notes: I know. I'm late, too.

It's eight days, a few hours, and some minutes past Valentine's Day, and Erza still sits in her apartment, alone.

Every now and then she hears the click of the door, feels an odd wind behind her, and she turns around, with her heart beating out of her chest—but no, he isn't there—and for a moment she's disappointed but in the next she laughs it off and turns her attention back to the cake sitting on the table in front of her.

It's her favorite—some version of a cream-and-strawberry dripping mess of a shortcake. She bought it for herself earlier that day.

Having the cake isn't a surprise. She would be having it Valentine's Day or not, and she probably would be having it whether or not he was here. He would get her the same thing anyway because he knows what she likes anyway.

So the cake isn't a surprise. The only difference is that there is more for her—but it's not like he would wrestle her for the last bite either. He would quietly watch her enjoy this cake that he got for her because he knows she likes it best.

She takes a spoonful and tastes the sweet dessert on her tongue. She enjoys it, but she thinks she might enjoy eating it even more if he is there, and if he presented it to her.

It'd be the same whipped cream, the same spongey cake, the same strawberry syrup, the same decadent perfection of goodness, but it would even better because she knows that he got it just for her, for precisely this moment, to see that she is enjoying the cake even though he knows she would be enjoying it anyway.

In fact, everything is the same whether or not he is there.

She still keeps two chairs next to the table, favors the right side of her bed, uses half of her dresser, stows away her shoes off-center from the doormat, leaves one extra towel hanging off the rack, opens the shades in the morning and asks herself why it's become the first thing she does when she starts her day but knows she does this because he wakes better when he can feel the sun shining down on his skin and—

She's still there, even without him.

She's there, alone—and she knows he counts on her like she counts on him to be there when he comes back, forgive him for all the time he lost, give him everything that would make up for it because she knows—

He still keeps a note of every bakery he passes, purchases trinkets that he never wears, uses a soap and shampoo he doesn't really like, buys an extra portion of food than he can finish, sleeps facing the sun in the morning and asks himself why he lets the sunrise interrupt his slumber but knows he does this because she always rests with her back to the sun and when he wakes he can see her face smiling at him and—

He's still there, even without her.

They're there, alone but not the least bit apart—not while she can feel his heartbeat alongside hers, not while he can feel in the air that she is breathing the same breath, not while she lies back into bed and closes her eyes and feels warm under the sheets and the ends of her uncut hair still smell like his fingers braiding through the tangled mess.

They're together despite not together, and it makes every moment that she has with him, every moment that she has without him count, so much more than the moments that she never had him.

She isn't without him—because being without him was when she never had him in the first place.

The cake is not a surprise.

She would have it, rain or shine. It tastes sweet, and she will still scrape at the pastry paper with her metal spoon to desperately get every last crumb and whirl of the cream-and-strawberry mess.

What does surprise her is when she suddenly feels that odd wind behind her again—the tickle at the back of her neck, the tension between her shoulder blades, the self-awareness that the curtain of her hair prevents her from seeing peripherally beyond her ear.

She turns around, her heart beating out of her chest.

And this time when she looks behind her, she isn't disappointed.

He's not there.

He's not there, but that doesn't mean he wouldn't be if he could.
He's not there, but that doesn't mean he expects not to be.
He's not there, but that doesn't mean he never would be.

So she spends this day—and many other days—alone, but with the steady beat of her heart counting down to the next time she can count up the steady beat of his heart, she wouldn't have it any other way.

end notes: I know it's way past Valentine's Day, but I needed to write this because I want to break the association of "being alone" with "being lonely" or even being negative in general. Relationships are so much more than being together. It's also about valuing the other (or others, hey, you do you) and valuing yourself when you're apart.

Also a quick shout out to anyone that has had to and are managing long distance relationships and wasn't able to be with their loved ones this past month!

Readers, you are much loved. Especially by me,

thir13enth