Almost.

Almost, but not quite.

Two years. Nearly two whole years.

Seven hundred and twenty nine days, twenty-three hours and twelve minutes and eighteen seconds.

Nineteen.

Twenty.

PJ Hasham sat at his desk and stared into space. Seven hundred and twenty nine days since she'd gone. Since she'd been shot and bled to death in his arms. Since her heart had stopped, and her life had been so cruelly stolen. Since his own reality, his heart – since his life had screeched to a halt as well.

He'd stayed in Mount Thomas, he couldn't have left, not when her memories were here, when she was all around him, when their love, their life was so tangible, so real. He couldn't have left, he wouldn't have coped anywhere else – and he wasn't coping here.

Two years had passed, almost. Two long, savagely lonely years. To be quite honest, he wasn't really sure how he had made it through; so many times he had seriously considered ending it all, going to her, being with her, his hand slippery over the handle of his gun. He'd gone to the outcrop, the russet red ridge of rocks where they'd said their goodbyes before faking that disastrous argument. The argument that was supposed to convince everyone that their love was over, that they were no longer soul-mates, no longer so deeply in love it made people's hearts smile. He'd gone there, the gun heavy in his hands, his heart breaking at missing her so much. At craving her touch, her smile, her love once again. Falling apart at the realisation once more that she was dead, and that she would never be coming back. And, after hours of sitting, of thinking, of grieving again, he would stand, holster his weapon and go home and get blindingly drunk as he wept for everything they had lost.

Seven hundred and twenty nine days, twenty-three hours and twelve minutes and twenty-nine minutes.