A story dredged from the bottom of my 'fics' file
So, this is old. I read it out of the blue a little while ago and liked it. Like everyone else on the planet who saw it, the last scene of the Erica Hahn character on Grey's Anatomy was beyond stupid and illogical, it was lazy and bad storytelling and this was my weak attempt to clean up the mess in my own head. After reading it again for the first time in years, I made some slight alterations, cleaned it up and decided to post it. Enjoy.
Disclaimer stuff: Not mine. Blah, blah. ABC/Shondaland. Blah, blah. No profit. No money. No clue.
Warning: some language, some angst, some cold hard truths
Limitations
It's never been an easy thing for me to accept my own limitations. Admitting I've reached a limit is tantamount to quitting and quitting means failure. In my line of work, failure means someone is dead. Failure means another family is without a father or mother or son or daughter or grandparent. I hate failing even when there is no other recourse. Sometimes, as a surgeon, there is nothing more that can be done for a patient and you have to accept the inevitable, your own damnable limitations.
My hands are shaking as I lift the chart off the table. That's not usual. My hands are almost always steady. You can't be a renown cardio surgeon if you can't control your emotions, your frustrations and anger and any number of reactions patients can evoke. I'm aware of Mrs. Norris’ eyes on me as I pour over the notes in Grey's small scribbled writing. Her husband is stable for now. It won't last though and we all know it. His heart is stopping. With each labored breath he draws he marches closer to death and, though I've been researching and coming up with new and desperate ways to keep his damaged heart functioning, I'm afraid all avenues have finally been exhausted.
I shut his chart and look at his pale face, glad he's sleeping because I don't want to see his eyes. I hate the way he looks at me, like he's sorry for putting me through this. He's a good man, with a nice family and I won't be able to save him.
I recall with sudden and shocking clarity, how I smiled at him at Mercy West, assuring him that we had a donor heart and that his life was about to start again. That was two years ago. Two long years that I have been grappling with death on his behalf, after said donor heart had been snatched away from the both of us. I had been rendered helpless that day, I had failed him and yet he thanked me for trying. Now, I discover that the donor heart, the one meant for Mike had been stolen. Preston Burke and Izzie Stevens conspired to steal the heart from us and had succeeded. Apparently it was common knowledge among the residents and attendings at Seattle Grace. Common knowledge to everyone but me. There are no words for my outrage.
I place the chart back on it's table and nod to Dr. Grey. Her orders are to monitor him, not to leave him unattended and to page me immediately if his condition changes. Not that there is anything more that I can do for him, but I feel it's my obligation to be here with him and his family when his heart finally gives out. Amy Norris’ tired eyes track to mine and she forces a smile at me. I try to force one back but it's no use. I nod at her as well and leave.
When I confronted Richard about the news that Stevens had stolen the heart and I wanted an investigation, he told me there had been one. He told me he'd taken care of it. That meant he'd covered it up. They'd handled it internally and Stevens still had a job. Everyone involved still had a job, Grace still had their accreditation and their transplant status, but Mike didn't have his rightful donor heart and soon his children wouldn‘t have their father. How was that fair?
My shift is done and while I take the time to grab my bag from the attending's locker room, I don't change clothes. I leave my scrubs on. I even wear my lab coat out, because today I simply want away from the place that has betrayed everything I believe in. I know what I have to do and I don't know if I have the stomach for it, despite my rage. I have to call UNOS and demand an independent investigation. There is no other option. What was done here was unethical and reprehensible and possibly criminal. Knowing about it and not reporting it makes me complicit. I am in a no win situation and my patient will still most certainly die.
The bitter tears rolling quietly down my face draw a few looks from staff as I make my way down the main stairs and toward the door. I'm beyond caring, though, what these people think of me. My betrayal supersedes any pride I have left at this point.
The cool breeze blasts me as the doors slide open. I can smell the rain in the air although it's not falling yet. I see her immediately, sitting on the bench by the main walk, like an albatross, no doubt waiting for me. I'm not in the mood for Callie's lukewarm affection though, so I walk down the path and past her without a word, without a glance.
"Um, Erica?"
Her voice is demanding and despite my desire to not talk to her I find myself halting. I don't turn to face her. "What?"
"I'm sorry."
I never thought I'd hear the day where those words finally passed her lips. There have been a million instances where I felt as if she needed to say them. She's treated me badly since the moment we steered our relationship towards something more than friendship. For months now I've waited for her to accept what she was feeling, what we were feeling together. I've been waiting for some show of deepening affection for me, some indication that what we were doing was more than experimentation on her part. And though her words assured me time and again that it was more, that it was real, her actions continually said something else. Though there are times when I absolutely adore Callie Torres, there are times when I can't fucking stand her. I’m not quite sure which one this falls under.
I turn to look at her. She's standing in front of the bench, wearing the same black leather jacket she wore the night she first kissed me, the night she assured me she cared about me, the night she made me believe that what I felt for her could be returned. I resent her for that.
"Why are you apologizing to me?" My tone is brittle, sharp. My patience is exhausted.
She takes a hesitant step forward. It's always a hesitant step with her. She loops her thumb in the strap of her purse. It's a nervous habit. I'm used to seeing it. I'm tired of seeing it.
"I..." She looks around. More disquiet. I wait. What else is new? I'm always waiting for her. "The Stevens thing,” she begins again, “I'm sorry I didn't tell you before. I just...I never put two and two together. I mean, what are the odds that Denny's donor heart was the one for your guy?"
I feel like I'm hearing her words underwater. They're muted and dull. It's my temper fighting against my will. I want to explode, to scream at her, to shout my rage from the mountains, so that it echoes over all of Seattle. I don't allow myself the release. Passion like that is dangerous in my profession and I'm used to suppressing.
"It's not about it being my patient's heart she stole. It's about a little thing called the Hippocratic Oath. Perhaps you've heard of it? Apparently no one else in this hospital has."
"That's fair," she says as if she's conceded a great point. "So now that you know, what are you planning on doing?"
"I plan on doing what I'm supposed to do when I find out about grossly unethical medical practices. I'm going to report it."
She shuffles her feet and she bites her lip as she looks around again. "I don't think you should."
I'd love to say I'm surprised by her reaction, but I'm not. Two months ago I would have been. That was before she'd put my emotions through the wringer, before she toyed with my affections, before she made me believe she wanted me exclusively only to find out she'd been screwing Mark Sloan on the side and, through it all, never once seemed to notice how much she was hurting me.
I sigh. "I honestly don't care what you think."
She reacts like I just slapped her and that's fine. Actually it's oddly gratifying. "Erica, I know you're pissed and you have every right to be, but inviting a full blown investigation, potentially dragging the hospital down, getting people fired...it's not worth it."
Now that does surprise me. "Are you kidding me? Stevens stole a donor heart. My patient, who is up there dying as we speak, spent the last two years of his life fighting for every breath he's taken. He's been bedridden, unable to see his children for more than five minute intervals a couple of times a day, simply waiting for death. He's suffering. For the last two years he and his family have been tortured unmercifully because Izzie Stevens had a crush. Don't you dare tell me that it's not worth it."
"It was more than a crush and an investigation now won't give your guy his heart back."
I blink at her like I've never seen her before in my life, like she's some insane stranger that I don't really want to know. "Who the fuck are you? Where the hell is all of this coming from? A man is dying, a crime was committed, a cover-up was initiated. I'm not simply over-looking all of that and I can't believe you're standing here asking me to. Have you really no scruples at all?"
“I understand you’re mad but-”
“No,” I cut her off because I don’t want to argue this. There’s no point. “I’m calling UNOS and reporting this. Save your breath because nothing you can say will change my mind. Nothing.”
“So you don’t care if they close the transplant program? You don’t care if Grace falls off the chart of teaching programs? You’re sabatoging both of our careers by making that phone call, Erica.”
Aha. It all makes sense now. Callie Torres is nothing if not a woman of self-absorption. I can’t believe I thought for a moment she was defending Stevens or even the hospital, in general. She was covering her own ass. She’s a senior resident, almost through her training. If an investigation hit, if Grace lost its accreditation, it would set her career back. She would have to apply to a new program, perhaps repeat her entire residency. She’s asking me not to report it for her. I can‘t think of an argument that would sway me less. Except perhaps, sparing Stevens.
“Reporting this to UNOS would not impact my career in the least, Torres. I wouldn‘t be out of a position for more than a couple months, tops. I would share in none of the negative findings. I would be more than in the clear since my patient and I were the wronged parties in this all. You though? You might not have been in the room with Stevens when she cut the LVAD- or, hell, maybe you were- I don’t know what to think anymore. But you were in the program, closely tied to those people. You were here and you knew what went down and you kept your mouth shut. That makes you part of this and that‘s what scares you. That‘s why you want me to keep this quiet. You want me to protect you.”
“And what’s wrong with that? You’re my...” She pauses and visibly squirms. “We’re together or whatever, so you’d think you’d want to not see me booted out on my ass or get implicated in a scandal that’ll ruin my career.”
“We’re together?” I can‘t help the sardonic chuckle. “No, Callie, we’re not together. I care about you and you care about you. And the word, the one that scares you so much that you can’t even say it, is ‘lover‘ or, hell, even ‘girlfriend’. And here’s a big freakin' newflash, Torres, it’s not exactly togetherness if you can‘t even say it.”
“Oh, so now it’s all my fault? So now you’re doing this just to hurt me, because I’m still a little uneasy about us?”
I don’t even know how to respond to that. I look around as a light mist starts to fall. “This is not a question of punishment, Torres. This is a question of right and wrong. This is a question of ethics, and if you’re expecting me to jeopardize my own reputation and my own moral standing, in the hopes that this bullshit never reaches the light of day, then you must not know me any more than I know you.”
“Oh, so it’s okay for you to protect your career but not mine?”
“I’m not the one who mixed herself up in a scandal.”
“I didn’t mix myself up in it, it just sort of happened around me.” For the first time she seems slightly repentant, somewhat confused. It dulls the edge of my anger, but doesn't change my stance. Not on anything.
“Everything has consequences, Callie, even the things we don’t do. If I could change things, undo them somehow, I would. But we’re stuck where we are.”
She looks at me for a long time, her dark eyes intense, thoughtful. “That wasn’t about the LVAD, was it?”
It’s my turn to look away. Callie Torres is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on. As a friend, she was like the other half of me. We thought exactly alike, laughed at the same jokes and at times even completed each other’s sentences. I cared about her in a way I hadn’t cared about anyone in a long time and I expected great things from our relationship when it deepened. I expected her to love me the way I love her. It hurts to let those expectations go.
I can find no easy words so I shake my head, knowing she’ll understand.
“You’re breaking up with me, aren’t you?”
I nod.
“I can’t believe Izzie Stevens is breaking up another one of my relationships," she whines. "I can’t fucking believe it!”
“This has nothing to do with Stevens,” I snap, aggravated she went there. “This has everything to do with you. For months you and I have been circling around each other. Each time I tried to move closer, you pushed me away with some new brand of freakout. I adore you, Torres, but emotionally you’re a child.”
“Excuse me?” She has the nerve to look offended. “I wasn’t the one making teary declarations about my newly discovered sexuality.”
“That’s because you haven’t had any discovery. That would take emotional depth and personal insight and personal growth. All you’ve been willing to do is worry about the sex. That’s how you’ve defined this relationship from the start. I don’t know if that’s because you’re still screwed up about your marriage failing or if you’re just emotionally stunted by nature, but to me, the sex was incidental." I take an aggressive step forward, can hear the angry edge to my voice as my emotional control starts to waver. I want to back down but I can't. The words I've been repressing for way too long come spilling out in an eleventh hour confession. "I wanted something more than your body, I wanted something much deeper. I wanted you to give to me what I was willingly giving to you- affection, respect, understanding. You weren’t going through this in a vacuum, Callie. I was right there with you, freaking out and questioning myself, but you never saw me. You never wanted to see me. So now we find ourselves here, on two separate pages, more strangers than when we first met.”
She bites her lip and I see her chin tremble in an effort to hold her own emotions together. “I saw you.”
“No, Cal, you didn’t." My anger spent, I'm simply exhausted. "You still don’t. I’ve been fighting for the both of us through this whole thing and I’m too tired to do it anymore.”
“I do see you,” she insists.
“You really don’t,” I tell her, ready to make my point. I take a deep breath, let it out with a heavy sigh, then simply cut to the heart of the matter. “I'm in love with you.”
Panic, as pure and obvious as I expected, flashes in her eyes. “Oh...I...uh...”
“See?” I give a hint of a sad, resigned smile.
Her eyes fill with tears even as she crosses her arms. Subconsciously defensive, closed off. “Jesus, Erica.”
“I know.” The sad thing is I do know. I know she'll never truly love me.
A weighty silence settles between us, growing by the second, separating us like a giant bottomless chasm. After several seconds, I move toward her, ignoring her slight flinch, to slide one hand through her slightly damp but still silky hair. I pull her to me and press my lips to her forehead. I let the kiss linger, memorizing the smoothness of her skin, the smell of her shampoo, the feel of her body so close to mine.
It’s a good-bye and we both know it.
When I let her go, the tears are streaming down her face and her shoulders are shaking. There’s nothing left to say. Sometimes we simply have to accept our limitations. I turn and walk away.
Disclaimer stuff: Not mine. Blah, blah. ABC/Shondaland. Blah, blah. No profit. No money. No clue.
Warning: some language, some angst, some cold hard truths
Limitations
It's never been an easy thing for me to accept my own limitations. Admitting I've reached a limit is tantamount to quitting and quitting means failure. In my line of work, failure means someone is dead. Failure means another family is without a father or mother or son or daughter or grandparent. I hate failing even when there is no other recourse. Sometimes, as a surgeon, there is nothing more that can be done for a patient and you have to accept the inevitable, your own damnable limitations.
My hands are shaking as I lift the chart off the table. That's not usual. My hands are almost always steady. You can't be a renown cardio surgeon if you can't control your emotions, your frustrations and anger and any number of reactions patients can evoke. I'm aware of Mrs. Norris’ eyes on me as I pour over the notes in Grey's small scribbled writing. Her husband is stable for now. It won't last though and we all know it. His heart is stopping. With each labored breath he draws he marches closer to death and, though I've been researching and coming up with new and desperate ways to keep his damaged heart functioning, I'm afraid all avenues have finally been exhausted.
I shut his chart and look at his pale face, glad he's sleeping because I don't want to see his eyes. I hate the way he looks at me, like he's sorry for putting me through this. He's a good man, with a nice family and I won't be able to save him.
I recall with sudden and shocking clarity, how I smiled at him at Mercy West, assuring him that we had a donor heart and that his life was about to start again. That was two years ago. Two long years that I have been grappling with death on his behalf, after said donor heart had been snatched away from the both of us. I had been rendered helpless that day, I had failed him and yet he thanked me for trying. Now, I discover that the donor heart, the one meant for Mike had been stolen. Preston Burke and Izzie Stevens conspired to steal the heart from us and had succeeded. Apparently it was common knowledge among the residents and attendings at Seattle Grace. Common knowledge to everyone but me. There are no words for my outrage.
I place the chart back on it's table and nod to Dr. Grey. Her orders are to monitor him, not to leave him unattended and to page me immediately if his condition changes. Not that there is anything more that I can do for him, but I feel it's my obligation to be here with him and his family when his heart finally gives out. Amy Norris’ tired eyes track to mine and she forces a smile at me. I try to force one back but it's no use. I nod at her as well and leave.
When I confronted Richard about the news that Stevens had stolen the heart and I wanted an investigation, he told me there had been one. He told me he'd taken care of it. That meant he'd covered it up. They'd handled it internally and Stevens still had a job. Everyone involved still had a job, Grace still had their accreditation and their transplant status, but Mike didn't have his rightful donor heart and soon his children wouldn‘t have their father. How was that fair?
My shift is done and while I take the time to grab my bag from the attending's locker room, I don't change clothes. I leave my scrubs on. I even wear my lab coat out, because today I simply want away from the place that has betrayed everything I believe in. I know what I have to do and I don't know if I have the stomach for it, despite my rage. I have to call UNOS and demand an independent investigation. There is no other option. What was done here was unethical and reprehensible and possibly criminal. Knowing about it and not reporting it makes me complicit. I am in a no win situation and my patient will still most certainly die.
The bitter tears rolling quietly down my face draw a few looks from staff as I make my way down the main stairs and toward the door. I'm beyond caring, though, what these people think of me. My betrayal supersedes any pride I have left at this point.
The cool breeze blasts me as the doors slide open. I can smell the rain in the air although it's not falling yet. I see her immediately, sitting on the bench by the main walk, like an albatross, no doubt waiting for me. I'm not in the mood for Callie's lukewarm affection though, so I walk down the path and past her without a word, without a glance.
"Um, Erica?"
Her voice is demanding and despite my desire to not talk to her I find myself halting. I don't turn to face her. "What?"
"I'm sorry."
I never thought I'd hear the day where those words finally passed her lips. There have been a million instances where I felt as if she needed to say them. She's treated me badly since the moment we steered our relationship towards something more than friendship. For months now I've waited for her to accept what she was feeling, what we were feeling together. I've been waiting for some show of deepening affection for me, some indication that what we were doing was more than experimentation on her part. And though her words assured me time and again that it was more, that it was real, her actions continually said something else. Though there are times when I absolutely adore Callie Torres, there are times when I can't fucking stand her. I’m not quite sure which one this falls under.
I turn to look at her. She's standing in front of the bench, wearing the same black leather jacket she wore the night she first kissed me, the night she assured me she cared about me, the night she made me believe that what I felt for her could be returned. I resent her for that.
"Why are you apologizing to me?" My tone is brittle, sharp. My patience is exhausted.
She takes a hesitant step forward. It's always a hesitant step with her. She loops her thumb in the strap of her purse. It's a nervous habit. I'm used to seeing it. I'm tired of seeing it.
"I..." She looks around. More disquiet. I wait. What else is new? I'm always waiting for her. "The Stevens thing,” she begins again, “I'm sorry I didn't tell you before. I just...I never put two and two together. I mean, what are the odds that Denny's donor heart was the one for your guy?"
I feel like I'm hearing her words underwater. They're muted and dull. It's my temper fighting against my will. I want to explode, to scream at her, to shout my rage from the mountains, so that it echoes over all of Seattle. I don't allow myself the release. Passion like that is dangerous in my profession and I'm used to suppressing.
"It's not about it being my patient's heart she stole. It's about a little thing called the Hippocratic Oath. Perhaps you've heard of it? Apparently no one else in this hospital has."
"That's fair," she says as if she's conceded a great point. "So now that you know, what are you planning on doing?"
"I plan on doing what I'm supposed to do when I find out about grossly unethical medical practices. I'm going to report it."
She shuffles her feet and she bites her lip as she looks around again. "I don't think you should."
I'd love to say I'm surprised by her reaction, but I'm not. Two months ago I would have been. That was before she'd put my emotions through the wringer, before she toyed with my affections, before she made me believe she wanted me exclusively only to find out she'd been screwing Mark Sloan on the side and, through it all, never once seemed to notice how much she was hurting me.
I sigh. "I honestly don't care what you think."
She reacts like I just slapped her and that's fine. Actually it's oddly gratifying. "Erica, I know you're pissed and you have every right to be, but inviting a full blown investigation, potentially dragging the hospital down, getting people fired...it's not worth it."
Now that does surprise me. "Are you kidding me? Stevens stole a donor heart. My patient, who is up there dying as we speak, spent the last two years of his life fighting for every breath he's taken. He's been bedridden, unable to see his children for more than five minute intervals a couple of times a day, simply waiting for death. He's suffering. For the last two years he and his family have been tortured unmercifully because Izzie Stevens had a crush. Don't you dare tell me that it's not worth it."
"It was more than a crush and an investigation now won't give your guy his heart back."
I blink at her like I've never seen her before in my life, like she's some insane stranger that I don't really want to know. "Who the fuck are you? Where the hell is all of this coming from? A man is dying, a crime was committed, a cover-up was initiated. I'm not simply over-looking all of that and I can't believe you're standing here asking me to. Have you really no scruples at all?"
“I understand you’re mad but-”
“No,” I cut her off because I don’t want to argue this. There’s no point. “I’m calling UNOS and reporting this. Save your breath because nothing you can say will change my mind. Nothing.”
“So you don’t care if they close the transplant program? You don’t care if Grace falls off the chart of teaching programs? You’re sabatoging both of our careers by making that phone call, Erica.”
Aha. It all makes sense now. Callie Torres is nothing if not a woman of self-absorption. I can’t believe I thought for a moment she was defending Stevens or even the hospital, in general. She was covering her own ass. She’s a senior resident, almost through her training. If an investigation hit, if Grace lost its accreditation, it would set her career back. She would have to apply to a new program, perhaps repeat her entire residency. She’s asking me not to report it for her. I can‘t think of an argument that would sway me less. Except perhaps, sparing Stevens.
“Reporting this to UNOS would not impact my career in the least, Torres. I wouldn‘t be out of a position for more than a couple months, tops. I would share in none of the negative findings. I would be more than in the clear since my patient and I were the wronged parties in this all. You though? You might not have been in the room with Stevens when she cut the LVAD- or, hell, maybe you were- I don’t know what to think anymore. But you were in the program, closely tied to those people. You were here and you knew what went down and you kept your mouth shut. That makes you part of this and that‘s what scares you. That‘s why you want me to keep this quiet. You want me to protect you.”
“And what’s wrong with that? You’re my...” She pauses and visibly squirms. “We’re together or whatever, so you’d think you’d want to not see me booted out on my ass or get implicated in a scandal that’ll ruin my career.”
“We’re together?” I can‘t help the sardonic chuckle. “No, Callie, we’re not together. I care about you and you care about you. And the word, the one that scares you so much that you can’t even say it, is ‘lover‘ or, hell, even ‘girlfriend’. And here’s a big freakin' newflash, Torres, it’s not exactly togetherness if you can‘t even say it.”
“Oh, so now it’s all my fault? So now you’re doing this just to hurt me, because I’m still a little uneasy about us?”
I don’t even know how to respond to that. I look around as a light mist starts to fall. “This is not a question of punishment, Torres. This is a question of right and wrong. This is a question of ethics, and if you’re expecting me to jeopardize my own reputation and my own moral standing, in the hopes that this bullshit never reaches the light of day, then you must not know me any more than I know you.”
“Oh, so it’s okay for you to protect your career but not mine?”
“I’m not the one who mixed herself up in a scandal.”
“I didn’t mix myself up in it, it just sort of happened around me.” For the first time she seems slightly repentant, somewhat confused. It dulls the edge of my anger, but doesn't change my stance. Not on anything.
“Everything has consequences, Callie, even the things we don’t do. If I could change things, undo them somehow, I would. But we’re stuck where we are.”
She looks at me for a long time, her dark eyes intense, thoughtful. “That wasn’t about the LVAD, was it?”
It’s my turn to look away. Callie Torres is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on. As a friend, she was like the other half of me. We thought exactly alike, laughed at the same jokes and at times even completed each other’s sentences. I cared about her in a way I hadn’t cared about anyone in a long time and I expected great things from our relationship when it deepened. I expected her to love me the way I love her. It hurts to let those expectations go.
I can find no easy words so I shake my head, knowing she’ll understand.
“You’re breaking up with me, aren’t you?”
I nod.
“I can’t believe Izzie Stevens is breaking up another one of my relationships," she whines. "I can’t fucking believe it!”
“This has nothing to do with Stevens,” I snap, aggravated she went there. “This has everything to do with you. For months you and I have been circling around each other. Each time I tried to move closer, you pushed me away with some new brand of freakout. I adore you, Torres, but emotionally you’re a child.”
“Excuse me?” She has the nerve to look offended. “I wasn’t the one making teary declarations about my newly discovered sexuality.”
“That’s because you haven’t had any discovery. That would take emotional depth and personal insight and personal growth. All you’ve been willing to do is worry about the sex. That’s how you’ve defined this relationship from the start. I don’t know if that’s because you’re still screwed up about your marriage failing or if you’re just emotionally stunted by nature, but to me, the sex was incidental." I take an aggressive step forward, can hear the angry edge to my voice as my emotional control starts to waver. I want to back down but I can't. The words I've been repressing for way too long come spilling out in an eleventh hour confession. "I wanted something more than your body, I wanted something much deeper. I wanted you to give to me what I was willingly giving to you- affection, respect, understanding. You weren’t going through this in a vacuum, Callie. I was right there with you, freaking out and questioning myself, but you never saw me. You never wanted to see me. So now we find ourselves here, on two separate pages, more strangers than when we first met.”
She bites her lip and I see her chin tremble in an effort to hold her own emotions together. “I saw you.”
“No, Cal, you didn’t." My anger spent, I'm simply exhausted. "You still don’t. I’ve been fighting for the both of us through this whole thing and I’m too tired to do it anymore.”
“I do see you,” she insists.
“You really don’t,” I tell her, ready to make my point. I take a deep breath, let it out with a heavy sigh, then simply cut to the heart of the matter. “I'm in love with you.”
Panic, as pure and obvious as I expected, flashes in her eyes. “Oh...I...uh...”
“See?” I give a hint of a sad, resigned smile.
Her eyes fill with tears even as she crosses her arms. Subconsciously defensive, closed off. “Jesus, Erica.”
“I know.” The sad thing is I do know. I know she'll never truly love me.
A weighty silence settles between us, growing by the second, separating us like a giant bottomless chasm. After several seconds, I move toward her, ignoring her slight flinch, to slide one hand through her slightly damp but still silky hair. I pull her to me and press my lips to her forehead. I let the kiss linger, memorizing the smoothness of her skin, the smell of her shampoo, the feel of her body so close to mine.
It’s a good-bye and we both know it.
When I let her go, the tears are streaming down her face and her shoulders are shaking. There’s nothing left to say. Sometimes we simply have to accept our limitations. I turn and walk away.