She likes to think she isn’t that shallow. Isn’t that pathetic. That somewhere, deep down, past all her insecurities, flaws, and damage, that there is a glimpse of Spencer Hastings left inside her. Spencer Hastings whom once mocked the hopeless romantics of the world. Spencer Hastings, the person who always put her friends first. Spencer Hastings, the strong, perfect, girl, who never failed in her mission.

But as much as she wishes she was that person, she is not. That person died when Toby “died.” He killed her, just as she thought she killed him. And she should resurrect with him, right? That’s how it should work?

If only she actually believed he was alive. If only she could see him; his chest moving up and down, his bright eyes blinking, his lips twitching into that boyish smile that always put butterflies in her stomach.

She is conflicted. Because seeing Toby—alive— would put her back together. Even if this whole thing they had—whatever the hell it was—was a lie, it would bring her back to the Spencer Hastings she knew before. 

Seeing is believing.

She says yes to Mona.

She will not betray the girls. She won’t. In her selfishness, she will try to remain loyal. She’ll work against Mona. She’ll team up with her friends. She’ll make it work.

But putting on the black hoodie—it feels like the biggest betrayal of them all.

But she has to see him. She has to know he is alive because she doesn’t know how much longer she can last.

She wanted to die when she saw him laying there. Die!

He loves me, he loves me not.

She took him for granted when he was around…and hers. She lied, and even though she did it to protect him, she felt like she was just being selfish with that. Selfish because she wanted to have that normalcy. She wanted Toby to remain in the dark, so he could keep being her light, but it turns out that he was the one blowing out the torch.

It doesn’t seem likely that Toby “loves” her. Because how could he? After everything. If he was –A, he had to have seen the destruction. There was no way he was blinded to the way she completed unfolded—utterly erupted, and imploded, at the notion of him being “dead.”

If he loved her, he wouldn’t let her believe that. He would have reached out to her—done something!

But at the same time, how could he fake all that? Everything? It was so real…so raw, and legit. His touch was so gentle. His looks, so sincere. His love, so deep.

Dammit, she was crying again.

She hated him. She hated him so much. He hurt her so bad. And they have had fights. He has hurt her (rarely) but, he was always there after to hold her. He held her in his arms, and kissed her forehead, soothing her with simple words and soft affection. But he didn’t do that this time. He wasn’t there for her. He was gone. She was all alone, the hurt consuming her, until she was nothing, but broken, jagged pieces.

She hated him.

But she craved his love.

She craved him to beg for her forgiveness.

She craved him.

So, she does what Mona says. She betrays her best friend, all while coming up with a plan to make it up to her—to all her best friends. She comes up with a plan, and puts it into action, and is rewarded in doing so. She gets to see Toby—on Friday.

But that is too far away. And she is planning another scheme—one Mona is not involved in, one that will uncover all the secrets that lies between Mona and Redcoat (hopefully.) She needs to see Toby, now.

So, she comes up with another plan.

Why is it that she is so much better at playing the villain, than the hero?

She waits at a booth, sitting in her –A get-up, wondering how she ended up here. When it all got so fucked up that she was wearing the clothes only the devil could fit into? How did it all get so bad?

Someone—Toby—sits across from her. But it still doesn’t feel like it is him. He still feels dead. She still sees him in the forest—the tattoo, the crashed bike. It all still seems present, and suddenly she falls back into that moment. Only for a second, but she is back. Back to it all—to the pain of seeing him—her Toby, who was maybe never even hers—gone away to another life.

“Hanna got the job,” the man across from her states.

And her heart skips a beat because it is him. It is Toby. It is his voice—his voice that spoke words of promise and love, and lies. It is Toby. The boy who beat her in scrabble. Her safe place to land. The owner of her heart. It is him. It is really him. He may sound hollow—sound as if he wishes he were dead, but he is not. He is alive. He is here.

“I know,” she raises her head to look at him, swallowing every ounce of emotion she has.

His eyes widen—those eyes that linger on the lightest shade of blue—those eyes that promised love and truth.

“Spencer,” the word runs off his tongue in a vague tone. A vague, emotionless tone.

“When I was in Radley, Mona told me you were alive…but I couldn’t believe it until now…” she states, her voice wavering—insecurities breaking through her weak walls.

Something washes over him. Something that almost seems like sadness. He looks down.

“It’s—complicated,” the words break on the way out of his mouth.

She sniffles, “you’re alive. You faked your death!” she exclaims in a rasp, feeling her eyes well up. She recoils into herself, her body becoming tense.

“It wasn’t me!” he fights back. “I didn’t—I didn’t know. I knew after,” he throws back words weakly.

She stares at him, wishing that she could just be strong. That she could hold herself together, but it isn’t possible. It isn’t even close to being possible. So much has happened. The last time she saw him, he was in her kitchen, sporting a black hoodie and rummaging through her kitchen drawers. So much hurt has consumed her. She has succumbed to darkness.

“We can’t talk about this here,” he quickly states. “Does Mona know you’re here?” he asks in a whisper.

“No…she has no idea.”

“Spencer, this isn’t safe...” he beckons, his voice quiet. “I know somewhere we can talk,” he offers. “You just have to trust me,” he pleas.

“Trust you?” the words leap off her throat in a pang of despair and loss. “Do you have any idea--,” she begins in a fuss of emotions. She sniffles, “why should I trust you? You’re –A. You’re working with Mona—,”

“To protect you,” his voice finds her in the pit of darkness. “I know that it looks bad, but you just…you have to believe me.”

“I want to,” she admits in a tender, broken voice. “But…” she looks away, feeling like she will burst into tears in any second.

“What we had was real,” he states firmly. “I need you to believe me…and to follow me,” he tells her, his voice stern.

He gets up, and begins to walk towards the door.

And hesitantly she follows.

He leads her to some dingy motel. He tells her that he has been living in motels for the past couple weeks, moving in and out of them like a nomad. And it seems fitting for him, because he is always running. Even though he hates it, he is always going the other direction—always furthering himself from the harsh reality that surrounds him.

He passes her a cup of coffee, and their hands accidentally brush. Sparks run up her in an instant. She missed these sparks. Sure, there was something with Wren…but it wasn’t the same. He will never be Toby. No one will ever be Toby.

“Why did you do this Spencer?” he asks after a long, drawn out, silence.

He sits on the bed, and she leans against a wall, her coffee cup heating her cold hands. She stares at the black liquid, the sweet scents of its contents running up her nostrils, “Mona told me she would let me see you…if I followed her rules…” she confesses. Why is she the one answering questions? Shouldn’t it be the other way around? “I had to kidnap a seven year old,” she breathes, the guilt washing off of her as the words sweep past her tongue. “I broke up Aria and Ezra, so…I’ve earned her trust,” she says, disgust in her voice.

Toby doesn’t say anything, so she continues, “you’re supposed to be my reward for delivering the girls.”

“How did you find me?”

“Mona has a lot of equipment,” Spencer says listlessly. “It wasn’t that hard. I just had to get into her lair alone.”

She sets the coffee down on the small table next to her, and walks in front of Toby, staring down at him, almost scared to open her mouth. “Why did you do it?” her small voice flows into the air.

“I told you, I wanted to protect you,” he states, his jaw clenching at he speaks. “I knew something was up—you’re not that great of a liar.”

“But apparently you are,” the words move past her mouth, coolly. “You said what we had was real, but if that’s true—how could you,” she inhales sharply, staring away, “how could you just watch me fall apart,” the heavy words tumble out of her frowning lips. “If I saw you…hurting, like I know you saw me,” she clenches her eyes shut, shaking her head, feeling her throat closing on her.

“I know,” his heavy, raspy voice echoes off the walls, and into her ears. “I know…” he states again, rising up to his feet.

He tries to take her hands, but she flees from his touch, clasping her hand to her chest. She opens up her eyes, and stares up at him through the blur of salt and despair. He has tears of his own, dark circles, too. He looks almost as worn out as her. Almost.

“Spencer, I just…I worry about you.  I…the thought of losing you…I just…can’t,” he shakes his head, his eyes pleading her. To do what…she isn’t sure.

“I understand…you…joining the –A team…I mean, I did the same thing, but…” she sighs. Her brown eyes wavering against his, “you...broke me.”

“I know,” he looks down. Swallowing, the words scramble out of his mouth, “I broke me, too.”

She wished so much pain on Toby throughout the last few weeks. She wished death on him at one point. Of course, she didn’t actually want that (clearly.) But she had wished it. She had craved revenge. She desired to see him in a state of torment. To see him break, and fall, and shrivel. But, right now, seeing him—hearing his voice break, and eyes swell—it hurts her. It pains her to see this emotion of despair from him. He has caused her so much terrible suffering, but yet, seeing him suffer only breaks her more.

“Do you love me, Toby?” she asks, sniffling, swallowing another sob, feeling her cheeks cover with dew.

She asks because she has to hear the words.

She has to hear those three, overly used, words.

Even though he implied it…even if he said that they were real…she has to hear the words directly.

His eyes sync with hers—his eyes that shine brighter through his tears; his sad, tragic, beautiful eyes. “So much,” he declares. “I know it may not seem like it. And maybe you don’t even believe me. But, I…I do. I love you more than you know. More than I can probably ever prove…” he professes, salt and pain running down his face.

A bittersweet, tiny, smile rises up on her face, “I just…I needed to hear that…” she confesses.

“I really love you, Spencer,” he says it again, a strain in his voice. “I just…needed to say it again,” he breathes. “I love you.”

And then she breaks down. Carelessly—freely, and openly. And when his apprehensive arms coil around her, she doesn’t pull away or push him off. No, she accepts it. She embraces it. She needs it because she is already so fallen apart. She cannot lose anymore of herself.

Apologies soothe her to a lull, and suddenly they are sitting on the bed. She is leaning into him, her hands wrapped around him in a possessive matter, her head in his chest, in his sweet smelling shirt. Toby loves her. Her Toby—the only man she has ever loved, the only person who has every really understood her, the one she has given herself fully to—loves her. She feels bliss at the thought, after everything. After it all, he loves her. He loves her.

But does she love him?

After all he had done to her. After all the strain he has put on her heart. After all the destruction and ruin, is it possible for her to still love him?

She knows the answer though. She is asking herself the wrong questions.

How is it possible that she still loves him?

She finally pulls away from him, offering a sort of, broken smile. He just looks at her, unmoving—completely still.

“Toby…I love you,” she breathes after a second. “But…” the word is painful to say, “I just…” her voice breaks off into a ghastly silence.

Their eyes flicker back and forth, both feeling so utterly damaged by the world.

“I don’t know…we can’t just go back to how things were.”

“Are you saying we shouldn’t be together?” he prompts.

“I don’t know,” she admits… recoiling from his touch all together.

She already feels cold without him to warm her. But being close to him, it’s like being in the midst of the fire. It is demerging herself into toxins. It feels good with him, it does. But it also leaves her with a sense of guilt. Of anger. Of sadness. There is no changing the past. She cannot erase his mistakes, and he cannot either. They can only go forward, but how can something so utterly broken and damaged move forward? Move at all? When everything is left in scraps and pieces, and lost among the dust of chaos? Where do you even start? Is it even possible?

“I love you,” she states the words again, peering up at his blue irises. “I do, but…” she shakes her head. When she was little, when her mother and father would fight about everything and anything, she always wondered what made them stick together. She found out later that it wasn’t love, or even trust, but both being strong enough to endure the suffering appointed by the other. She isn’t comparing her relationship with Toby to the relationship her parents have with each other, at all, reallu. But the fact of the matter is that love is not the most important thing. There is no one important thing. A relationship is a complex structure, it has multiple bonds, and necessities.  And her relationship with Toby is only running on love. Which makes it incapable of surviving…

“Maybe we shouldn’t,” she tries to say without sobbing, feeling herself crumble beneath the words.

“But…”

“Some things are just unfixable, Toby. I can forgive you for joining the –A team. I get that. It’s just the pain you put me through… I can’t. I can’t look at you without feeling all of that again, and while being with you makes me happy, it doesn’t cancel everything else out,” her voice is quiet and frail.

His eyes skirt down to her hands, and then her copper orbs, “I want you to be happy, and safe, and to feel okay.”

“I want the same things for you,” she offers, taking his hands in hers, almost in an urgent matter. “But… there is also a part of me that wants to spite you. It’s microscopically, but it’s there. I’m not a forgiving person, Toby. I have been holding on to grudges my whole life. I try to let things go, but I can never fully do it. I wish I wasn’t like this. I wish I could say that in a decade from now that everything will be okay, but I’m not an optimist. I’m not some hopeless romantic. I never have been. I never will be. That’s just not who I am.”

“I understand,” he murmurs in a heavy tone. “I guess this is the end for us, then,” he looks up at her, dismal in his eyes.

“I’ll always love you. It’s never going to be the end for us,” she murmurs, her voice strained.

“I’m so sorry, Spencer,” a tear falls from his right eye.

 But that isn't possible, and he knows it, and the past is the past, and the agony cannot be undone. He knows that, but the urge and will, and overpowering, desire to change it still reals inside him. It presses against him with the weight of one hundred tons. A unforgiving guilt, and remorse, swallowing him whole, and crushing his insides.

"I'm responsible," he says again, and the pain in her eyes--the pain that differs from his, but still accounts for pain--of possible worse pain (probable worse pain,) stares back at the words. Stares at him, and pushes him further into remorse. 

But it isn't her fault. It is his. His decision. His destruction, and she was the victim. The one who was burned, and he is just the remorse-struck villain. 

He tried. He tried so hard to find a way to keep her safe--to keep her alive, and well, and make it better for her, but he just made it worse. He made it so much worse. On her, on him. On her friends. Everyone. His intentions were good--his motive, his plan; it was all one of a hero's, but in the end, he was just a fool of a villain. 

Villains weren't supposed to end up with anyone. They were supposed to be left alone; left to fall to the loneliest death.

"I'm so sorry," he goes on, even though he knows his words' power is non-effective. How can words reconstruct such a mess of catastrophe and destruction? "I shouldn't -- I'm -- you were in Radley, because of me--," the words scramble weakly off his tongue.

She presses a long, lingering kiss to this spot—this spot that thumps and vibrates against her lips. She lets herself stay there, lets herself stay above the place where his heart lies. “Marry me,” she says again into his chest. She rests her cheek against his heartbeat. Her eyes go up to his drowsy, tired face. His eyes flicker open a couple times, before they are able to stay open. Through the darkness, she can still see the bright blue that lingers in them. A blue that has always been to bright for him.

“Are you high?” the words tumble out of his mouth lazily.

It is so mumbled, so small and mashed together that if she was anyone other Spencer Hastings, and he was anyone other than Toby Cavanaugh, she would have no idea what the words leaked from his mouth were. But she is Spencer Hastings, and he is Toby Cavanaugh. They know each other’s language. They know how to communicate in ways she never thought was possible.

“Maybe,” the word falls from her mouth carelessly.

“Marry me,” she repeats, moving her face to his. She hovers inches above him, the darkness in between them, casting shadows everywhere.

He gives her a quizzical look, his bright eyes drowsy and still suffering from the effects of cocaine and alcohol. Not such a good mix, she admits, but neither of them really cared at that point in time. “I know you love me,” her voice sounds smooth, smooth and silky, like an aged scotch. Her fingers trace the curves and bumps across his face, coming to a stop at the indent of his chin. “I’m the best damn thing in your horrible life,” she goes on in a soft, purring voice.

“You don’t believe in marriage,” he states matter of  factly, no emotion in the words.

“I believe in you and me,” she counters in a voice that makes her seem fit for a noir film; elegant and smooth. “I believe in us,” she presses her lip to his jaw, just grazing his lips. Her lips move to his earlobe. Her lips tug on it before she whispers, “make me your wife.”

His head falls back, a long, heaving sigh passing through his lips. In the sigh, she faintly hears the drawn out, distorted version of her name. She  smiles against his earlobe, her voice releasing a single word, “please.”

In a whisk of a movement, she is pinned beneath him, his bright, too bright of eyes, hungry and lustful. She breathes heavily, a challenge in her own eyes. She caresses his cheek, stubble scratching against her fingertips. Her lips rise into a something resembling a grin—too dark to be a smile, too genuine to be a smirk.

He presses his lips to hers in an instant. She can still taste the whiskey. Maybe it is always there, she doesn’t know. Whenever they kiss, some form of alcohol seems to greet her taste buds. She likes that he is like this. All broken and bent, too scattered to piece together. She is the same. It is almost  peaceful to be tethered with someone who is too damaged  and crooked to be placed place in normality. Knowing that she is not the only imperfect being to exist is somewhat comforting.

She often wonders if she loves Toby or just the drugs he provides her. He tends to question the same thing, only sometimes voicing the question aloud. In those times, Spencer just hushes him with her lips.

He is not the only drug dealer in the world. She could find someone else easily. She sticks with Toby because she chooses to do so. Because he brings her a sort of relaxing feeling all on his own. He is a drug dealer, but he does not know that the drug that she craves most from him is just he, in himself. No amounts of cocaine or acid, or whatever else, can bring her the high he gives her.

But he’ll never know that. She’ll never tell him the real reason she keeps him around. She’ll never have enough time to do so—never have the chance.

She wants to marry him so she can keep him.

It will give him some reassurance. Something that will make him less worrisome about the idea of unrequited love. It will give him enough assurance that she has somewhat the same feelings, and she is not just using him for his career.

Maybe if she was anyone else, this wouldn’t mean anything. This proposal. But she is not someone else, she is Spencer Hastings. Since the day they met she has bashed on marriage. Bashed on what it meant to vow yourself to someone for the rest of your miserable life. He listened to her in those times with a thoughtful expression, taking in her ideas and mushing them with his own. He always said he believed that it was good for the people who were happy in life, who wanted more out of it than just survival. He said he admired marriage—the idea of it brought  warmth—hope— to him.

In another life, he would probably have gotten married, he told her once.

That was a long ago—that convesation. He was drunk, or high, or possibly both, and she doubts he can remember the memory, but she can. She wants to bring him hope and warmth like idea of marriage does. She wants to make this the life where he does get to be married.

So that’s why she asked. Because she wants to give him something. Something that will light up the darkness, if only for a little while. Something warm and hopeful.

“Do you love me?” he asks after he comes out of her, tumbling beside her and finding her burdened with insomnia, eyes.

Her palm once again settles on the sheet of tiny hairs that reside upon his cheek. She doesn’t speak, she doesn’t even try to distract him from the fact that she is flat-out ignoring the question. She just stares. Stares, and tries to understand how a person with such bright eyes could end up in a place like this.

He ditches the question, realizing, probably, that he will never get a definite answer. “All right,” he finally breathes.

A smile slowly forms on her face, “All right,” she mimics him in a small voice, only one Toby could pick up on.

“All right,” he says again, almost too softly for her ears to pick up.

She closes her eyes, letting out a last, “all right,” before giving into the sleep the summons her.

-an answer-

The morning comes late for the brunette. She isn’t sure what time it is, but she knows the hours are no longer lingering in the depths of the AM. She can feel the heaviness in her mind, in her brain, in her whole body. It clings to her, seeps into her bones. It is a sort of heaviness that is draining. A heaviness that beckons her to return to the unconscience of her mind.

She wasn’t that drunk last night. She was more high than drunk. She wonders if it is just a withdrawal. She forces herself to turn her body around to look at the man beside her. He is still sleeping—still dreaming of a better world, one that does not involve her, probably. Because how could someone as broken and dark as her, live among a perfect world—or even a better world, at that?

He looks peaceful. So peaceful it almost makes her smile. So still…so very still.

She gulps, suddenly feeling more alone than she has ever felt. She is staring at him, but it feels like no one else in the world exists. She feels she is the only one left, the only one who still can breathe. The only who has that organ that pumps blood, and gets associated with the idea of love.

Everything is in slow motion. Everything feels heavy, surreal. It feels like she is on something, but she cannot think of anything that is strong enough to bring these effects upon her.

A horrible, agonizing thought erupts in her mind. No, no. It can’t. No. She won’t accept the thought. It is just anxiety, anxiety mixed with the high that was really a low she was still on.

Her eyes find Toby—sound asleep, peaceful, still. That’s all it is. That’s all he is doing. Sleeping. Dreaming of a place where his bright eyes fit in, a place where melancholy and he do not coexist. A place, far, far, away. Another universe. A better universe.

That’s all it is. That’s all she will let herself believe. She falls back into her pillow, letting her heavy eyes take her away from the anxiety that implodes her.

But when she awakes, he is the same. Still, so very still.

Too still.

Too perfect.

Too gone.

She stares at him, breathing heavily. No, no, no.

Her shaky hand presses to the place where his heart is—the place where his heart should beat—should beat.

She shakes her head, “no…” the word leaves her lips, only audible for Toby Cavanaugh, no one else.

She lets out a shaky breath, “no!” her voice a little more vocalized.

She presses her face to his chest.

Nothing.

She shakes her head again his chest, refusing to believe—incapable of accepting that there is no beat. Not accepting the fate of the man; the fate of the bright-eyed man who is more than just another drug dealer.

Just yesterday—just last night, a few hours ago, there was a beat. There was a steady, beautiful, rhythm. A thump. A rising and falling. But now, now there is nothing. Nothing. Not a single thing left but the silence that succumbs her.

She stays there, buried in his chest, for a long time. She is paralyzed. The bodily functions she has to move have been taken away, replaced by nothing. She is left empty, just as the beat that no longer exists in his heart.

She begins to sob, pleading—begging, that he wake up. Wake up from this sleep he has fallen into; this sleep that stops the beat of his heart, and paralyzes his lungs. She sobs and sobs, until there is nothing left. Until all the tears have gone awry.

She doesn’t know why she is so stunned. This was bound to happen eventually. They were careless. Careless with their lives; careless with the things they put into their bodies. They were druggies, wash outs, addicts. This is how it ends for them. This is the way they go.

But she always thought she would be the one to go first. Be the one to overestimate how much she can handle.

She always thought they would have more time together.

She never thought she would have to do this—deal with the terrible, awful, exhausting heart-break.

She doesn’t understand.

 She doesn’t understand.

Why couldn’t it have been her?

Why was it Toby? The man with the beautiful, bright, blue eyes that she will never see again.

Never see again.

Perhaps Toby was right. He was never meant to marry in this life.

She dropped her head down once more, staring at the man on the ground, blood expanding across his white shirt and across her chest. Her legs no longer could hold her up, she was soon on her knees, the world rushing back into her. The world was still a moment ago and now speeding among the galaxies. Spencer desperately wished that she was still stuck in the moment before. It may have been bad then, but at least it was expanding the time she had left with him. She cradled him into her arms, pulling his head into her lap as she knelt down all to the way on the ground. She stroked all parts of his face, brushing the honey dew locks of his out of the way so she could see his face.

His eyes looked so desperate. He seems to be putting all the energy he has left into looking at her, focusing on her—memorizing the outlines and depths of her facial structure, and the rich color of her eyes that enchanted him so many more times before.

She can’t stop crying, she can’t breathe. The sobs depress her of oxygen. She wants to say something, but she can’t. She can’t.

“I love you, Spencer…” he hoarsens out. It looks like it pains him to speak, his mouth tensing and eyes crinkling.

Spencer shakes her head, grimacing hard at the statement. “No!” she chokes out, still shaking her head. She shakes her head frantically now, “no, Toby. No, you can’t leave me. No, you can still make it. I can get you to a hospital. I can—”

“You know that’s not true,” a faint smile crosses his lips. He grimaces a second later, the pain increasing per second.

She sobs louder, and he is right. He knows she knows that it is too late. He knows she knows that the place where he was shot lies in the boundary of no recovery. He knows that she knows that the closest hospital to where they were now was at least a fifteen minute drive. He knows that she knows that he won’t last fifteen minutes.

“I love you, Spencer…so much,” he repeats himself, his voice soft, and whispering.

She tilts her head to the side, the tears cascading off a slant, “I wanted to say that first,” she breaks out, another sob escaping her mouth easily.

Another faint smile tilts up on his face.

“I love you,” she says. “I love you, Toby. I love you, so much.”

She leans down to give him a lingering kiss, and when she comes up, she knows. His oceanic eyes become vacant and still, far away from reality and life. “Toby,” she breaks out through a sob, her voice low and hoarse. “Toby,” she cried out, shaking him a little. “Toby,” she whispers, shaking her head, refusing to believe that he is gone. Her sobs become lucent through her breathing. Her breathing is through her sobs. She closes his eyes, and wraps her arms around his lifeless body, her whole entire body shaking with tears. “No,” she whispers quietly, shaking her head. “No, Toby…I can’t…no this—no. This can’t be real. No. No.”

Long ago. It was weird to think about how long it has been. It doesn’t seem like much time has passed really, but at the same time, everyday feels like an eternity of longing despair.

Especially on the days where a frown is placed on her face. On those days, he wants to quit. He wants to wrap his arms around her, and tangle his hands into her hair. But he knows he can’t. She is too far away for his touch. He is long gone and the next time she’ll see him will be decades from now. Well, so he hopes and prays, anyways.

He misses her. Every single minute of every single day, but he would never wish for her to come here. She needs to live her life. She needs to grow old and carry bags around her beautiful copper eyes that he has fallen into so many times.  Her tender auburn hair needs to take on the new hue of grey, and feel brittle at the touch. Her silky ivory skin needs to wrinkle and grow old with spots. She needs to live her life to the fullest and enjoy every single second of it, not spending any precious time grieving him.

He did not know how valuable life was. Not till it was too late. His life had shattered into microscopic pieces that had no chance of recovering. Although, it is not too late for her. She can still fulfill her dreams. She can still become everything she wants to be. She can find her happiness and sanctuary, and live on to do great things.

He needs her to do that.

It is all he cares about. He doesn't care about what he will be doing with all his eternity. He only cares about hers. Where she would head and how she would do it.

He knows he can’t be with her forever. He knows he’ll have to leave eventually. He can’t be that creepy-stalker-ex-boyfriend. He too, has to move on.

The pain is too much to bear, really—seeing her everyday that is. It reminds him that they can’t be together. They can’t grow old together and bear children together. They’ll never be married. They’ll just be those star-crossed lovers that everyone will pity.

With every passing day, she becomes stronger. And that makes his heart generate heat that he so desperately craves. But part of him—the selfish part, worries that she’ll forget him. That he’ll just become a tragedy that clings to her for the rest of her life. Nothing more, nothing less. That she’ll forget what the had. How real and raw it was.

Although, it is Spencer. She is a complete genius, and forgetting things isn’t something she os known for.

With that, he knows that she knows what day it was.

It isn’t just another Monday.

It isn’t just another date on the calendar.

It holds something.

It means something.

He knows where today would lead her. He knows that she would not end the day without making her visit.

It is funny really. How she goes out of her way each year to pay a visit to him on this very day. If only she knew he made daily visits. He visited her every single day. Never marking an absence. She doesn’t need to visit him. He is with her all time.

Although it always warmed his heart.

He looks forward to the day. It is like his birthday, or Christmas. He counts down the days. He begs for the other 364 days of the year to heighten their speed, so this day could resurrect. It is the only day that really mattered to him now. And it is because of her visit.

She used to come more often. But so much time has passed that he doesn’t blame her for cutting down her visits.

The first year, she was there a lot. Almost every day. If she had gone a week without visiting it would shock the people around her. She made it a big part of her life. And it burned him. It made his heart swell to hear everything she told him. Every tear that descended from her lovely brown eyes made his heart shatter.

The next year, she made less frequent visits. She came about once a month, more during the holidays than anything.

The year after that, her visits almost stopped completely. She was trying to cease the pain. She didn’t want to dig it up inside her. It had been three years of pure despair. She needed to move on. She needed it to stop hurting. She only visited him three times that year.

The years that followed were inconsistent. Some years, she make numerous visits. Some years she would only show up once. The past couple years have actually been like that. Each time she tells him that she’ll promise to be back the next year. She won’t forget him. Even if she could, she wouldn’t want to.

He believes that.

That she’ll come back.

She always does.

She keeps her promises.

She always has.

It is 7PM when she shows up. She is wearing a grey pea coat and a purple scarf, her hair is arranged into perfect curls and she looks as beautiful as ever. In her hand is a bouquet of white roses. She looks tired—sad. And it wasn’t like he expected her to joyfully stroll in here. It is sort of a depressing place. Sobs occur on a daily basis. But the way she walks. The way she holds herself. He hasn’t seen her like this in awhile when visiting him.

She is a little awkward at first, like she always is at the beginning of the meet. She doesn’t do anything. She doesn’t speak, or put the flowers down. She just stares.

Her copper eyes soon begin to gather with dew, and this is when she makes her move. She carefully sets the flowers down as she kneels down to talk.

“…Hi.” She announces strangely.

Whenever she visits, he always talks back. He knows she cannot hear him, but it is the closest to a conversation he can have with her. It is the closest he feels with her throughout the whole entire year. This is the only time of the year where he feels the connection. Sure, he is with her every single day of the year, but this is the only time he really feels like he is with her.

“Hi” he greets back. It is always weird to hear his voice after such a long time of holding it inside.

“I know I haven’t really been around this year…but I’m here now” she professes, her voice shallow and glum. “A lot has happened this year,” she pipes up, her voice becoming more confident and preppy. “I’m an aunt! Jason has a daughter. Her name is Sandy. And I know you don’t know Ashleigh, but she looks exactly like her. It’s crazy. She has these bright green eyes, and these chubby cheeks, and she might just be the most adorable baby I have ever seen.”

He already knew that though. He didn’t doubt that he would know all the news she would tell him. He always did. But he didn’t really care, just hearing her speak to him. Just hearing her vocal chords orchestrate sound for him, it was absolutely wonderful.

“But that isn’t the biggest news of the year…I’m actually engaged,” she doesn’t say it with enthusiasm, like any other normal woman would do. She says it in a small, tiny, voice, hollow of any kind of emotion.

He already knew this too, but his heart can’t help but sting a little at the words. Of course, he is happy for her. He wants her to move on. He wants her to find love—new love. He just wishes he could move on too.

“I’ve told you about him before… Connor O’Neal. Don’t you think Spencer O’Neal sounds horrible? I think so too. I’m sticking with my own last name, even though it does tie me with that dysfunctional family of mine forever.”

Toby can’t help but smile. He remembers a time with Spencer, where she told him how well their names harmonized. Spencer Cavanaugh, Tobias Hastings, as she put it. Probably just to annoy him, considering she knew how much he hated it.

Maybe that was a hint.

She becomes quiet, so he takes the opportunity to talk.

“I’m happy for you, Spencer.” His voice is shallow, and hoarse. And he can’t say he is confused, or surprised by this. Not using your vocal chords for a year, will do that to you.

“Look, Toby. If you can hear me—if you know what is going on. I just want to say that this isn’t me, forgetting about you.”

Her gaze focuses on the engraving on the tomb stone. Tobias P. Cavanaugh. Son, Brother, and friend.

It always annoys him how “brother” is on there.

“You will always be in my heart,” her voice cracks a little and it felt like a chain saw had dragged through his heart. “And I will forever love you” she goes on, a single tear riding slowly off her cheek. “I’m not replacing you, I could never replace you. I—Just” she looks away.

Toby wants so badly to speak back, for her to hear him in telling her that it is okay. But he knows it was no use. He knows his words would fall through her, forever unheard.

“I found someone who I love,” she sort of shrugs, looking helpless. “Someone who loves me.”

With that statement, he finally feels like he can somewhat let go. He isn’t sure why. Maybe it is because he has always needed someone to fill the job that was taken away from him.

He knows surely enough that Spencer can take care of herself. She is strong, smart, independent, and ruthless. She doesn’t need someone to tuck her in at night and play dream catcher.

But she is not invincible.

Like every human being, she has her breaking points. She has her days where she needs someone. Someone to hold her, and heal her with touch. Someone to sow her open wombs with caring words and promises to always love her.

And it looks like she has finally found someone to fill the job in his absence.

“I know that more years have passed by, then we have actually spent together, but I will never move on. I can’t. I don’t want to.” Her voice returns. “I know my visits aren’t consistent, I know I’m barely here, but you, you are always in my heart. Always on my mind… It’s the little things you know? Like scrabble, and rocking chairs, and beige trucks. They bring back the memories. And as much as it hurts,” her voice swells. “I’m glad.”

“Because forgetting you…forgetting us. It would be way more painful than remembering. And I can’t lie, that there are days that I hardly remember. We were so young, and it was such a long time ago. At that time, I didn’t think I would have to keep those memories on lock down. I thought there would be more! And that—that is what sucks the most. You know? That there isn’t more…because even if we only spent a couple of years together…those years, those years will always be my fondest memories, with you, Toby Cavanaugh.”

She found herself starring at the house, picturing the woman planting in her garden with a straw hat on, always a luminous smile on her face. It was so weird—how that picture would never come to greet her eyes again. She only had the memory.

Suddenly the door erupted open, a teenager—her son, coming out of the house. Spencer immediately looks away, and continues her way down the path leading to the sidewalk. But she was curious. She had to get a glimpse of him.

He looked sad—but that was to be expected.

He was a year older than her so she didn’t know much about him. He had gone to Rosewood Middle School, and Elementary, but Spencer had never made the attempt to get to know him. He wasn’t very popular—he had a good amount of friends, but he wasn’t in her circle—not nearly. All she knew was what Alison said about him. A few weeks or so ago, a new hate for him churned up in her, and since then she couldn’t stop talking about him.

He sees her looking.

She darts her eyes away, moving faster now, trying to decide if she should say anything. She doesn’t even know him and she doubts an apology from her would make him feel any better. But he caught her staring…she should.

She looks back up at him and he catches her eye again. She begins to walk towards him, pushing her shoulders back in a presentable matter.

“Um…hi.”

He blinks.

 “Hi” he mumbles.

She takes in a sharp breath through her nose, suddenly regretting coming over here. He probably was getting tons of sympathy from people who had never spoken to him before, acting as if they really cared—and here she was doing the same.

“Um,” she starts.

He glances at her, but his eyes are quickly to go astray.

“I was just dropping off Emily’s books, and I saw you, and Um… I just thought I would do the cliché thing, and apologize...”

He looks at her now, more focused than he was before. Something in his face changes—shifts slightly to something obscure.

“I um, know we aren’t really friends…you probably don’t even know who I am, but…I’m really sorry.”

She should have known this would happen.

They had talked earlier that day, that morning, to be exact. She had stopped by his loft, bagels in hand, ready to spend the whole morning preoccupied with his lips, but apparently whoever was directing the outlook her life, didn't go by her script. When she got there, he was upset. More upset than she had seen him in weeks. All he had said when she came in, was a mumbled, “Hi”. He didn't even meet her gaze, let alone,  embrace her in their usual heavy loaded hug. His eyes were too busy with a folder of papers, to address her. She had sat next to him, on the small couch in the middle of his living room, and glanced at the papers secured in his grip. All she could see was the cover of the folder, but that was enough to give it away. Radley Sanatorium, was in red bold letters at the top right corner. 

He had finally gotten his hands on her records.

“Toby” she had tried, resting the brim of her fingers on his hand, leaving a semblance of a feather on his skin.

He had looked at her, his eyes sad, and lips curved south. He told her how he had finally gotten a hold of the files, after weeks; they had finally answered his requests. Apparently, his father had finally approved—signed, whatever he had to sign, to allow Toby to be in possession of them.

“I just need to be alone right now” he had told her, after a long pause, swaying his hand away from her touch.

She had been hesitant, but eventually, she did what he wanted. She left him alone and went home, leaving the bagels for her boyfriend to later munch on if his stomach started to growl. She had spent most of her day glancing at her phone, waiting for a text or call from her boyfriend. But, she never received either. She ended up calling him herself, only to be greeted with his voice mail again and again, which triggered her to return to his loft to see if he was okay.

But, he wasn't there.

She knew it was far fetched but she was worried—he wasn't exactly in the best shape the last time she saw him, and she didn't want him doing anything stupid. She had a few places she could look—their cliff, his mother’s grave (But she highly doubted she would find him there, considering what she engraved), and lastly, the small alleyway  where she first saw into his soul. The alleyway was the closest; she wouldn't even need her car to get there. It was right down the street, in walking distance.

And that’s how she ended up here, walking through the potential thunderstorm, with only a thin sweatshirt to keep her warm. 

As she gets closer, she sees the lone boy, his figure faint, but obvious that it is him. She starts jogging at the sight, needing to be close to him, needing to bring him out of the cold. As she meets where the walls space out, her pace weakens and her eyes become soft. Stopping completely, she rests a hand, to support herself, on the brick wall.

For a minute, she just watches him like she did all that time ago, which seems like forever ago, but really was only a little over a year ago. She begins to walk, slowly, towards the boy, the frown on her face drowning down even more.

He seems to notice the sounds of feet, for his head bobs up, his eyebrows knit, and lips ajar. Realizing who the intruder is, he looks back down, maybe out of shame, or just the inability to meet her eyes; she doesn't quite know.

“How’d you know I would be here?” he asks after a long pause, his head rising with the words.

Her stare falters, and her lips inch open to release the words stuck in her mouth, but nothing comes out. She takes a seat next to him, paying no attention to how the ground will make her pants dirty—it doesn't matter right now, she decides. A moment later, she finds her voice. “I saw you once…it was before…we even knew each other, well, really knew each other, anyways.”

He looks at her curiously; she takes this as a prompt to continue.

“You were…some douche bags yelled some malicious comment at you…and then you tried smiling at these kids…and they… ran away” her eyes were dead set on the ground, and her voice was trailing off to a breaking point.

He took a moment to digest it, to, maybe, remember the event. “…why didn’t you ever tell me this?” he asks, finally.

She shrugs, finally meeting his gaze. “I don’t know” her voice is quiet, and fragile, like the first raindrop of the storm.

He looks away.

“Toby, you know I’m here for you…right? You don’t have to be alone.” He doesn’t say anything. “Look…I know how it feels to bottle things up, I've done it my whole life, I felt uncomfortable talking to anyone about how I felt—I'm supposed to be strong, my shoulder is the one people cry on...but then...I don't know, you're different than everyone else. I feel like I can talk to you about anything, you just got me—understood me better than anyone else ever did...I guess I just wish I could return the favor." 

He is looking at her now, his denim eyes soft, eyebrows in a furrow, the corners of his eyes granted with potential tears. "I know.." he tells her, "I know you are here, but I don't know...It's just so much to process. I just miss her so much, and I guess I thought having these files, it would give me some closure, but——" He shakes his head slightly, looking up, "she was my best friend" he murmurs, lastly, leaving a great canyon of time between them with the phrase.

Spencer grabs his hand in the silence, wrapping her fingers around his, stitching their fingers together so he can't release. He looks at her, a tiny smile framing his lips. "And now you are, Spencer. And I'm so grateful for you, but I just...miss her." his voice breaks gently on the phrase.

She smiles sadly, touching the side of his face with her free hand, not knowing what to say—not knowing how to make it better. "I wish I could make it better..." her thoughts evolve into words.

The universe wasn’t going to give them a second to patch their relationship back up.

It had other plans.

Such as Jason Dilarentaus’ death.

“Toby…” said Spencer after the endless silence that landed upon them quite awhile ago.

“mmm?” mumbled Toby, his eyes finding a spot on the top of her head.

She shifted her position, adjusting herself so that her eyes were in contact with his. Her copper eyes wavered against his, her dry throat swallowed, and her unsteady body tensed. “While, while I was in Radely…I met someone. He was a nurse there.” She gulped. “Eddie Lamb.” She breathed, faltering her eyes away for a glimpse of a second as the phrase of “the name on your I.D. badge” left her mouth.

He looked down in shame at the reminder of all the horrible things that Spencer went through— and  because of him—while he was away.

 “He said he knew you.” She let out, “That he knew you while…your mom was there.”

He looked up—almost shocked, his blue eyes searching hers. They never really talked about his mother, at least not about that part of his mother. There few conversations about her  mostly consisted of what she was like, and the memories they shared. Spencer never asked how she died. He assumed it was because she was waiting for him to tell her when he was ready. But, he never was. He never really talked about her death, the last few months of her life, with anyone. The only person he remotely opened up to was the councilor at his reform school—but they practically forced it out of him, to be fair. He would have never willingly talked about it. If it weren’t for them convincing him it was going to help him get out of that place, he would have said a single word.

Toby didn’t respond, so Spencer took this as a liberty to continue talking.

“Why was she there?” asked Spencer, her voice timid, and light, almost inaudible.

He took in a deep breath.

He wasn’t necessarily ready to talk about it, but he replied anyways.

“She was, um, depressed…she tried to kill herself, but we saved her in time.” He said, not looking at her. “They sent her there, my dad, her parents—my grandparents, they all agreed that that would be the best decision. I visited her a lot, at first I only went with my dad because I don’t know, I was scared, I didn’t know what to say. She tried to put a brave face up around me, but I knew she was just doing that to make me think that everything would be okay. Eventually, I started to go alone.  Most of the time we would just sit there in silence. Until, Eddie came along that is. He always wanted to play a board game. We had to have played every single board game at least five times.” He recalled, his eyes visiting the distant memory, a tinting sparkle dazzling in his eyes, and an almost half smile marked upon his lips.  “That’s actually where I learned all my mad scrabble skills,” he looked at her for a brief second, a dark—almost sad chuckle escaping his mouth.

Spencer offered a tiny, sad smile.

“I actually thought she was getting better.” He grimaced, his eyes returning to the land of the unknown. “Apparently everyone else did too. She was released after two months.  She came home after that. Everything seemed fine—like it would be okay.” He paused, his voice becoming number and number as the story continued. “We were supposed to keep a close eye on her. Make sure she was alright. Someone was supposed to always be with her. At least for the first couple weeks. Except you don’t know. You don’t know how long it takes for a person to get better; you can’t put a time limit on that. It doesn’t work that way.” He paused again, this time for a longer period of time. “I thought it would be okay—to go and hangout with my friends—people I don’t even talk to anymore, I left her to go hangout with the same people who  would laugh at Alison’s cruel jokes, and spray paint murderer on my locker.” He shook his head at the thought. “and when I came home, there were fire trucks everywhere, my dad was bawling his eyes out, and my mom was being pulled out on a stretcher.” He said lastly, his voice cracking on the last part as his he his hands covered his face, trying to hide the tears falling down his face. A second later, he let his hands fall to his lap, his eyes swollen, and pink, and his hands trembling. “And it was my fault…I wasn’t there. I let everyone down.”

“Toby,” said Spencer, softly, trying to contain her own tears. He wouldn’t look at her. She cupped his face, forcing him to look at her. His head was now turned towards her, but his eyes hit southward, silent tears dripping down his face. “Toby” she said once more “look at me.”

He glanced up at her shyly, his blue eyes vulnerable, and filtered with tears.

“It is not your fault.” She said, her voice so confident, that it almost made him feel that the statement was true. “You cannot blame yourself for this. She was mentally ill, Toby. She was depressed. You couldn’t change that. You couldn’t cure her.”

“I could have been there for her” he spoke meekly, his eyes falling once again in guilt and shame. “I could have, maybe, stopped her from doing it. I shouldn’t have left. I should have been there.” He looked up at her once more.

She shook her head ever so lightly. “Toby,” her voice broke softly “she would have found another way. You couldn’t have stopped her. You couldn’t have known what she was planning to do.”

“I did know though, Spencer!” he shook his head out of her grip. “She was depressed—suicidal!”

“Yeah, and you thought she was getting better. You cannot blame yourself for this! It’s no one’s fault, Toby.”

“I am to blame for a lot of things Spencer.” He gulped, looking at her once more. “You cannot say that I’m not. Everything—with you—my mom, I wasn’t there. I wasn’t there, and I should have been.”

“No one is perfect, Toby. I used to think that it was something attainable—perfection—but it’s not. Everyone makes mistakes, do things they regret. You can’t blame yourself for not knowing how things are going to turn out. No one knows what will happen.”

He didn’t say anything.

She cupped his face again, their heavy watered eyes bouncing off one another. “I’m so sorry, Toby.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“But, I did something, something that…I shouldn’t have.”

His eyebrows creased.

He let her hands fall down, and her eyes followed. “I was really mad at you…I thought you didn’t love me…I thought you were using me, and you hurt me, so badly.” Her voice shook greatly. “I don’t know what I was thinking…” she looked up at him.

“Spencer?” he asked, “what is it?” his voice was soft, and calm. Curious, but not commanding.

“I’m sorry” she looked at him, tears cascading down her features. “I—I ruined your mother’s grave.” She spat out. Her voice trembling. “I’m sorry.”

He sat there for a second. Unmoving.

Then his hands were cupped around her face. This time he was the one forcing her to look at him. “Spencer, I don’t. I can’t be mad at you. Not after everything I did to you. I deserved it.”

“No you don’t. Toby you may have hurt me, broken my heart, but you don’t deserve any more pain.”

He didn’t respond to her, instead he kissed her.

He couldn’t stand to listen to Spencer stick up for him any longer. He had so much self hatred. No matter what Spencer said, he would always blame himself. It was his fault. He was to blame for all the hurt he caused amongst the ones he loved.