DISCLAIMER: I own nothing but my imagination. Characters belong to Open Book Productions.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Follow up to "Ungodly Hour". From Gina's POV.
SPOILERS: No, but assumes you've seen all episodes to date.
ARCHIVING: Only with the permission of the author.
Sometimes. Maybe.
By itsalovestory
A flash lights up the night sky. A boom claps through the air. I startle awake, sitting straight up. I look to the other side of the bed to...her. You're not here like you should be.
Sometimes the hardest thing and the right thing are the same. Maybe.
I shake my head, disappointed with myself. Because I know it's my own damn fault that you're not here, and besides...she is here now. I can't keep doing this. I stand up and walk to the open sliding glass door onto the balcony.
Sometimes the hardest thing and the right thing are the same. Maybe.
I sit on the wicker chair and look out into the open ocean, crashing and thrashing against the jagged rocks, against my heart. It's dark but I can still see enough. It reminds me of how you could see into me, even the hidden parts. How could you? How could I have let you go?
Sometimes the hardest thing and the right thing are the same. Maybe.
Rain beats down the worn wooden rails, down my cheek. I wipe my face and the memories away. I feel so fucking weak. I feel so strong with you. I know you hate these kind of nights. You're probably awake. The thought comforts me, tortures me. The wind whips at my face, salt and sea and sand and sadness rubbing my skin, my soul raw.
Sometimes the hardest thing and the right thing are the same. Maybe.
I'd allieviate your fears. You'd allieviate my doubts. We'd embrace closely. We'd push each other apart. You're here. But, not. We're friends. We're everything. We're nothing. We were lovers. We were nothing. We were everything. You're with her. Not me. And, I'm with her. Not you. Not us.
The realization hits me to the core. Not us. We were much better together than either one of us seperately. You know this already, don't you?
Sometimes the hardest thing and the right thing are the same. Maybe.
I miss your kisses filled with lust, with love, slow and quick, that moment and forever. I miss your smile lighting up the night, lighting up my heart. I miss your eyes, rich and soulful like the finest Columbian coffee, hints of sugar and spice hidden beneath the smoky depths. I miss the sound of your voice, steady like the Californian sun, so warm, so enveloping. I miss the way your hand fit into mine, like the missing piece of a puzzle. I miss our bodies intertwined, skin slick with the release of our passion, our love.
I miss our love. Sometimes the hardest thing and the right thing are the same.
I crawl back into bed, into disfunction, burrowing under the sheets like a child hiding from a nightmare. I spend long moments, lifetimes thinking about you, about us. I spend no time. The summer storm passes off into the distance, into the hills, away from me, away from you, away from us. I close my eyes again. I am lulled to sleep by the sound of the waves crashing against the beach, water over rocks, breaking them down to soft sand. We broke down. She gathers me into her arms. A warm body from some body isn't the same as the love of your life's body, your body. I sigh. Peaceful slumber alludes me because your brown eyes haunt me even there. Shit.
The End