Jane is deceptively complex. Moreover, I find her, at times, terribly confusing. As usual, though, I suspect the confusion stems, mostly, from my own insufficiencies, my difficulty with reading people and understanding the intricacies of human interaction. When Jane joked about me being a cyborg, she had no idea how close to the truth she came. Not the actual truth, of course. Naturally, I am not some kind of machine made up of gears and wires and sparks of electricity… though, the synapse firings in the brain are a type of electricity… Anyhow, I am not a cyborg. I have been called, often, a robot. Again, not in the actual sense of being made of metal and being programmable, but in the sense that my emotions often seem to be robotic. I understand and the label all too well.

I have watched the highs and lows of those around me and envied them. I have longed to feel the quiet desperation of true sadness or the type of unbridled joy that induces tears. I have tried, have yearned for it, but I have only ever been able to reach places slightly below "even keel," as Jane would call it. It is… frustrating, to say the least. Not only that, but it is disheartening. At times, I do feel cold, mechanical, especially in moments I know should induce those emotional extremes but somehow never do for me. Korsak and Frost often poke fun of my overly logical view of life's miracles and defeats. In a way, I suppose it is comical. In my more optimistic moments, even I can bring myself to joke about it. However, the older I get the further and farther between those moments become.

Lately, though, I have begun to feel a strange stirring in what seems to be my solar plexus. It is foreign and a little frightening, but also exhilarating. I can feel the "wall," as one therapist put it – though, naturally, I do not, technically "believe" in psychology – begin to fall, piece by piece. It started with a resounding crack that I swear I could almost hear the day I met Jane. Needless to say, my reputation as the Queen of the Dead preceded me. While, usually, this leads to awkward introductions and stilted conversation with people who cannot seem to stand still or stop fiddling with their hands, with Jane, it meant the opposite. She walked directly up to me at the department Christmas party one year and boldly stated, "Hi. I wanted to meet you." She never explained the statement, but we talked for the better part of an hour before I had to excuse myself, reluctantly, I might add, so I could return home to feed Bass.

The strange part was that when I returned home that night, my usually comfortable sanctuary felt somehow… emptier. That is, of course, not an entirely accurate term, but I have yet to find a better one. I did not understand the feeling at the time, but I soon learned that it had to do with Jane.

After the easy conversation we'd shared, which was unusual for me, I felt compelled to see if a connection did indeed exist or if I had merely been slightly more human that night. So I invited her out for coffee, and she accepted. The appointed day, I arrived slightly early, as always. Jane caught up to me at the door of the café, beaming that reassuring smile of hers, and I was impressed by her punctuality. While I had struggled to find something appropriately casual, an endeavor I'm fairly certain I failed at if her slight smirk as she looked me over was any indication, she wore simple jeans and a fitted t-shirt, her hair haphazardly pulled back into a ponytail. While I usually disapprove of such an apparent lack of concern for one's appearance, on Jane it was, somehow, right. Perhaps it was because Jane herself felt more comfortable dressed this way, but, whatever the reason, I liked it. And felt that proverbial wall begin to tumble.

Work soon got in the way and our next meeting was delayed as a rash of murders, inevitably brought on by the summer heat in Boston, kept us from going out again. In the interim, I began to explore acceptable friendly behavior. I have never had a best friend or, really, even a close friend. My social skill deficiencies saw to it that I, at an early age, stuck to advancing myself professionally at the cost of developing a social life, for which my already questionable social skills suffered.

I tried to observe Jane's cues, but, as I've said, she is deceptively complex. It didn't take long for her to initiate physical contact. I adopted the actions she introduced, and she took that as her cue to progress the contact. Slight touches meant as greetings and goodbyes turned to prolonged contact. Her hand on my shoulder, on my knee, on my back as she ushered me through doors. She exhibited actions typical of men when they are courting a woman or would like to. She pulled out my chair, held doors for me and walked on the street side when we would go to lunch or for coffee. Again, I let her set the parameters of our interactions.

I'm afraid things became even more confusing once we began to spend time together outside of work. I am not entirely sure how women in a close friendship are supposed to act, but I'm fairly certain our friendship falls somewhere outside of the norm. I don't stop her when she cuddles up to me when we watch a movie or when she falls asleep on my shoulder. I don't object to her coming over to my apartment unannounced or staying over, usually requesting I stay in the guestroom with her. I comply. Somehow, there seems to be an agreement between us that we always will stay in the guestroom, as if staying in my room would mean something else. Something I would not object to, a fact I can admit to myself in the quieter moments when Jane is not near me. The same rules do not apply at her apartment, of course, but, then again, she does not have a guestroom.

My confusion grows almost daily. I am increasingly driven to distraction when she stands near to me, nearer than is necessary, it seems. I swear, I can feel the heat in the minimal space between us rise. The way I flush when she stands that near has become noticeable; Jane has questioned me about it. The white lies and half truths I have used to explain it away have taken me to near hyperventilation more times that I care to recount.

Further, she has recently taken to touching my hair, an intimacy I am positive is beyond friendship. She toys with the ends, runs it through her fingers, tucks it behind my ear. She must notice the way I hold my breath as her fingers run along the sensitive skin behind my ears. She must. I know she has seen the way my eyes drift to her lips. She has smiled in return enough times for me to be sure of it. She returns the glances, seeming almost uncertain, tentative. It's the only time I ever see her self-confidence falter, in the times when we are decidedly alone and the tension between us becomes almost palpable. The few times that I have taken it upon myself to "test the waters," as it were, she has hesitated, suddenly unsure of what we are doing. Admittedly, I don't understand it myself. I only know if feels right. Jane seems to be more comfortable when she has control over our interactions, so I usually let her decide how close we sit, how often we touch and how flirtatious our conversations will be. There hardly seems to be a choice, though.

The interactions and moments that increase my heart rate are now too numerous to recollect in their entirety. A few stand out, however. Three, to be precise. The first was such a small action that I'm still not sure whether or not she was cognizant of what she was doing. She certainly did not see how it dismantled me. Metaphorically, of course. It was a Friday. Korsak, Frost, Jane and I had decided to go to a bar on the opposite side of Boston. Korsak had graciously offered to drive so that the rest of us could indulge a little more than usual. Personally, I practice what Jane calls a "one and you're done" approach to social drinking. After sitting and having a rather enjoyable time for a few hours, we decided to call it a night and went back out to the car. Frost sat in the passenger seat, and Jane and I occupied the back seat. She was quiet, especially considering the five beers she'd had in a short time, which would usually make her raucous. However, she sat staring out the window, pondering only she knew what. I initially tried to engage her in conversation, but soon retreated to listening to Korsak and Frost's increasingly easy conversation.

I suddenly felt a slight pressure on my knee and looked down to see Jane's hand, palm up, on my leg, a silent request. As always, I did as she asked, sliding my fingers between her rougher ones, wrapping my hand up in her scarred one. I glanced over at her, but her eyes never left the window. Instead, she softly, steadily held my hand until we reached her apartment building. Without a word, she gave my hand a tender squeeze and then released it, saying her goodbyes over her shoulder as she climbed out of the car. I have never asked her about that night. I have never wanted to.

The second occasion was during one of our now many sleepovers. Jane had fallen asleep first, exhausted from one of her poorly attempted yoga sessions. I had stayed up to read an article in a recent issue of a medical journal, though it had been proving difficult with the warmth radiating from Jane's side of the bed. I lay down on my side to watch the steady rise and fall of her chest, the gentle fluttering of her eyelashes. Just as I was about to admonish myself for once again observing my friend in a manner that could hardly be called platonic, Jane rolled over on her side so she was facing me, her head resting mostly on my pillow.

For a moment I couldn't seem to think, to breathe. Against my better judgment, I reached over and tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear, letting my fingers trace along her jaw line and to her chin. She sighed and rolled over onto her other side. I felt momentarily reprimanded. The thought was soon banished from my head, however, as Jane slid back until her backside rested, from head to toe, along the front of my body. Taken aback, I watched as my arm slid around her waist seemingly of its own volition. She clutched at my hand, drawing it to her chest. I could feel her heart beat strongly against my palm. When she showed no indication of disentangling herself, I decided to, for the first time, release myself from the burden of thought. I cautiously reached behind me to turn off the bed side lamp then turned back into Jane. I tucked my nose into her still slightly damp hair, inhaling deeply. I settled into her and quickly fell into the deepest, quietest sleep I had known until that point. And, for once, Jane did not thrash from the nightmares of Hoyt and the other atrocities of her job that plagued her almost nightly.

When we awoke in the morning to the blaring sound of her alarm, we were still tangled up in each other. After turning off the alarm, Jane turned to me with a contented smile on her face and half-said, half-yawned, "Mm, morning, Maura. That was nice." She grinned at me then slithered out from beneath the covers to go into the kitchen to start breakfast. Though she didn't mention it again, after that night, whenever we sleep in the same bed, we, inevitably, wake up somehow entwined.

The third instance was not too long ago, a week or so before the Accident, as I choose to refer to it. We were at Jane's parents' house for a barbeque. They had invited many of their friends and neighbors. It was somewhat overwhelming, but I find myself somehow more equipped to interact with people with Jane at my side. I had been deep in conversation with Angela about recipes when I noticed Jane standing alone, watching the neighbors' children playing tag in the yard. I excused myself and walked over to her, feeling more "myself," as I was coming to be, with each step I took toward her. Without a word, I slipped myself beneath her arm, wrapping my arms around her waist and laying my ear against her chest, just above her heart. For once, she did not hesitate but rested her arms around my shoulders, pulling me tightly to her. We stood like that for… well, actually, I am not sure how long. Though I know it is entirely impossible, it felt as if time stopped.

We stood there and watched the children play, the sun slowly setting behind the trees that lined the yard. With each beat of Jane's heart I came closer to accepting what I had known since I met her, illogical as it sounds: I am in love with Jane. She is my friend, yes, but, for me, she means so much more. She is, quite simply, without hyperbole, my salvation. She is the person that understands me and accepts me, against all odds. She is my lifeline, my tenuous connection to what is "normal" and human. As we stood there, I came to the realization that, no matter how confusing our friendship is, it was no longer all I felt for Jane. However, if it was all she could offer, I would take it and gladly.

I was granted momentary reprieve from my realization as one of Jane's hands moved down to my arm, absentmindedly rubbing up and down. She rested her head against mine after brushing her lips across my hair line. After a minute or two I pulled back a bit, searching for her eyes. When I found them, they were glassy from unshed tears, and they searched mine almost desperately. I felt one of her hands run along the length of my hair and come to rest on the small of my back. Once again, my eyes drifted to her lips.

"Maura?" My name slipped from her lips, a question and an answer. Just when I was sure my resolve was gone, when I could feel my body beginning to yearn toward her, Angela called for us to come and eat, the quiet shattering around us as the sounds of the summer night rushed back to my consciousness. Jane's face broke into the wide smile I am so accustomed to, and she took my hand, leading me back towards the crowd now gathered around the tables of food.

When we went back to work, we continued with our usual routine and interactions, though somehow they felt more intimate, as if a secret had been exchanged that night.

I do not understand the boundaries of friendship, but I am certain these actions do not fall within them. I do not fully understand Jane Rizzoli, nor why my wall crashes down, bit by bit, when she is near me. I don't know if she feels the same way I do. I don't know how to read her actions. Quite simply, I do not know what she is thinking.

The day Jane shot herself, she was supposed to come over for dinner. I had it all planned. I was going to confront her, ask her questions about friendship. I am not terribly good with emotions, but for Jane, I was going to try. I was going to try to ascertain her intentions, try to understand that night at her parents' house. I needed an answer, one way or another. I knew I could trust Jane to patiently explain it to me, to not make me feel like a robot.

When she wakes up, there will be so much to be done, too much to let my feelings be the topic of conversation. When she wakes up, she will be different. We will be different. I have worn her blood on my dress and skin, have felt its warmth turn cold as it dried. I have watched the color drain from her skin and the life from her eyes. I have screamed her name with a fear and desperation I envied others for before. It is unpleasant. I know longing and love so powerful it hurts, somehow. I understand what it is to truly feel helpless, as Jane must have felt when my biological father took me.

In almost losing her, I understand her better than I would have had she been able to explain it to me. I hope I have the opportunity to explain that to her.

In the meantime, I, knowingly, embrace my natural, robotic ways. I know too well that the machines that are keeping Jane alive right now are keeping me alive, too.