A/N: Requested by an anon on tumblr + Haspen, who always knows how to push my angst whore buttons.

As per usual I don't own the characters, Shonda does.

The end never comes when you think it's going to come. It doesn't come when you think you've exhausted all options, when every conversation ends in an argument or when you don't think there is anything left to save.

It comes when you let yourself start to hope again, when you start to believe in her reassurances, when you agree to try counselling because maybe you still love her and you can't stop, no matter how hard you try.

It comes when she decides, because she always fucking decides, that your heart is not in it like hers is. And maybe she is a little right, because your heart is a little raw and a little bruised and you keep it away from her so she can't damage it any further.

Trial separation are the words that come out of her mouth, like hollow point bullets designed to explode on impact, rip through your flesh and maximise your suffering. You don't know why she bothers with the trial part of her sentence, why she has to postpone the inevitable, why she has to put a maybe next to the definite. She doesn't do things by halves, never has, never will. To her, a separation is as final as their marriage once was, before their loss, before his presence was enough to drive her up the wall, enough to drive her half way across the globe.

You try your best, you look at her hopelessly, you beg for another chance, another option, another way out. Anything that's easier than this.

You say her name because you don't have the words to give her what she wants without giving her too much of what you are trying to protect. You say her name because you hope she can read enough feeling into your delivery, but she turns and walks away, because saying her name in a broken, desperate tone isn't enough for her anymore.

You never saw the end coming, not like this, not at this time, but it feels like you thought it might. It feels dark and deep and desperate, like the bullets inside you are shattering into a million tiny pieces and each one is tearing through you slowly, ripping flesh from cartilage, splintering through bone and muscle on their destructive paths. You feel like a walking wound, bleeding steadily, invisibly and inexhaustibly.

You never thought of yourself as a jealous guy. You never thought your temper could flare so hotly and burn so brightly still, even after all this time. You never thought your stomach would clench and bile rise in your throat as you watch her with another him that isn't you.

You never felt like this when the fiancée that came before you touched her like that, hand lightly resting on her arm, squeezing softly and eliciting a wide smile and a small giggle. You never felt like this when that fiancée before you kissed her and you had to watch, not admitting to yourself that you wished it was you. You didn't even feel like this when she was in a white dress and you were in a black suit and the world faded to black behind you because you just had to get up and throw yourself between her and the other man in a black suit. You didn't feel jealous, you just felt sure.

Now, your fingers turn white around your tablet and your eyes burn and sting as you struggle to swallow. Your mind knows rationally that she is talking to a friend, a close friend she relied on when she was half way across the globe trying to get away from you. Your gut tells you that you are watching the frisson of a torrid affair, the one they all said never happened, the one you could never quite put out of your mind.

You confront her, because you're still a walking wound, dragging an invisible red, angry blood trail around with you everywhere. You confront her, and of course she knows exactly the worst fucking thing to say to you like always. You confront her and she tells you nothing you want to hear, nothing you can find peace with, and maybe your temper flares and you say things to her you don't mean. Maybe her temper flares and she says things she doesn't mean to you, but she says them with gusto, her eyes wild and wide, her hair angry and red like your invisible trail of blood. Maybe she's not wrong when she calls you a coward, maybe she's not even wrong when she calls you an asshole, but you have a sinking feeling you might be wrong when you call her a liar.

She makes you angrier than any other person in the world. She makes your face flush with heat, your ears pound to the rapid beat of your heart, your hands ball into tight, white-knuckled fists at your side. She makes you raise your voice to a level that is very unbecoming of a man in your position, but she makes you forget where you are or even who you are in times like these. The anger runs its course, sparkling and hissing between you before it frizzles out. What comes after you are not prepared for because you thought you knew what you were and what you weren't but it turns out you will always be wrong about her.

Maybe you were a jealous guy all along when it came to her. Maybe you punched your friend in the face, repeatedly, over her. Maybe you never liked hearing her name with anyone else's but yours. Maybe you hated every single time hands and mouths and any other part of any other man that wasn't you was on her. Maybe she is the exception to your rule.

You are not prepared for what happens next, because you never saw it coming. You didn't expect her to be so angry and frustrated with you, but you didn't expect her to be so desperate and yielding either. You didn't expect her mouth to be on yours with such fervent pleas or her hands to be pulling you so forcefully into the dark on call room, but maybe you were always holding out hope that she would. Maybe, if you hadn't been so preoccupied with your own bleeding wounds you would have done it yourself.

She was always a better person than you. That is a fact you can never escape. Maybe this is why she is the one always deciding, because she makes better decisions. Not all the time, but definitely this time. Maybe you give her the power to make these decisions for you both because you ultimately know she doesn't make them lightly.

She decides to erase the second part of her sentence rather than the first. It's not a trial separation anymore, it's just a trial.

You are not prepared for what happens next because you never saw a reunion as a viable solution. You are not prepared because you never thought your raw and bruised heart and your bleeding wound of a body could heal fully. You aren't prepared because you can't keep your heart away from her like you used to do, so you tell her, without hope or reservation, that you love her, that you always have, that you never stopped.

You say her name like its a proposal. You say her name and she reads every feeling into your delivery, turning to answer you. She says your name like it's a prayer, like it's the only word she could ever want to use, like it is everything to her.

You never saw the this coming, not like this, not at this time, but it feels like you thought it might. It feels light and overwhelming and impossible, like the bullet fragments inside you are pushed out of you all at once and each one is sealing you shut, flesh twining into cartilage, bone and muscle rearranged in their rightful places. You feel like you've been put back together, like you've been touched by an angel, like you came through on the other side and that you will never take anything in your life for granted ever again.

You know for certain that you can never predict how life will play out, but maybe, just maybe you don't mind because you have her, and that is all the certainty you need.