Still have writer's block. So I'm just posting whatever. This can be considered part of the Sixty Minutes verse

Memento

You let out a long, cleansing breath. You foolishly assume that it will somehow make you feel better. But another follows it and then another, and it doesn't help a bit. The tears are still rolling, your respirations hitched and uneven. You laugh bitterly into your slick, salty-wet palms, swallowing over and over. You're not the praying type. But you can't help saying God, please make it stop. You wish you hadn’t gone snooping in Wilson’s room. You wish you'd just minded your own fucking business. For the first time in you life, you’re certain that there are simply some things that you really and truly don’t need to know.

Sorry I’m not here, the note reads. Went to pick up House. Love, A.

Your eyes scan the message for the hundredth time, allowing the contents to soak in. You’re punishing yourself and you know it. You deserve to read it, to see it over and over again, to re-experience that moment. You deserve to digest its deeper meaning. Because you know what it really says. It says goodbye. It says I'm not coming back. It says that it’s all your fault. It says that someone who was once living is now dead because of you. Amber went out to get you that night and she never came home. And never is forever. Never is your fault and Wilson still keeps that memento because he wants to be reminded. It's been well over a year since Amber died. But he still needs to be reminded of the evil you've done.

Eventually the words on the paper become too blurry to read. So you clutch the note to your chest, rock and rock, and wonder if it will ever stop hurting. You wonder if you will ever stop hating yourself for this. You're sure that if you hate yourself this much, Wilson must hate you even more.

When he comes home, he's obviously surprised to find you in his room, and not in a good way either. You mean to explain yourself, to say something, anything at all. But you can’t. You've been sitting here for hours with your mouth hanging open and your throat has gone completely dry. You actually begin to cough and hack, the second you attempt to speak. Wilson appears more worried than anything else and you realize that if he isn't angry, you must really look like crap.

It takes him a minute to pry the note from your fingers. You don't mean to struggle against him, but you can't help it. The moment he realizes why you're really crying is the moment that this becomes real. The ink has smeared, the words no longer legible, and the paper has become wrinkled and soaked with your tears.

"I'm so sorry," you whisper, loathing how pathetic you sound. You're not sure if your apology means anything to him. You're sure if he believes you, or if it's even possible for him to believe you. You're certain that nothing you have to say to him even matters anymore.

Wilson's face is pinched with irritation, and you can tell he’s torn between chewing you out for snooping and asking you if you’re sure you’re okay. You're dying to know which, except you can’t speak. You can’t think. You can’t move. You can't function at all. You want to disappear. You want to snap your fingers and not be here. You want to not be you. You want to not be the one who drank too much and then got on the bus.

You think if you could do it again, you’d just let Amber drive you home. You wouldn’t order her a drink and make her drink it. You wouldn’t stick her with your bar tab. Hell, you wouldn’t call her at all. You’d walk home if you had to, anything to avoid whatever the hell this is that you‘re feeling right now. It's desperate and empty, the knowledge that nothing will ever be the same again, the knowledge that nothing will ever be okay again.

Each thought brings with it new realizations, of what a complete and total bastard you are. Unpleasant memories hit you like waves, taking you down, piercing your heart, your mind, the very core of your soul. All the terrible things that you've said and done over the years, come rushing back to you. Your body is folded forward, your forehead pressed into the denim that's pulled taut over each knee. It’s a painful position to maintain, especially considering your handicap. But you don’t care. Because you deserve to be in pain. You deserve to suffer. At long last you’re finally letting it go, just like Nolan said you should. You chuckle to yourself, a sound that quickly evolves into a choked sob. Oh God, it hurts, and you doubt that it will make a difference. But you're finally letting it go, and it's too bad that he’s not here to see it.