I'm tired of thinking so hard
You wanna talk about
Angles that you've thought about
And I'm tired of fighting for air
I'm gonna close my eyes
For just a little while
I'd rather blame you
And just be done with it
I won't consider my involvement
Don't go off and leave me
You've seen the damage you've made
I'd rather blame you
And make it go away
I'd rather put it in my pocket
I'm blameless now.

It used to be great. I keep going back to the moment that I realized that I needed him, before I even knew that it was love. But how could love be this desperate and this plaintive? Love was supposed to be like Paris.

So love was supposed to be this all-encompassing, flawless thing, right? This feeling that washes through your heart to the tips of your fingers and out through your eardrums. Love was supposed to feel like a warm wind through your hair on an otherwise stormy day. Love wasn't supposed to be the storm.

"I think I'm in love with you." My words. Noncommittal, at first. But not my last words. Should've kept my mouth shut.

They made me like this. I swear it had to be them.

All of them, really. From the first man I ever knew, to the one I know now. My father knew about love; love was something you exploited when you knew the other person would take it. Love was the thing you held against them. And Dawson knew about love, too, but love for him was something that you sucked dry until it was lifeless and half-dead. Love was this one-sided, romantic notion of Clark Gable and some dark-haired princess. Love was really only attainable if it felt like celluloid. Film burns in the projector under the heat of the lamp.

Pacey's taught me about real love. True Love. It's almost funny, come to think of it. Here was this man who epitomized everything I had ever thought about being the opposite of love, and then he was the opposite of everything I had ever thought. It must have been an act, but I swear he'd never been a good actor. Maybe I was blinded by the footlights.

And maybe I wanted it that way, maybe. What else could explain this moment we're at right now? This moment where I've been left again, waiting, hungry, sated, burning. Left.

Conjugate the verbs. I love. She loves. It stops there. You leave. He leaves. That never stops.

I never stop.

"Joey, is Pacey still with you?" Was Pacey ever with me? I feel him still with me. Still feel the heat left behind where his hands touched me.

"No... He left." What else is new? She should have known better than to even ask.

Oh, to have a voice again. When I speak at all, it cracks and shifts tone. And I hardly ever speak anymore anyway. And I hardly notice.

There was a time that, despite all of my insecurities, I held my head up as a strong woman. I knew that nothing anyone could do could break me, break my spirit. I was one person against most of the world, and no matter what happened, I would be okay. Nothing could change that.

So when did that change? Was it when I fell in love the first time, with Dawson? Was it when I realized that I needed to step away from Dawson to re-figure out who I was? I don't think so. It had to take that strong woman to back away from that, for the sheer reason that I completely believed that we were in love. And I still love Dawson, it's just not what I had thought it was. Dawson wasn't idyllic love, Dawson was a layover on the way to that place.

I suppose that I never really loved him the way that I thought I did. No doubts that I did love him, it just wasn't the raging tempest that I know it should have been. Dawson was comfort and security, and love shouldn't be either of those things. I do wish it had been, though. It might have set me up better to deal with this.

No other man before or after him was anything near love. Not even close. I've never felt this way and this is love. There's no question in my mind.

They say that you'll always love your first love and it will never be as strong. Dawson wasn't that and Pacey is, and no matter what happens between us, I know that I will always love him with as frenetic a heart as I do right now. It's so strong, it feels like hatred.

I heard Andie scream, "She'll never love you the way that she loves him. He was her first love, Pacey, her first love...."

There was more, but I missed it, too busy catching the demands thrown at me and misunderstanding my own feelings. Her words wafted past me and I wasn't even listening. Maybe if I had changed direction and run back downstairs, to where I knew he was staring at the door closing behind me, things would be different now. I wonder sometimes how long he stood there.

"No, Andie. He wasn't. I swear, Pacey. He wasn't. Not like this."

I wish I could say that Dawson was my first love, because had he been, we wouldn't be going through this now. I wish. I wish. I wish, but what does it mean?

I don't know why I always go back in my mind to Dawson, whatever we had together facilitates my rationalizations , and allows me to recognize what there could have been. Dawson made me say it, Dawson made me realize, Dawson forced my hand. I wish that it could have been. It would have been better.

So then there's Pacey.

Pacey, whose eyes read me and know my deepest secrets. Pacey, whose body understands mine more than anyone else's ever could. Pacey, whose heart is so cold it freezes mine.

Can your heart decide one day to unlove? His can, maybe his can teach mine?

When I'm all by myself, my strength surprises me. I try to muster up the same courage that I have when I look at my face in the mirror and tell myself to go fuck myself. Unfortunately, he's not on the other side of my reflection. Glass and wall.

Sitting on the edge of her dock, the misty rain leaving concentric circles on the surface of the creek, she doesn't hear the sound of soft footsteps in the melting grass and mud. The hand on her shoulder catches her off guard.

"You scared me."

"I'm sorry."

He sits beside her on the wet dock, his hair sticking to his face in dark slabs. She pulls together the fake smile that she's been sporting for weeks. "So what are you doing out in the rain?"

"I walked over here. Joey? I'm worried about you, why are you letting him do this to you?" She looks at him with disbelieving eyes, but he ain't buying it for a second. "Maybe that works for other people, but I know. I saw him. And I think I know you, and this isn't you."

"I don't know what you're talking about, Jack." Of course she knows, she's known for weeks. Months. A lifetime.

But she's going to cry, she feels her eyes begin to burn and hopes that the rain will mask the tears. She will not speak it; giving it a name will make it real. Her jaw tightens and she clenches her teeth.

When they're together, the face that she puts on is a mask of sublimity and perfect spirit. And maybe she means it, maybe they both do. He still holds her hand, still touches her lightly when he thinks no one is looking. He still loves her. She knows because of the way that he puts his hand on her face and throws fire into her eyes.

"Everything is fine." She does her best to convince herself. "Everything is totally fine. I don't know what you think you saw, but you've obviously misconstrued it. You should probably mind your own business, don't you have enough problems of your own?" Her hands twist in her lap and she picks at her skin with her nails.

"What a crock of shit. Look at you, you've got to able to see yourself. Fuck, Jo. Don't make me do this..." He stands up and over her, his finger pointing down at her. She winces at his anger. She wishes it was hers. Sometimes it is.

"Then don't." She hasn't meant two words more in a long while. Please.

"You need to hear it..." She's already heard it too many times. She tells herself every night, every morning, every time she sees herself in the mirror.

He sits back down next to her and the rain gets harder, but neither of them notice.

"Last weekend I was heading out of the house and I saw Pacey leave the neighbor's house. He didn't see me, Joey, but I stood and watched him. He kissed her and she leaned half dressed in the side doorway. Last night, I saw his truck parked in front of The Blue Note and I went in to say hey and I saw him at the bar with his tongue down some redhead's throat and his hand up her skirt. I don't know what the two of you are doing, but that's not what someone in love does..."

"You don't know! You don't know anything about love!" Over the soft patter of the rain, an engine nears and cuts, she perks at the sound and lowers her voice. "You should leave, Jack."

"Why? Because he's here? Should I be afraid of him like you are, Joey?" Jack holds her face in his hands when he yells at her, waiting on reaction. He doesn't get any. She pulls from his grasp and walks towards her back porch.

"Leave us alone, Jack, and mind your own business." Strong words, said in almost a hushed whisper. She's surprised by the flaccidity of them, had expected a strength that doesn't exist.

Pacey rounds the side of the house, pulling up his collar against the rain. His usual smile as he moves towards her, waving at Jack still sitting on the edge of the dock, his feet hanging just inches from the water's surface. He takes her into his arms and holds her to him, kissing the side of her face as she presses into him and feels content in his embrace. "Hey, Jack! What's up?"

She stares him down, hoping that he'll disappear into the creek and leave the two of them alone. Jack stands to leave and she's relieved. "See you later." Jack doesn't look at Pacey as he walks away down the wooded drive.

"What's up with him?"

"Nothing, just more drama. You know Jack..." She lies. She lies a lot. She lies without looking at him.

They both stand in the rain staring at the empty driveway he disappeared down. "Come on, you're soaked. Let's go inside and get you dried off." Sometimes, his words are so tender that she forgets that there's anything wrong between them at all. She remembers back to when everyday felt this safe and this perfect and leaves her memory there.

Following him inside, she goes over Jack's words while staring at the back of Pacey's head. He doesn't look back at her until the door is shut behind the rain. By then, the words are forgotten.

"Where's Bessie, et al?" The house is quiet, more quiet than it ever is. She watches him look around at its emptiness. She thinks it's strange that she doesn't find that same emptiness in his eyes.

When they're alone, he is almost the same person that he used to be. She supposes that he has always been this person, that maybe the beginning was just a brief sojourn to another place in his psyche. Who knows? Maybe that was the lie? Maybe this is? She doesn't care. As long as it feels good.

"They went to Providence for a restaurant conference. They'll be back tomorrow. You can stay here all night." There is so much riding on the look she gives him, and in the pause in her speech. "If you want."

He kisses her on the forehead and rests his chin on her head, his arms wrapped over her shoulders. "Yeah, that would be nice, Jo, we haven't spent the night together in so long." He means it, she knows that he does. Where is that reflection in the mirror when she needs it most?

He sleeps soundly in the moonlight streaming through the open window and caressing his face, golden moonlight like a halo around his head. She moves to the window, unable to sleep herself.

Their time together has been near perfection, she lifts a hand to her lips still tasting the mingled salt from both their bodies on her fingertips. His breath is nothing but a soft, white noise in the silent room.

"I love you."

She says it out loud and he rolls toward her at the sound. "Hey."

"I didn't mean to wake you."

"It's all right. I was just dreaming about you." You lying bastard.

"You were?"

"Yeah. Come back to bed and let me touch you." Her naked silhouette in the golden moonlight, a glow around her entire body. She doesn't give in that easily. She wants him to come to her for a change, make her remember the way that it used to be.

"What did you dream about?"

"You and I. You and I on the boat. The look on your face the first time we slept together, the way that I made you feel. The first time I really knew that you loved me."

The string of words at once seems beautiful, but on closer examination, she sees their meaning. It's all about him. Everything is all about him. Maybe that's the problem. Maybe there is no problem.

But she can't resist him when he looks at her. She feels his eyes like hands on her body, tastes him in her throat. He used to say made love.

"Did it really take that for you to know?"

"Yeah. It did. Come here, you look beautiful."

"Then you come here." Yes, you come to me, Pacey. I can't be the one to always come to you. The imbalance is killing me. You are killing me. I might be already dead.

He does come to her. Slowly moving from the bed to the window sill, he turns her around to him and kisses her hard on her lips, pulls her into his strong arms. When they're twisted around her like that, she can feel the beat of his heart beneath his ribcage and she forgets all words. Love is never about words.

He guides himself inside her with his hands, her mouth forms an open O and her head lolls back. The moon reflects in the still creek. The rain has stopped.

He lifts her into those arms and brings her back to her bed, sitting on it, her legs clasped behind his back, her hands on his thighs supporting her gently moving weight. She feels herself warm around him. His mouth forms words she can't hear. She used to listen, but she's afraid now that he speaks them to all of them, and then they'll mean nothing. They used to mean everything. But love is never about words.

Her body responds to him even when she tries her hardest to separate herself from his motions. Once, just once, she would like to not want this. His fingers tease her, her back curves and her head throws back. He pushes deeper inside her, she matches his rhythm with violent force. She leads him. He buries himself in her hair and laps at her earlobe; she cries out, drowns out his words. No more words.

It's always in the brief moments afterwards that she feels she has the right to verbalize the things that plague her mind. She feels that she's given enough to allow herself that freedom. Mostly, she says nothing.

"I know you love me. I know you do." She lays facing him on the bed, their bodies wet with each other, his hands weaving over her skin. He always touches her.

"But?" He's only honest in these same moments.

"Why?"

"Why what? Why do I love you? I love you because of everything you are, Potter. I love you because you give me all of yourself without holding back. I just love you, who's to say there has to be a reason." It wasn't the why she was looking for.

His hands are strong and weathered, chipped nails and rough skin. They play on her breasts and over her stomach. She falls asleep under them and dreams that he answers her questions. She makes it all up as she goes along.