The silence is deafening and he can feel the loss of her, of them, before she even reaches the door. It dulls his edges, hollows him out until there is only this. This moment, this unrelenting pain. He calls out to her then, says "I'm sorry" when really, he thinks, he should have said something more, something better.

Something true.

Because he's not sorry, not really. And he wouldn't take back a single moment with her for a million with anyone else. He is almost completely enveloped in grief as he stands to lock the door behind her. Distant memories overwhelm his senses, filling them up and he nearly stumbles at the thought of never again being able to do any of those things. Never again feeling her small hand snake into his own; never again reaching an arm across her bare stomach in the middle of the night; never again pressing his lips to the freckle on her cheek.

The smell of her lingers everywhere and it isn't until a moment later that he realizes she hasn't left. He can feel her on the other side, her weight pressing against the solid wood in a way so comforting it takes all of his strength not to lay at her feet and beg. He knows all he has to do is open the door and she would be there, in his arms; she's only a touch away, but somehow he can't bring himself to do it. Somehow all he can see is the look on her face as she whispered "I can't do this anymore."

So he sits down, presses himself up against the door, where he can feel her mirroring his position on the other side, and breathes. He closes his eyes for a moment and wonders if anything will ever be good again. Somehow he doesn't think so.

"Do you remember the night we met?" she whispers and he is startled by the sound. She could feel him too, it seems and he smiles at the thought.

"Of course," he says, a plaintive crack in his voice. "Of course I do," he tries again.

"What did you think ... of me? I mean, did you ever think we'd end up here?" she says with a laugh and even through the thickness of the door can he tell that it is hollow, cold. He wonders desperately if he will ever experience her warmth again.

"I thought ..." he says and then stops, the heaviness in his heart weighing him down like a stone in water. "I thought you were beautiful," he says and he means it. Always, always did he think that.

"Lucas ..." and she sounds so small, so far away, despite the distance between them. "Please," she says, pleading, and because he can deny her nothing he tells her.

"I thought ..." he swallows. "I thought you looked like the rest of my life," his voice is barely above a whisper and he thinks she can probably hear his heart cave in, the surrounding walls crumble. He realizes now that this is all she has ever wanted and wonders, distantly, why he had ever denied her something she so deserved. Why is he always a moment too late?

He hears her small "okay" and presses his hand to the door, wishes he could will the wood beneath his fingers away. She moves then, from the other side, and he waits until he hears the crunch of gravel beneath her tires before releasing the breath he's been holding.

He can barely see through the tears.

He is standing before a stone wall, absently rubbing his fingers across the cold, smooth surface as he watches her from the window and despite the fact that he knows he should, he simply can't pull his eyes away. He smiles softly because even at this distance does he find her lovely. No, not lovely. Perfect. She is swaying slightly, her face nestled in the neck of a small child, and he thinks he can almost hear her humming softly despite the wind whistling in his ears. He marvels at the way her hair falls around her shoulders even as he wishes he could remember the way it smells, wishes he could remember all the little details time has washed away.

He watches a tall man slip in beside her then, gently pulling the now sleeping child from her arms, and Lucas feels his insides twist as she presses her lips to both their temples in quick succession.

There is so much love in this house.

And then she is turning and, despite the distance between them, he sees her body stiffen. She's noticed him, he realizes, and when her small frame hovers in the door way a moment later he smiles for lack of anything better to do, anything better to say. He wishes he could go to her but he knows that it is she who must close the distance between them, so he waits. He looks down, smoothing imaginary wrinkles from his shirt, and when he looks up once more she is there before him.

"Hi," he says and she is silent for a long moment. Then, "What ... What are you doing here?" and he can't help but notice how much older she sounds, wiser. The thought makes him smile, despite his sinking heart.

"Lucas?" she says pulling him from his thoughts and when he doesn't respond she looks away, the wind blowing her hair wildly about her face. His hands burn with the need to tuck a stray lock behind her ear. Instead he says, "I wanted to see you" because You said you'd wait forever sounds all wrong, even to his own ears.

"You did," she says, a small smile tugging and he breathes deeply. This is it, he thinks. He has to make this count. "You look so happy, Brooke," he whispers and he holds his breath for a moment, waits for her to respond.

She looks back then, at the home, the life, she's built, and he knows what she's thinking because sometimes even he can't believe how far they've come. "Yeah," she whispers, "I am." She looks down, suddenly shy.

He hooks a finger beneath her chin, nudging gently. "I'm glad," he whispers and means it, hopes his eyes don't betray his sadness.

"Oh, Lucas" she whispers, her eyes filling up. "Forever ..." and here she shakes her head, appearing frustrated. "Forever just turned out to be too long."

He grabs her left hand then, holds it tightly despite feeling like the platinum band there is weighing him down. Or perhaps that's simply his regret. "I know," he whispers. "I mean ... I get it," he says, squeezing once before letting go and running his hands across the cold stone of the wall once more. She does the same, their hands near bumping each other and, though he is reluctant to, he turns to leave.

He pulls down the road a moment later, his tires kicking up dirt as he goes, and he's careful not to look in the rearview mirror.

He's careful not to look back once.

~ PM SimplyxEileen or 4brathan&brucas if you would like to be added ~