Patience is a virtue many possess, yet so few practice. He remembers hearing that somewhere. So much of his life is scattered to the wind, forged again only in dreams and in those rare moments where he slips into a comatose state, his mind halfway between heaven and hell (an island; it's always an island).
"Why are you here?"
The southern twang to her voice is strangely endearing; it seems to settle him during those moments where he can't find himself (or anyone else, for that matter). It hurts to see her now, her expression a mixture of resignation and distrust.
"Can't I call round anymore?"
She folds her arms, her light hair fluttering carelessly in the breeze.
"You stood me up, Littleton."
"Which time?" he asks, his voice broken.
And, just like that, her expression breaks too. She bites her lip, turns her head, and fights back tears. Theirs is a relationship that struggles and burns with time, occasionally reigniting like a dying flame. He disappears for lengthy amounts of time, unable to explain where he's been but she knows. (You've been trying to find it again, haven't you?)
He doesn't know why they keep finding their way back to each other. It's not a healthy relationship to sustain, with one always coming and going and one always waiting and hoping (knowing the answer is never going to change).
Cass simply says only time will tell whether or not they'll manage to stay together.
Kate and Sawyer simply share a look and a smile (they think he doesn't see it). And he thinks maybe they know a little something about chasing love which, like catching a butterfly, might seem to be a permanent thing, only for it to fly away the moment your fingers start to slip.
They're both running.
He's running to belong. She's running to find somewhere stable to call home.
Their desires are one and the same thing. And sooner later they'll realize both paths circle back to each other.