AN: Well post series, angsty I don't know where it came from, it even depresses me.
Summary: She feels his absence like a physical pain.
She didn't expect him to go to Germany – to go back to his wife. She didn't expect for that to ever be even a thought in his head. She didn't expect him not to love her as much as she loves him, and most of all she didn't expect to find herself fighting tears every single morning.
It's ironic, really, that in the beginning he never stayed the night, and now she can barely comprehend the thought that he's not there when she wakes up anymore. She sits on the kitchen counter with a bottle of merlot, casting wounded glances at their – her – bedroom door. It's been three months. She should be used to this, but it's harder than she could've imagined. She can barely walk into the room some days, her sleep is restless and interrupted, her dreams are broken and confusing, and she has no idea where to sleep in the bed.
She wants to sleep on her own side and still be able to roll over and find his warm, muscled chest beside her.
She wants to prove that she's moved on and sleep in the middle of the king sized bed; spread out and feel like she knows, really knows, that he isn't there. Isn't going to be. And she doesn't want him to be.
She does want him to be, and what she wants to do more than anything is to sleep on his side and inhale what's left of his much beloved Simon-Scent on the pillowslip she hasn't washed.
What she really wants, though, more than anything, is to wake up and not start at the lack of him – not have to sit and think where he is – because he's with Eva. He's in Germany. He's gone, and he's not coming back, and she feels the loss of him like a pain – like something is physically missing from inside her torso; like she's lost a vital organ and she can still feel the absence of it. It's like a sickness; and something in her will never, ever, ever recover from the knowledge that she's never going to wake up and find him there again.