Not much to say here except they killed Robin and I think that's stupid, so I'm fixing it.

Starts at the end of season 5, after they bring back the Charmings, Hook and Zelena through the fountain in NY. All canon elements included except the whole split Regina business, scratch that out.

They've gotten everyone back, and Regina could not be prouder of her son for igniting belief –however brief- in all those strangers by the fountain. She's lucky to have him, lucky to be loved and believed in by him.

But right now, she doesn't feel lucky. Right now, she's noticing that Emma and Henry have gone to get food, and the Charmings and Zelena have left for the hotel rooms they've booked for the night. Right now, Regina is noticing she's truly, finally alone for the first time since Robin died.

The realization makes something click inside her, shatters her composure and unleashes every tear and frustrated scream she's been working so hard to keep at bay. Suddenly she's throwing things, grabbing anything in sight and hurling it at the walls, yelling out her grief and the pain she's been neglecting. The pain that has been eating at her with no outlet because she's had to appear calm, collected, so that no one would think she'd be slipping back into the darkness inside her.

It's a good ten minutes of crying and shouting and glass-breaking before she collapses, falling to her knees on the cold floor as the tears continue to leak from her eyes.

Emma's kind words from earlier taunt her, the well-meant message serving as nothing but a mockery of Regina's feelings as it plays around in her head. Like a contradicting soundtrack to the flashes of Robin's soul being ripped from him, of his body falling limp and dead at her feet.

Exhausted and short of breath, Regina rises, letting her magic flow as she aims a hand towards a broken vase, a cracked picture frame, and several plates, repairing one after the other, until nothing is left of her angry mourning but the salty drops still clinging to her cheeks.

She feels… stifled, suffocated by the heart wrenching pain of it all, and she removes her jacket in an attempt to be able to breathe, throwing the leather at the small couch with a measured gasp as she grabs onto the bookshelf beside her and tries to compose herself.

Something white falls out of the jacket when it lands on the cushions, entering her line of sight from the corner of her eye. Regina turns to it. It's his letter. The one he wrote but could never bring himself to send, the one that found its way to her regardless, like a message from beyond the grave, telling her that what they had was real, that he had loved all of her, that he had chosen her.

She reads it again, more tears brimming in her eyes as she stares at the handwritten proof of his affection for her, words that speak of how proud she'd made him, of the happiness she'd brought him, and it's all too much.

She can't talk to anyone, can't look into the eyes of her stepdaughter or Emma without seeing their apprehension, seeing the underlying fear that the Evil Queen will return. Emma would probably push past that fear, would probably be sympathetic and understand her pain, but she's just gotten her own dead lover back, and the thought that the universe has somehow decided Hook deserves to live while Robin does not, makes anger bubble up inside Regina. She'd rather avoid a conflict with her friend over this, for Henry's sake.

Henry. Her precious boy. Her little prince. He wants to be there for her, is frustrated that he can't use his magic pen to bring Robin back for her. She's seen it, seen how he feels her loss as badly as she does, and she's his mother, she should be taking care of him, not the other way around. She won't unload her sadness unto him, won't show the full brunt of her heartache to him if she can help it. Her son should not carry her grief for her.

There's a stationary kit in the corner of the shelf, the same make and color as the one Robin's letter is written on, and an idea occurs to her then. She's alone, after all, doesn't have someone she can open up to, not anymore, so what has she got to lose, really? There's a pain in her heart that needs soothing, like a needle being pushed into her over and over again, right next to the void left by Robin's soul when it was taken from him, from her. And maybe it's a stupid idea, but she has nothing else.

Regina brings the stationary kit with her to the dining table, grabs the pen lodged in the little pad of paper stuck to the fridge, and she writes.

Dear Robin,

I don't know what I'm doing. I don't even know what I feel, exactly, except that it hurts.

You shouldn't have died for me. I'm not worth it, I never was. And now your children will grow up without their wonderful father, and I won't get to spend my life with you, and this whole thing is just so unfair.

I'm sorry. I love you, and I am so, so sorry. You deserved better than this. Better than me.

There's more she wants to say. So much more, but she can't find the words, can't properly put into writing how horrible it all is. And so she just signs it, writes her name with a shaky hand and folds up the piece of paper, tucking it into a matching envelope and then placing it inside The Adventures of Robin Hood, where she'd found his own letter just this morning.

Henry arrives with Emma not ten minutes later, and while Emma unpacks the food, Regina ducks into the bathroom. She quickly washes away the tear tracks on her cheeks, adjusts her outfit and hair, and puts her calm-and-collected mask back on.

But her son isn't fooled, and is waiting for her outside the bathroom door, offers her a tight hug that makes it impossible for her to keep her sadness hidden from him, has her crying all over again, this time into his shoulder as he holds her and runs a comforting hand up and down her back.

There will never be an end to her misery. She knows that now.