Title: Letter after Letter
Sara, Grissom/Sara, angst, drabble, pg-13
Summary: Sara deals with Grissom and the events surrounding the both of them in her own way.
What happened to us, Grissom? I'm lost, confused, angry. I have been for a while now. All I need is to understand. What happened to the professor and his favourite student? What happened to the good friends? What happened to the at-least-twice-a-week telephone calls? We were good. We got along well, we made a good team. You talked to me; I barely remember what that feels like anymore. You touched my face, I touched yours. Albeit, over a year apart, but it still happened. It still defined who we were, and desperately points out who we are now. Apparently we're completely different. Except I don't remember changing. Well, sure I changed, everybody changes, but what did I do wrong? Did I do anything wrong? You do realise that if you hadn't told me to go have a life, I probably wouldn't have done. Not for a long while, anyway. Was it that that pushed you away? Or was it something else? I think it was something else. I think you got scared. Well guess what, I'm tired of you running away scared. But I still can't help playing the cliché female, by saying that I'll be waiting. I may pretend to move on, but I'm not sure whether I ever really will. I hope so for my own sake, you're destroying me, Grissom. But I just can't turn away. Are you ever going to realise what I feel for you? Or even more accept it? And even more than that, are you ever going to admit what you yourself feel? I know you feel something. I know it. Everybody else knows it. You're pushing yourself away from me because you're scared; you've been doing it for almost a year, maybe more. I've lost count of the days, months, years. Are you ever going to wake up to what's going on around you? Are you ever going to talk to me again? Confide in me? Love me?
Sara set down the pen, eyes watering, but refused to allow the tears to fall. She stood, crossed the room to her jacket thrown over the back of the sofa, and pulled her lighter out of the pocket. She stared at it, flicked the flame on and off, on and off, before walking back to the desk, picking up the piece of paper, grabbing an ashtray, and setting fire to the bottom corner of the letter. She watched as it crisped and curled before disintegrating, sprinkling grey dust in the ashtray and onto the desk around it. She leaned back in the chair, thinking to herself that maybe one day, she would be brave enough to actually give him one of the letters she wrote, or at least leave it for him to find. Until then, she would continue to write letter after letter, burning it each time.