed time, and they could apologize and mean it, and talk about things, and all will be fine. He'd believed that she was his happy ending, after all, his second chance, and he'd naively thought that they were going to live happily together, like those in the stupid fairytale books (oh, how naïve he had been). He'd come back home that day, roses in hand, and apologies in mind, only to find that she'd up and left, packed her bags and had not even bothered to say goodbye.

Though thinking about it now, he would not have survived saying goodbye that day…he'd never thought he'd ever have the need to, never thought he ever will.

He'd waited, days, weeks, had counted the minutes to when she'd call him and tell him that it'd been a stupid mistake…the call had come, but only for her to say that she was going to pick up her things…he'd been crushed, but he loved her enough to let her have whatever her heart desired even if it tore his in the process.

He had not had the strength to be there when she did, and he'd left the house the whole day when she picked up her things. When he'd come back to their—his —apartment, her things were gone and it had felt strangely empty, like so many pieces had gone missing. And he knew, it had been her—she'd been missing, all the pieces of him she'd carried along with her.

Now she's gone, and he doesn't know what to do, doesn't know where to go, doesn't know who he is. And when he sees himself in the mirror, he feels like he knew who the man used to be, but doesn't know who he is now anymore.

He breathes in deeply and takes a swig of his whisky—something that only serves to remind him of her, of how this broken love story had begun in the first place, and it hurts, his heart hurts, and he tries to chase it down with another gulp, the liquid sliding down his throat leaving a fiery trail, but it does nothing to the pain, does nothing to ease him of his heartache, only serves to numb the dull, throbbing ache until he's passed out drunk, but he knows the pain will come back in the morning, complete with a heavy hangover.

Everything happens for a reason, they all say that, but still, reasons don't mend broken hearts, do they? And no, no reason, no rationalization could ever make him feel better about being apart from her like this. Noting could make him feel better about spending nights without her by his side: the bed is too huge and too empty, the night too cold without her in his arms.

Nothing feels right, his days are too long and too exhausting, and he is tired, so tired of not being with her.

"Get your act together," his friend, John, would say, and he'd agreed, he has to, if he ever wants a shot at getting back together with Regina, but it's all easier said than done, isn't it?

And even if he did, would she still come back to him?

She deserves better, better than him.

But what is he without her? What is he supposed to be when all that is good in his is gone, gone away with her?

He sighs, sucks in a deep breath and tries to shake himself out of his desolate thoughts. He looks around him, looks at the ceiling and thinks that nothing means anything without her: not this house, not all these things, not even his life.

He doesn't need this, any of this, all he needs is her.

After all, the best part of him is and will always be her.

oooooo

It's not a good idea, he knows, but his mind is too addled with alcohol for him to care, and he misses her, misses her so much it bloody fucking hurts—it's almost like having his heart ripped out of his chest (and no, he's not had experience of such, only has an experience of her being so unjustly ripped from his side, and that's enough, enough for him to know that there is no pain that should equate to that, and it might even be wrong for him to say it, but this hurts more than the time he'd lost his wife), and no, he doesn't like this feeling. And so he picks up his phone and dials her number, waits for her to pick up, knowing she won't, because she won't be awake, because she won't want to talk to him.

He hears the beep, signaling that whatever he is about to say will go straight to voice mail, and he prays, hopes she'd give it a listen, even when he feels like she won't. (He knows she won't return his call, that goes without saying, but he hopes she would at least listen).

"Hi, it's me, Robin," he says, and his voice sounds broken, tired, even to him, he continues with "And I…" but he pauses, the silence that fills in full of words that he leaves unsaid, words that he should say and she should hear, but they are stuck in his throat, stuck at the tip of his tongue.

He is trembling, shaking with the need to hold her, kiss her, fill his senses with everything that is her, hers, but he knows he can't, he'd fucked it up too much.

"I just wanted to tell you that I miss you…and that I love you…because…I do, I always will. And I know that I've fucked it up…but never, not once had I stopped loving you and for all the other things that I've failed you…I just want you to know that I loved you…I still do," he breathes out, as if his words are flowing right out of his heart, and damn it, his eyes burn with tears, a few errant ones finding their way down his cheeks, and god, bloody fucking hell it hurts, everything hurts.

He wants to hold her.

God damn it, he wants to be with her

How does he even continue to live without her when she's all he needs?

The disconnection tone greets his ears and he throws his phone somewhere behind him, not really caring—he can't find it in himself to care, not when he doesn't even have his heart with him, not when she'd taken it with her.

Not when she'd taken all of him with her.

A/N: Not sure if it's a bad thing or a good thing, but there WILL be a next chapter(s) to this. No worries. this has become a sort of one shot series based on songs (so if you all have songs you'd want me to consider, don't hesitate to put it in the reviews section and I'll have a look!). It will be lovely to hear from you all! :)