She's nervous, and she's not sure she likes the feeling.

She's not used to being nervous, at least not before a date.

Maybe that's because you're already counting on there being a second date, a little voice whispers in her head, and she doesn't bother trying to chase it away. She wants this to work. She wants there to be another date. She wants to be happy.

He makes her happy.

He makes her nervous, too.

The last date she'd spent more than ten minutes getting ready for had been her last night with Walsh, and she hadn't been nervous then, even with all the 'eight month anniversary' hoopla that had come with it. Not that she knew at the time that it was going to be her last date with Walsh, of course. She didn't know he was going to turn out to be a flying monkey in the service of the freaking Wicked Witch of the West either, so she's pretty sure that particular evening is going to keep its position at the top of her personal 'freakiest dates ever' list for a long time to come.

She remembers getting ready for that date like it was yesterday. She was happy to be seeing Walsh that night, happy to be having dinner at one of her favourite places, happy that she'd had a productive day at work. She'd found that black leather dress soon after she and Henry had arrived (she's never found a better way to describe it other than 'magically appearing out of nowhere') in New York City, and she had fallen in love with it at first night. At the time, if anyone had asked her, she couldn't have explained why. Sure, she had some old leather jackets in her wardrobe, but a black leather dress? Now, though, she thinks she knows why it caught her eye.

She'd been instinctively searching for the things she'd lost.

And it wasn't just the leather dress. In New York, she and Henry never ate apples, not once. He'd asked for video games involving ye olde knights and dragons again and again, and she'd never thought to say no or suggest a different genre. After her memories had been restored, she'd looked at all the nautical-themed décor in her apartment and prayed to God that Killian was too consumed with the situation in Storybrooke to notice.

Even now, the memory has the power to make her face grow hot.

He'd been in her head all that time, even when she didn't remember him orher real self, and now she's standing in front of the mirror in her tiny bedroom in her parent's apartment, looking at her reflection and wondering what this dress says about her current state of mind.

It's something she might have chosen years ago. Before she met Neal. Before Neal left her. Before everything went wrong. It's pretty and soft and it fits her like a glove, and just looking at her reflection makes her smile. She might have chosen this dress with a particular man in mind, but it's for her, too.

(She knows now that the black leather dress had been for her, too. Not Walsh.)

She stares at her reflection. Something's still not right, though, and she knows exactly what it is, and maybe that's part of why she's so nervous.

She touches her right hand to her left wrist, tracing the familiar shape of Graham's bootlaces with her fingertips. She'd wrapped them around her wrist the day after he'd died in her arms and she's never taken them off, not even during her year in New York. Just like her love of maritime memorabilia and dislike of apples and Henry's addiction to playing at being a knight, she'd never questioned their presence in her life.

Her swan necklace belongs to Henry now. He'd wanted a memento of his father, and she's heard him talking to David about turning it back into a key ring when he's officially old enough to drive. Her silver pendant hadn't looked right with this new dress, so she'd taken it off without a moment's hesitation.

That leaves just one last thing. She rubs her thumb over the bootlaces, closing her eyes as they start to prickle hotly. Aside from Mary Margaret, Graham had been her only real friend when she'd arrived in this place.

I miss you.

The memory of his last whispered, 'thank you' will never stop breaking her heart and that he died will never be okay, but it's time. Time for her to stop running. Time to stop wrapping herself in other people's armor. Time to stop living in the past.

Slowly and very carefully, she unties the laces, unravelling them from her wrist. The skin underneath is pale and soft, and the sight of her own tattoo manages to take her by surprise. Before she can change her mind, she curls the laces up just as carefully, then puts them into the top drawer of her bureau, right next to the baby blanket that says 'Emma'.

Taking a deep breath, she rubs her fingers over her bare left wrist, wondering how long it will take to get used to it feeling so light. She will never forget the people she's loved and lost, but tonight, she needs to walk out that front door without them.

Smoothing her hands down the front of her new dress, she doesn't have to check her reflection to know that she's finally ready, and in more ways than one.