A one-shot. Maybe. I just needed to get this out of my head. But there are still bits and pieces whizzing around, forever distracting me from revision.

It started snowing. The first snow that winter. Snowflakes waltzing through the air, lazily falling to the ground, dreamily coating the trees, as they speed by. Her hand is in his. Soft. Relaxed. Lost in the warmth and familiarity. She turns away from the window. Smiling. Beaming. She loves the snow. It makes everything look serene. Magical. The white covering the cracks, hiding them below the surface; making the world seem perfect for a little while. No, not perfect. But better. Less broken. He moves his hand to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and she feels the absence in hers instantly. She needs him. She hates to admit it, but he loves that she can. She finally can. She needs him and he needs her, and they understand. They know. They know all about the love, and the need, the passion and the calm. They know, because they're in sync. They have always been, but now, now it's different. Because they're not just breathing in sync, they are in sync. And it's everything. And they know. So he looks at her, his eyes telling her that he knows, and he feels it too. He looks at her, and he sees his future, their future, because he knows – she'll have her eyes, full of love, full of life. And then she rips her eyes away from him, and he can see her screaming, but he doesn't hear. No he does not hear. He hears everything, but her. He can see her flying back, and he tries, but he can't, he can't keep her. And she's disappearing, being swallowed up by the light. And he awakes.

The morning sun peering through the window. Bright. White. He doesn't want to open his eyes, because he knows, he knows that she's not there. He can feel it. He doesn't need to see it. He rolls out the other side of the bed, without ever looking. No, he avoids.

He walks out of the shower as she's walking in. And they exchange – Good morning-s, even though it's not. Even though it hasn't been. Not for a while. Not since that night. And they pass each other like strangers. Their hands touch, and for a moment they take each-others' breath away. Like they used to. Like before. It's too much. It's always been too much, but now it hurts. So she moves away. He lingers for another second, pretending she's still next to him. But she hasn't been. Not for a while. Not since that night. And they both leave. They go to work. And they stay there until it's late. Until it's too late. Hoping that the other one will be asleep when they come back.

This time she wins. He's already asleep. And she watches him for a while. For forever. And she doesn't know how they got here. They lost more than a baby that night. They lost them. And she doesn't know how to get it back. Because she's looking at him, but it's like she no longer sees him. She sees the loss and the pain. She sees the could-have-beens, and the should-have-beens, and it hurts. She looks at him and no longer sees her future, just her past. And it's too much. And she cries. Quietly at first. And then she sobs. She lets out all the silent cries, all the unshed tears. And she can't stop. And she knows he's holding her. And for a while they're one again. For a while she's lost in him again, in the warmth and the familiarity. For a while she needs him and he needs her. And for a while they understand, and they know again. They know all about the loss, and the pain, the resentment and the anger. They know, because they're in sync. They have always been, but now, now it's different. Because they're grieving in sync, they are crying in sync. And for a while it's everything. They fall asleep. Soaked in tears.

And there's a flash of light again. And she awakes. She doesn't want to open her eyes, because she knows, she knows that he's there. She can feel it. She doesn't need to see it. She rolls out the other side of the bed, without ever looking. No, she avoids. Just like he has been.

And she's in the water. Trying to drown the burning inside of her. Trying to stop. But instead she keeps pushing. She can hear her heart beating in her ears. Drumming. But she keeps pushing. And pushing. And maybe if she keeps pushing, hard enough, long enough, he'll walk away. Because she can't. And they can't stay, not this way. And she's out of the pool, and then she's driving home.

She walks into the shower as he's walking out. And they exchange – Good morning-s, even though it's not. Even though it hasn't been. Not for a while. Not since that night. And they pass each other like strangers. Their hands don't touch, but they still take each-others' breath away. Like they used to. Like before. It's still too much. It still hurts. So she moves away. He lingers for another second, pretending she's still next to him. But they both know she's gone. They're gone. And they both leave. They go to work. And they stay there until it's late. Until it's too late. Hoping that the other one will be asleep when they come back. But they're wrong. They're still in sync. They still think the same. And they feel the same. But they no longer know. And it's killing them.

And this time no one wins. He comes back and she's still awake. And he knows what she's about to say. And she says it – and it hurts, more than he thought it would. She slept with someone else. And he hears little after that. She's pushing him away. And he's letting her.

She wakes up the next morning. And she opens her eyes. He's not there. She can no longer feel it. She needs to see it. And for a split second she's relieved. And then she can't breathe. She's pushed him away. And the thought, the realization suffocates her. And she stops. No longer pushing.

He knew. He knew when it happened. He could feel it. Her guilt. He knew guilt. Like he knew her. He'd been drowning in it, living with it. He knew guilt. And he knew her. So he knew. He knew and he forgave her. Long before she told him. He forgave her, because he knew. He still understood and he still knew. Because they were still in sync. They still thought the same. They still felt the same. So he knew. And he forgave her. Telling him, she was trying to hurt him. She wanted to hurt him. She wanted him to walk away. Because she couldn't. And they couldn't stay, not this way.

He opens the door. And she's still there. And he can't walk away. So instead he lays next to her. And he holds her. And he asks her is she's done pushing him away. Her body tenses up, and he can't breathe. This was a mistake. She doesn't want him to stay. And he can't breathe, his breath lodged in his throat, but it doesn't feel like air, it feels like pain. Just pain. But she doesn't pull away. She turns around. And she kisses him. Soft. Like a hello, not a goodbye. She kisses him and he's kissing her back. And she's whispering she's sorry. And he is too. And they stay like that. Not moving. But no longer stuck in time and space.

They don't dream of the flashing light. Of the snow covering the cracks. Theirs are out in the open. But they're better. They're less broken. They don't dream of the past. They don't dream of her. They don't dream. Because the reality is no longer so awful, so lonely. The reality could become the dream again. They wake up, and they open their eyes. Because they can feel, but they do want to see.