Note: Okay, thank you so much to those of you who read and reviewed "Funny". You have no idea how much it meant to me. Here's another angst-filled little fic. And if you didn't read "Funny," which I'm sure a majority of you didn't, I seem to be full of angsty stuff lately for some reason. So I hope this is okay and I hope against hope that Willow is in character because she's kind of a tricky one for me to write, but please bear with me.

Disclaimer: Once again, it's not mine.

Another Note: For those of you who read "Funny," I would like you all to know that I am aware the summary is missing a pair of quotation marks. Not that it's important or anything, or that anyone really looked that closely, but I am sort of a perfectionist on the grammar/punctuation front, so now I won't obsess over the error quite as much. Quite. That said, on with the story!

It's been three years, to date, since you left me. It's the first time I've forgotten. Well, I didn't forget, exactly. It's just the first time I haven't counted down the days. "Two weeks and I'll have made it one year—three days and I'll have made it two years." Time used to pass so slowly, you know? And this year it just sort of crept up on me. As creepy time tends to do. It scares me, just a little. If I almost forgot today, how long will it be before I almost forget you?

But of course I know that's ridiculous. I could never really forget you, right? I mean, it's not like I don't still miss you. Everyday I do, I swear. I guess it's more like, I've gotten so used to it, to missing you, that I don't really notice it anymore. Does that even make sense? Oh, am I making excuses? Geeze, have I stopped noticing those, too?

Hey, I'm talking like I just blew today off completely. That's not what happened at all, right? I remembered. I did! It took me all day, but by Goddess, I remembered. I was in the shower. It had been one of those really hectic days, you know, and Kennedy had thought one might help. She was there, actually, when it hit me. In the room I mean, not in the shower, if you were wondering. Which you probably weren't; that was stupid. Why would you think something like that? It's not like you have a gutter mind or anything like that. I should know you better than that, shouldn't I? Oh, er, that's kind of beside the point, huh? Anyway, Kennedy was in the room with me when it hit me. Brushing her teeth. Fully clothed.

I think it was seeing the blood that did it. I was shaving my legs, see, and the razor slipped. That happens to me all the time, as I'm sure you remember, and I hardly feel the sting anymore. But it bled a little. And as I watched the tiny fingers of blood reaching out and slicing through the white foam, I remembered.

"Your shirt…" A too-neat circle of crimson. A ruined blouse. Me. All alone.

Needless to say, I freaked out a little. I yanked back the shower curtain and scrambled out of the shower, shaving cream covered legs and all. It gave Kennedy kind of a start, and naturally she asked what was wrong. I sort of calmed down then and told her I'd forgotten something, which is true. She asked if she could help and I snapped at her that no, I could handle it if she'd just back off. Not true. So perfect. Now I'm yelling at, not to mention lying to, my girlfr—her. Like I don't have enough to feel guilty about. But, really, can you blame me for being a little shaken up? Three years ago today, I lost you. And I'd almost forgotten.

But I didn't. I remembered. And it's not like you have a grave for me to put flowers on anymore anyway, right? So really it's not like I missed much or—oh, oops. More excuses. You'd think I'd be so used to all the guilt that I wouldn't even need to make them anymore, wouldn't you?

I just get so frustrated, you know? Like, what else can I do but make excuses, cuz it seems like every feeling I have is a betrayal to somebody. Listen, I want to love Kennedy. I mean, I do love Kennedy, of course, and I know you'd be (you are?) okay with that because that's you, and you'd want (do want?) me to be happy. But you can't possibly expect me to believe it doesn't hurt you to see me (if you can see me, and I have to believe you can) with her. And God knows I hurt you enough when you were alive, so how can I keep at it now?

And that's not the worst part. At least you're technically gone. I mean, it's not considered cheating on you, at least by most people's—maybe not my—standards that I'm with Kennedy. But you're not the only one I worry about hurting. It's like—I don't know, it's really awful; you'll think I'm terrible. Or maybe you'll be glad. But no, not you, you wouldn't feel that way, would you? Of course you wouldn't. Here's—okay, here's the thing. Once, just after Sunnydale, I was snuggled up in the dark with Kennedy, and I pretended—just for a second—I pretended she was you. I didn't mean to, and Tara, I know it's terrible, even if it is you, but even though I felt so, so bad, I was so relieved. Because it meant I hadn't really lost you. I still loved you. And that made me feel even worse because of course I still love you, how could I doubt that? But I don't know if I should. Am I supposed to. Like I said, I love Kennedy, too. I love both of you, and what does that make me? Some kind of twisted soap opera character, torn between two lovers? That's not what I want to be, or what you want me to be, I know. Although, I guess it's kind of better than homicidal black-haired me. Probably.

So here I sit on the floor of my bedroom, thinking all these things at once and staring at a calendar. I'm just trying how to figure out how I could mark off every passing day on this stupid thing and not remember. And I can hear Kennedy in the kitchen, rifling through the pantry and sulking about what I said to her, and suddenly I'm crying. Hard. So hard it's difficult to breath. I put my face in my hands and manage to sob aloud, "I'm sorry, baby, I'm so sorry. I love you." Even though I'm pretty sure you can hear me, even if I don't say it.

Kennedy rushes in and throws her arms around my neck, shushing me. "Sweetie, please, what's wrong? Don't cry; don't apologize. It's okay. I love you too. It's okay." I hug her back and sob harder. I am sorry, to both of you I'm sorry. Because I know I might still accidentally pretend she's you sometimes, and I might forget about today again, and I might still make excuses about it. What else can I do, though? I may never get used to all this guilt.