A/N: Dedicated to Sapphire2112. Thanks for sticking by me.

"I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you simply, without any problems or pride: I love you in this way because I do not know any other way of loving but this, in which there is no I or you, so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand, so intimate that when I fall asleep your eyes close."- Pablo Neruda, 100 Love Sonnets

"I love you," she says, leaning one day out of her window when the sky is swallowed by endless seas of fog, and the dirt trail leading into oblivion has long been overgrown by weeds. She doesn't need to look for it, because she knows the trail well, and it's always there, bringing back memories to swirl in her gut and drown out her heart. (It reminds her of their own oblivion, and the days they spent together stretching on and on forever, and how it didn't matter the dangers that they encountered, or the fact that waking up meant another chance of dying, because staying there by each other's side sharing the same breath of air meant nothing could stop them - and nothing did stop them.)

"I love you," she says, pouring her heart into the words that he may never hear, never say, or never know. She tests them in her mouth, feeling for their weight; and with each escaping sound her chest feels lighter, and she thinks that even if she never hears the words for herself, the feeling of her heart lifting itself out of her chest will be worth it.

"I love you," she says, and waits for a boy who is miles away, maybe never to return, never to come back from his own oblivion - his own state of unawareness.

"I love you," she says, and as the sun's rays begin to peek through the overhead clouds, Misty closes her windows.

I love you too.

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In school, they warned them about the dangers of the outside world: the blinking ruby eyes hidden behind tall green grass, bearded hunters lurking around every corner threatening to shoot you down if you didn't steer clear of their territory, and of rocket members who would sit laughing over your bruised body like it was all some kind of sick joke; they warned them of diseases, hunger, and frostbite, of sunburns, sickness, and paralysis - even of the empty bottles of super potions that would pile up at your feet, reaching up to the sky, until the mantra of Mew-damn it there has to be another one in here somewhere became your anthem. On and on they went, preaching how hard it was to travel on your own, how cold and restless you'd be at night, waiting for morning to come as the overhead stars burned into the back of your eyelids like hot red flashes of combusting heavenly bodies, staining your mind in blooming plumes of solferino kisses and vitellary sun rays. They warned them about the do's and don'ts of every situation until survival became but a second language.

And Misty thought she knew everything.

But what they didn't warn her about was this: that one day, there would be a boy with the biggest heart she would ever see, ready to tumble head first into her world without any increment of warning. They didn't warn her that he'd be the first thing she saw in the morning, and the last thought to run through her head before bed, and that maybe this boy was meant to take her places she'd never seen before, that she would never have imagined possible.

But most of all, they didn't bother mentioning that one day, she'd look over at him and think: Oh my Mew I'm in love with you.

Nothing could have prepared her for that.

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The sandy beach burns Misty's feet, sticks in the tiny spaces between her toes, and lodges the tiny granules in clumps under her nails. It splatters across the span of her foot, covering the tan lines left behind from the countless days she spent on the road - sneakers worn religiously. And, It's hot, Misty thinks, the sun leaving her body sticky with sweat, beating down against the top of her head until she feels like it's on fire, feels like she might fold under its weight.

In her hands there is a bottle.

(Sometimes she pretends that she spent hours trying to piece together the perfect letter, stayed up late constructing the words in her best handwriting, the black ink looped and swirled, stark against the white parchment paper. Maybe she reread it over and over again, until the words burned themselves onto the back of her eyelids: white lines of "I miss you" and "come home."

But she didn't, that's the thing).

Misty breathes in deeply the smell of the salty ocean air, lets her lungs fill with the heavy scent of it, of white flowers planted in little clay pots outside private beach huts: perfumes of tropical odors she's come to love - she's raising the bottle over her head now. The sun glints brightly against it, green sparkles of light trickling into the air, fated to be carried off by the wind (there will be a perfect arc when she throws it) and she only hesitates a second.

Overhead, winguls screech in perfect sync with her beating heart.

She throws the bottle as far as she can, and pretends she doesn't see the cork slip, and the plumes of ink that sink into the ocean foam erase themselves off of the paper.

It doesn't matter, anyway, she decides, he'll know her message without the note.

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Misty doesn't dwell on the past. She doesn't fill her head with silly thoughts of what-might have-been, and what-could-have-gone-differently, and of why-didn't-I-just...because if Ash taught her anything in the many years they spent together, it would be that you must always keep moving forward. The future is the only stable thing in your life that tells you it's not over.

So Misty knows that even though in the present, they may be apart, but there's always tomorrow.

And the next day.

And the next…

And even after all of that, time will go on.

So Misty waits, and she lives, and she breathes; and when Misty does bring air into her lungs, somewhere, Ash is breathing out.

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She remembers the feeling of his hand on her cheek: calloused fingertips like thorns compared to the smooth of his palm - the one previously covered by the worn down fabric of his glove. She never forgets the way his mouth curved into that smile, or the dimples that uncovered themselves from under the tan of his face; or of the crinkles that lined his eyes, the ones containing a light so bright it physically hurt her...yeah, there's a million things she can't forget.

Sometimes she wishes she could forget his words, I'll be back sooner than you think, the way his voice slightly wavered, don't worry, okay?

Because nowadays she feels the ghost of his touch still linger, as if permanently burning her.

(It's not the same as the real thing).

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"Here's the thing about love, okay?" Daisy tells her, hand on one hip, and sucker in her mouth, all red lips and white teeth and experience oozing through her words.

She catches Misty's eyes before continuing, and her speech is void of any colloquial slang, or the obnoxious babble she's usually known for, and Misty realizes: this is serious.

"Daisy I don't-" Misty tries to intervene, but is cut off.

"No, listen. This is important." She struts over to Misty, high heels clacking, before placing a well manicured hand over her shoulder. Her eyes beg for attention: dark pools of green screaming, look at me.

Misty does.

Daisy never breaks eye contact as she speaks, "You can love somebody so much - love their laugh, their eyes, their way of speaking, have them wrap you around their finger with money and promises, and Mew-damn everything, but baby sister that's not love." Daisy takes a deep breath, and let's it shutter out of her before continuing. "In that situation, when you're in love with someone, everything else just kind of fades out. In your dreams, you see them, and in your dreams you touch them, and in your dreams there's nothing but them, until there's no longer anything worth dreaming about."

"That's when you fall out of love," she says, "that's when everything falls apart."

"Do we all fall out of love like that?" Misty asks, a cry for help edging out of her voice. It's involuntary, really - she can't help it (the fear).

"No, not always. Sometimes, you find someone who breathes life into your dreams. You no longer dream of just them; you dream of an extension of yourselves."

Daisy offers Misty a smile. "Or like, whatever," she concludes.

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Misty dreams of verdant fields stretched along an icy blue sky, of golden sunlight dripping down from the clouds and melting off of the canvas, until it gathers at her feet in an ocean of warmth; she dreams of cracked dirt and broken earth, of ancient pokemon stomping grounds, their cries loud and strident, like the clanging of swords or clanks of armor - of razor sharp teeth and the shattering of glass; she dreams of a bed of feathers, soft and smelling of lilac, and when she turns her head ever-so-slightly, she can see the uniting of arms, of hands placed together to ward of the dark.

She dreams of Ash, his arms held out, wide and welcoming - waiting.

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"You told me you'd never forget me!" she screams, out into the open air where she imagines her words will carry.

(There's no point in killing her voice, it's not as if he'll hear her, but she doesn't care. Let her voice be damned the next morning).

"You told me we'd be there by each other's sides - always!" Her eyes grow hot with tears, threatening to break at the surface. "What changed? Was it you?" She wipes at her face with the back of her hand, angry and harsh, slipping off with the slick of her tears.

"I told myself I'd wait for you," her voice cracks, barely above a whisper, "I told myself I'd love you forever."

(She still does).

"Why can't you do the same?"

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It's funny really: the distance.

Misty used to think it were a bad thing, thought the miles of ocean or land that stretched between them was a curse, like Arceus must be punishing her. It felt like the taste of poison, like she was Snow White, she was tasting the apple and she was falling into a never ending sleep. But, now that she's thought about it, it's quite the opposite.

She's trained more, gotten stronger, and has more time to focus on herself and her Pokemon. She's been able to spend time bettering herself, no longer tied to the roads Ash led. Not to say that she hated the journey he made for himself, but it wasn't her's.

Because the thing is this: Ash has a dream. He wants to make a name for himself, and he'll stop at nothing to make that happen. He's not waiting on her - she would never let that happen - he's not waiting on anyone. So Misty, she understands. She's trying to find her own dream.

And when both of those are complete, they can make their dream, together.

So they wait.

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Misty breathes in,

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Ash breathes out.

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Both of them rest easily.

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Ash settles himself into his sleeping bag for the night, Pikachu there beside him. The yellow rodent snuggles into the boy's side with a satisfied 'chaa' sound, and Ash can't help but chuckle. He pets the back of his ear with his hand, smiling.

Overhead, there are a million twinkling stars gazing down at him, stories and pictures interwoven into their make up - spaces between them acting as code. Ash pretends he knows astronomy, pretends he can decipher the words they carry; oddly enough, it makes him think back to the days he spent with Misty, and how they'd lie under the constellations for hours, trying to make sense of it all. He can't really remember what she said, just that her eyes lit up when she spoke, somehow brighter than the stars.

Ash thinks about promises and dreams and a little path leading to a lake, wondering if she'd be mad if he woke her up for a call.

(The Pokemon center is close - he could run, it would only take ten minutes).

Instead, he closes his eyes.

"Do you see them too?" he asks.

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"Yes."