Fighting to Let You Go

A/N: Break-ups suck ass. Okay, so I probably don't have to tell you guys that. It's a topic that's been on my mind a lot lately, though, so I've decided to turn pain into poetry, so to speak. I know this pairing is different for me, but the muses are uncontrollable, and many times nonsensical. Enough of my bull shit - onto the story. As always, your reviews are not only welcome, but encouraged. If you want more of this story, let me know. I could end it as a OneShot and be okay with that - or I have ideas to move forward. It's whatever y'all want to see. Oh, and I barely own control of my damn self lately, so you know I'm not even tryin' to claim anyone else as mine. Enjoy!

Everybody told her that it would get better. They said that the pain would fade with time. They all promised her that she would get over it. Everyone assured her that the sun would come up in the morning, just like it always had. They said that she would move on. And they all knew someone who would see her inner beauty and charm, who would love to help her through this difficult time.

The problem was that Trish Stratus didn't want to feel better. She didn't want the pain to fade. She didn't want to get over it. She didn't want the sun to come up tomorrow. She didn't want to move on. And she certainly didn't want anyone else. Jeff Hardy had broken her heart, and she just wanted to lie in her bed and cry for awhile.

I focus on the pain, the only thing that's real. As she wrote the words from Nine Inch Nails "Hurt", Trish felt more tears welling up in her eyes. Why does everyone seem to have such a hard time with my pain? It's not like I'm asking them to feel it. I don't care if they go on with their happy little lives. But why do they all feel like it's their job to make me feel better? Why do I matter to them at all? What does it matter if one person is suffering? It's not like it effects their joyous existence.

As her tears hit the page, she watched the word "joyous" run over the line on the paper. Shutting her journal, Trish layed back against the fluffy blankets of her bed and squeezed her eyes tightly. There was no comfort, no relief from the tightness in her chest. His face was etched on her memory - smiling softly at her when she closed her eyes, staring back when she looked at the ceiling. No matter how loud she listened to the radio, his voice was in her ears. His words alternated between gentle professions of love to cruel reminders of how they could never work.

Breathing deeply before another round of sobs crashed over her, she inhaled his scent, still clinging to the soft cotton of the pillow case beside her. She ran her fingers over the traces of blue and purple hair dye, faint reminders of the nights he would collapse, too exhausted from a match to shower first. "I think I'm broken," he would say, a cringe in his voice. "Fix it?"

Her thin arms embraced the pillow, as they had wound around his chest so many times before. Resting her head against the fabric, the sound of his heart pounding in her ear assaulted her memory. Not for the first time, she wondered why he was gone. Why she was alone instead of cuddled up against his warm body, her heart fluttering as his fingers ran up and down her arm.

"I'm leaving."

Distracted by the contract she was reading, Trish nodded. "Okay. I'll see you at the hotel?"

"No, Trish. I'm leaving."

Raising her dark eyes to his face, her features twisted in confusion. "What do you mean?" she asked.

He stood at the foot of the bed, his arms crossed. "I'm leaving the company."

She knew the phrase was meant to be shocking, maybe devastating. But when it came to abandoning the WWE, Jeff Hardy was the boy who cried wolf – loudly and often. She had heard him contemplate retiring, quitting, going elsewhere, more times than she could count. "Oh," was all she said, returning to the paperwork in front of her.

"I'm serious," he insisted, his arms folded over his chest. When she just nodded, he huffed like a child, and his blonde hair, still tinted pink from the night's performance, flopped over his forehead. "Look at me."

She did, on instinct. And she regretted it instantly. His eyes held no confusion – the conflict she was used to when discussing this topic was nowhere to be found. There was a clarity there, even an excitement, that she didn't want to acknowledge. His decision had been made. He knew what he wanted, and for the first time, he was ready to step out of his comfort zone and take it. He was actually ready to leave.

And even as that realization washed over her, disbelief settled in, suffocating like a heavy blanket. "No," was all she could manage to squeak out before the tears began to pool in her eyes. He couldn't leave her. It was inconceivable. He was her world, her life. He was her love. He couldn't go.

"Trish," he started, taking a step back to lean against the small hotel dresser. "You know it's about more than us, right? I mean," he sighed and ran his fingers through his hair, his black nail polish a stark contrast against the golden locks, "there are more important things in life than romance."

It was as if her mind shut down and her body went numb. She could barely hear her own thoughts over the fear pounding in her chest, and the words seemed to belong to someone else. "Not to me."

She knew she wasn't being fair. Professionally, his actions were long overdue. Everyone knew he was unhappy with the direction he was being pushed creatively. And it wasn't much of a secret that his interests were divided between wrestling and whatever other hobby popped into his head for the moment. Dedication wasn't his strong suit, even Trish could admit that.

But no one believed that he would ever quit. His family was there – he loved working with Matt. He had friends in the company, too. Lita, Rob, Christian, Edge, Jericho, and others would miss his acerbic wit and his quiet charm. And then there was Trish.

Anyone inside the company would readily admit that their union was indescribably perfect. There was an inexplicable connection between them, and energy that not only drew them to each other, but others to them. It didn't make sense, Hardy and Stratus, but it didn't have to. They were right together. They belonged together.

With a heavy sigh, he pushed his weight off the dresser and offered her a crooked smile. "Trisha, you know it's not because I don't love you to death," he started.

She didn't hear the next words coming out of his mouth, though. Anything he said was going to sound like the easy let down, and she didn't want to be let down easy. She didn't want to be let down at all. She wanted him to say that he loved her enough to make their relationship work, even if they weren't together all the time. But the look on his face as he delivered his "you know we never would have worked in the long run" speech told her what she wanted didn't really matter.

"Who knows? Maybe it is right," his words played in her head for the millionth time. "But then it'll still be right when I get all this shit straightened out for myself."

The telephone interrupted her memory and Trish cast a glance at the ID screen on her cell phone. Someone else calling to tell her that life would go on with him. Setting the ringer to "silent," she tossed it on the floor and rolled over, pulling her bedspread up around her shoulders.

Her bedroom had been designed as the ultimate place of relaxation, the perfect getaway for unwinding after long road trips. It had been a place where they could shut the world out and find warmth in each other's arms. But now, staring at the warm lavender paint on the wall, she gave a sardonic chuckle at the irony. Inside her safe place, her haven, she was cold and alone. The only person that could make it better was gone. And he wasn't coming back.