AN: So this is it. The end... for now. Yes, it may not be what a lot of you were hoping for but I had to stick with my gut and write what I believed would be the most organic ending for these two characters. It wasn't easy. I went back and forth trying to decide if this is what I truly wanted and in the end, it was. I spent the past three months looking over these last chapters, editing, perfecting, going over every detail because this journey has been a long one and this story deserves a proper ending.

Over the course of writing this story, I have brainstormed things I want to do in terms of a sequel. So I want you all to know, this is not the end. But it is for right now.

I love you all with everything in me. Thank you for sticking with me. You all are the reason I stayed determined and inspired.

Enjoy. xoxo

Epilogue

My head burns like the sun as I regain consciousness. Solar flares lash the insides of my skull. I raise my hands to my temples, hoping circular motions will alleviate the pressure from the relentless pounding.

The blackness around my vision recedes, little by little like I'm leaving a tunnel. While heavy lids fight me, I make out five walls of white. That's all before they shut tight, a mad throbbing behind the base of my scalp has me sinking back into unconsciousness.

I'm in the hospital, is my first thought when I wake again. It's hard to miss as memories have ingrained the sickeningly chemical smell of antiseptic.

Oxygen tastes sour on my tongue.

One shift and I'm punished for it; I thrust my head back in anguish, dig my teeth into my lips to bite back a sharp cry and my hands race to my right side of my midsection, the touch of a bandage on my fingertips beneath the gown. Confused eyes slide over my right wrist dressed in a wrap. I begin to flex it back then stifle a scream the second I near a forty-five degree angle.

I tuck my bottom lip under my teeth as I get my one workable hand under myself and push up. Tendrils of pain, an angry and violent fire spider-webs through my body. It's fucking painful, but I toughen up and get myself to an upward position.
Seeking to repossess control of my lids, I slowly try to crack open my eyes. Feeling too heavy, I do one first, the light pierces its way in, brightening my dark world.

The window to the left has the curtains drawn and shards of light blanket the room in the illuminant glow. I've seen enough sunrises and sunsets to reference dusk was approaching by the wide drape of colors scattering across the horizon.

I flick my eyes, a soft blur around the edges, around the room. My phone is planted next to a bouquet of a dozen red and white roses. Oddly vibrant and fully bloomed for winter.

Stretching over, I take the bite of my bones and muscles and reach for it. The tips feel the hard plastic when Kate comes storming in and is by my side in an instant.

"Hi." I practically wheeze from the dryness in my throat.

When I go to sit back, my jaw works into a clench. This time I don't try to hide the hurt I feel all over. Acting tough doesn't help me in the slightest.

"Let me go get the nurse," On the verge of tears, she starts to leave, but I cover my hand with hers. "No, wait." I wince from having to tug her back. "Stay."

She fails to mask the desolate expression on her face. Though, it's her reassuring grip and how her presence fills me with comfort which I focus on.

Off in the corner is a chair that she goes to retrieve. She plants it on the bed's side and sits, her posture and mannerisms slow and tentative.

Jesus, she looks awful; torn up with worry.

"How do you feel?"

"Feeling," my voice is weak and the rasp causes me to cough. "So that's a start. Some water would be great."

Nodding, she gets to her feet and idles to the counter near the door. She grabs a pitcher of water and a cup and begins to fill it. Her back is facing me, though I can hear the steady stream of water stop. For several seconds she stands there, quiet.

I don't wait for her to break it.

"Kate, what's wrong?"

"The police are here. They've been waiting for you to wake up and speak with you."

I blink. "Why?"

She turns all too fast and she looks, dare I say, angry. "Ana, you were severely attacked. Left for dead."

It's then I come to realize she isn't angry with me, but whoever put me in here.

"How long have I been out?"

A bent finger swoops under her eye, catching tears. "Three days."

Three days? Three—

The throbbing at the base of my scalp starts again.

I wince. She hands me the water and after careless maneuvering around the IVs attached to me, I don't hesitate to tip it past my lips and drink; it's liquid bliss, like fresh rainfall from the snow of mountain tops. My first drop is the whole cup. I gulp it down in one go and lick my cracked lips in gluttony.

Nervous energy siphons throughout the space leaving Kate most affected.

"What happened?" I breathe out, crushing the cup beneath my fingers. "How did I get here?" How am I alive?

"The nurse warned me about this." About what? She jumps in before I question her. "You came in with a sprained wrist, and a dislocated shoulder. Even two cracked ribs. Doctors said your CT scan showed swelling on the brain, that trouble remembering could be likely of side effects from a concussion."

As I try to process all the information, I look down and over my body, pulling back the blanket covering me. My right wrist is wrapped, a dried, deep red patch seeping through the fabric. Clouds of purple and blue cluster the length of my arms and legs, where another bloodied bandage wraps my thigh. My fingers smooth over the material, the pain vaulting back to me, edging the intensity as when it actually happened.

Flickering images stack on top of each other, laying out the missing events of that night.

In a daydream, I can almost feel the warm blood pool from my cuts and turn cold as it leaves my even colder body.

"The cut made to your thigh was deep. So deep that it severed the femoral artery. I didn't think you…we didn't think..." she falters. "We thought you were going to die."

"We?"

"Christian has been waiting for you to wake up. If it weren't for being listed as your emergency contact, I'd be out there too." Ana, he's a wreck. Let me go tell him you're awake."

"No!" I risk the pain and raise my voice an octave.

Visible confusion tug her brows together as she studies me for a beat then says, "What? Why not? He's the one that found you. If it weren't for him, this conversation wouldn't be happening. He saved your life."

I'm smothered with shock, the news a sucker punch that leaves me reeling.

"He's the one who found you," she continues. "He's been glued to the same chair in the waiting room since the paramedics brought you in. Security had to pry him off you."

From the moment she mentioned his name, my mind began processing. It was slow, yet I, quite vividly, started to recall the events that took place before my assault, the ones that caused me more pain than what was done physically. His name was the trigger and the final crack that opens the floodgates.

She holds me while I cry. After what feels like a lifetime, my sobs fade out into whimpers and lay deaf on my ears.

I have to tell her.

The little voice in my head itches for the truth to be spoken, for everything to be put on the table. In such a way it is aware the bruises and cuts on my heart can't be healed if I don't vocalize the revelations I stumbled—no, doused on me like gasoline.

So I tell her every detail, no matter how much it hurts to relive. For the what it's worth, she does her best to rein in the anger from rushing in. The cues are there—the gritting teeth and how she has to drop her hands away as her fingers consciously flex and curl into and out of a fist.

When I'm finished, I say, "I need you to do something for me."

She threads her fingers through mine. The fiercest determination laden in her eyes.

"If you want me to kill him, I swear, say the word and I'll do it. Plus, it'll give me a reason to put on the yellow leather jacket I got as a gift from Versace's spring collection and go all Kill Bill on his ass." My laugh is barely loud enough to hear over the beeping of my monitors.

God, I love her.

"No, it's more serious than that."

Her frown deepens. "I can't think of a fate for more serious than death, E."

Living, I think. With the consequences of your sins.

Days went by where I floated in and out of consciousness while the ins and outs of my body healed. By the time two days were behind me, activity of all sorts commenced.

Officially, from the word of my doctor, after a round of tests, the MRI showed continuous signs of a concussion and a few cracked bruised ribs. From the way I feel, I have a hard time believing the assessment.
Hours of observation later, nurses and doctors wheeled in and out, took out my IV, and notified that I am in a healthy enough condition and no longer require it; could even go home in the upcoming days.

When they exited the room, I had the first moment of time to myself. I asked Kate for space as I ate dinner and took a proper shower in solitude.

Evening was close to rolling into night when I told the nurses I was finally okay with allowing visitors. I should've guessed that the police were to be the first to saunter in, questions blazing.

That part pissed me off. I told them what I could recall, which was reciprocated with accusing glares. Though I can't blame them. I did technically break into a campus building. Anyways, I didn't tell them that. Or my theory on who might want to hurt me. Kalum was number one on that list, though when I recalled his father mentioning he was a present at the gala, the logic behind my hunch purely speculative.

Furthermore, there was no case.

There were no leads and no witnesses.

When I inquired about the letter opener I used on the assailant, they stated, "Other than your blood on the scene, no traces of DNA were left behind."

The bastard must have taken the letter opener with him.

Their incompetence hiked up my irritation.

How could it be that there is not one trace of physical evidence? Fingerprints. A lock of hair. Fucking anything. We turned that office upside down. Literally.

Following, the detectives' departure, Samara stopped by before heading to home for the break. I ask about Ellis and Samara beats Kate to the punch. The news that he traveled to Auckland alone because Kate changed the dates of her ticket to be here with me comes to a shock. I shot her a look of disbelief; she shot me one that said there is no place I would rather be.

We chatted about the future, a foreign subject to me yet once Samara cheerfully announces her score of 174 on the LSAT and is applying to the top universities in the northeast along with Ellis and his band deciding to tour after graduation, the news of my own achievement comes with ease.

Earlier today Kate had handed me a white envelope that had came in the mail a days before. In the left hand corner marked the return address of National Geographic's headquarters.

Heart thundering, I plucked the letter from its confines and was graced their letterhead. My eyes immediately scrolled to the string of words, bolded in typed font.

Thank you for your submission this year's CYOP contest. The art of photography is much of one's voice and their distinctive perspective of the world is being present to the audience and evoking every sense.

So it was a joy to peek into your talent and your interpretive eye, communicate with us on what speaks to you through the image you submitted.

I am pleased to tell you that judging committee here at National Geographic has awarded you as 2017's Runner-Up College Photographer of the Year.

We had 12,000 images by 509 student photographers from 125 colleges and universities in 21 countries enter with fine submissions this year and the decision was difficult.

We hope that you will join us for our 68th annual exhibition at the Newseum December 31st to January 2nd, 2018 in Washington D.C. In which we celebrate the New Year, and the surmountable beauty that is sure to come with the new wave of lenses.

Best,

Ryker Donovan

Director, CPOY

An hour of congratulations and stories slip by and after failing to bite back a yawn, Kate prompts goodbyes with the end of visitor hours nearing.

Once we're alone, I frown, confused.

"Did you hear back from my dad?" Kate had informed me that he was here shortly after I was emitted. Yet, he never stepped foot inside the building. Wanting to hear his reasoning for myself, I called him. "I can do it," he said after explaining just being in proximity to the exact hospital where his wife was taken to and died, was triggering.

"Sweetheart, I'll do it. I know it can." He sounded like he was trying to convince himself; he was failing. Miserably. On every level.

Strong was never a quality I linked with my father after my mother's death. He'd let his addiction dissolve our relationship. Why wouldn't I anticipate his fear would do the same?

Her pitiful expression tells me everything. He isn't coming.

She leaves me to deal with this news, cracking the door open in case of an emergency. Instead, I choose to block it all out, squeezing my eyes shut and welcome sleep.

When I wake, clearly hours later as the natural light has receded, the shadows of night having swallowed it, I hone in on the movement outside the door; short, rapid pacing, oozing with indecision.

My ears perk up at the tail end of a not so hushed heated conversation outside the room. Through the half-opened blinds, I make out the voices and bodily forms of Kate and Christian.

She's digging her finger into his chest, speaking rapidly with rage; and he takes it all, willingly.

He pinches the bridge of his nose and at the mention of his sister's name, I remembered, in vivid detail, how three nights ago I was I'm drowning from heartbreak.

Laying flat on my bed, I rise up, kicking the sheet off to swing my legs over. Before my toes can meet the cold tile, the door opens—

In walks in the man that gambled with my life so easily.

His presence is disarming.

"Hi," he says flatly.

He holds still, eyes bloodshot, brimmed with something heavy; it's taking a physical toll. Saying he looks haggard is putting it nicely.

A clean and stark white shirt switched out from the bloodstained suit Kate told me he'd been wearing from the night I arrived, sculpts his taut shoulders and biceps, revealing his angst.

Kate has her arms tucked beneath her breast and stands like a loaded gun and trigger happy, ready to pounce on my command.

Much to her disappointment, she won't get one.

With a nod of my reassurance, she steps away, granting us space, whispering something to Christian as she walks down the hall.

Exhaling a breath, he starts to cross the room in slow, cautious steps then stops. "I'll understand if you do not want to see me—"

"If I didn't, I would have had the staff notify you of my request not to see you. More importantly, you seriously believe Kate would have let you fifty yards of me if I didn't ask her to stand down?"

"You told her." he already knows I did; the argument outside with Kate proves that but I nod anyways.

He strides to my bedside and reaches for the chair that flanks the monitors I'm hooked up to. He begins to sit until he takes in my bandaged wrist and his gaze turns cold when he works over the large bruises ringing my arms. His lips thin as they press together. A heavy force pulls him down into the chair and he tears his gaze away from me, staring off vacantly.

A long stretch of silence drags out.

Braving his silver gaze back to mine, his hand slides to entangle with mine.

Self-hate grips his features. "I'm sorry."

My face hardens in agony and at first, I presume it's because the thought of his touch scares me but I soon realize I don't have the heart to withdraw; albeit having every right to.

Studying the trembling of my body and the small droplets of perspiration above my lip, he pulls away. His shoulders slump from a shroud of shame.

"How'd you find me?"

"Right to the point."

Dismissing his wry smile, I press, "Police said you found me. Brought me here. Said I'd be dead if it weren't for your quick actions."

"I did." He has a hard time swallowing. "Blood was everywhere. You were bleeding out and unconscious. I thought I was going to lose you." The subject obviously too tender, he changes gears. "I noticed my office key was missing. After the incident with Kalum I downloaded a location program on your phone." He rubs his neck. "When we took time apart, I forgot to tell you to disable it. Now I'm glad I didn't."

I want to be angry, but who'd be in their right mind to feel that way toward the person who saved their life?

Not once, but two times.

"The paramedics took you away and I headed back up to my office. It was a mess; I couldn't get free of the addled thoughts, creating scenarios of what could've possibly happened that left you in that condition."

"Did you tell the police the real reason you were there?" I start to give him a look that can only be interpreted as You don't get to ask the questions. You answer them, then quit midway because he had to know this if the cops ever ask to speak with him to corroborate my story.

I had lied, of course. There was no good lie that would keep both of us unscathed so I came up with the least damaging story. Keeping things formal, I said Mr. Christian, my roommate's professor who had helped me with my submission for a national contest over the course of the semester. He had forgotten to lock his door for the semester. We bumped into each other at gala that was held that night and since I was on my way out, offered to help.

He let that soak in, probably picking it apart to see where the police could catch us in a lie.

The quiet tension reigns for far too long. Unable to maintain it, I blurt out a question of my own.

"Did you figure it out?"

Confusion, I read it in him.

"That night in the cafè. Kalum whispered something in your ear. You wrote vaguely about it in your journal. So what was it?"

He squeezes his eyes shut as if trying to erase every single word from memory.

"His possession. Your reluctance of having us both in close proximity…You two had been intimate."

I shake with misplaced guilt that should be aimed at him. My brain corrects itself, tired of small talk and the go around and decide enough is enough.

"Why didn't you just tell me from the beginning? You knew what I went through. Yet you continued to thrust me into this path that you knew would make me fall in love with you. I had no reason to live until you."

"I'm sorry." The dejection in his face is less than startling but expected. "I'm so sorry."

"Stop saying it like it means something!" I slam my hand on the railing, thankful it's not the sprained one.

"You didn't break my trust, Christian. You shattered it. You cut me deeper than any blade could."

Not even the deadliest poison could match the venom my words carry.

He jams a hand roughly through his hair, the torment on his face matching how I feel.

I don't relent. "Don't say it unless you mean it, right? I do. Every word."

In my few hours of consciousness, I have wished I could forget the number of horrible things he's done, but I know, if I search the depths of my heart that that is impossible.

The realization overtook me.

Possessed me.

And then it freed me.

"And I mean every word when I say you're everything to me." His sincerity is softer than the brush of his thumb on my skin, warmer than the sudden touch of his skin on mine. I suppress a shudder.

A new truth lies bare.

But it's too little, too late.

There was a point where I thought a part of my soul would die if Christian wasn't in my life, that his very existence was the reason for mine. Now, the thought of our coexistence was more painful than the damage a shard metal could ever inflict.

We were encumbered, in equal measure, that much I knew. The revelation that we were burdened by more than our demons, but also by one another, made me accept that we don't need any more regrets.

"Just tell me one thing." I try to strip all emotion from my voice.

"Anything."

I swallow, softening a sob. "You did love me, right? At some point in this sick game of yours, you loved me? Please tell me you did… just please."

At the harrow in my chest, I realize that a broken heart has many sources. Words being one, but it isn't the most painful… silence is.

"Did you love me?" I raise my voice, frustration threading along its edges.

"I did," he says with an impassioned tone. It's so ripe with longing and truth, I believe him. "Fuck…I still do."

My heart plummets from its cavity.

Hate pulls me in like a ripcord. It pulsates and constrict its way in, out, and around my body.

"I hate you."

I let the words fly out because if I don't then they never will.

My eyes sting with water.

His shoulders lift with the surrendering breath that saws through the air.

I scan the curvature of his face. Every square inch...

Commit it all to memory.

The tips of his fingers blanch as the nails nipping at the armrest.

Not all things have to be said to be felt.

I see it in his eyes, saying goodbye is like tearing flesh.

Although when he says, "I know," there is no condemnation—which I expect—only understanding, and I'm thrown off balance.

My heart sinks deeper, any further and I'm afraid I won't feel anything.

Slipping my hand under the sheets, I pull out the object I asked Kate to retrieve for me. The journal. The very one Christian gave me the night I came to his office. It's three-quarters full. Every thought and secret since the moment we met. It's all in there. And in hopes that all of this wasn't for nothing, that something good can come out of this, so are the answers he's been looking for.

"I want you to have this." he sits back in his chair and gapes at me.

"I can't."

"You and I both know you can," I whisper. "Through all of this, mistakes were made, don't let this be another."

Christian blinks at me and lets out a long sigh.

He gives a nod and hesitantly accepts the journal, grabbing it with both hands, and as he pulls it close, his fingers pale at the sides.

His hand moves to his chest in a caress, as though to soothe the ache that's surely there.

I peer down to my lap for fear of showing my heart is fracturing.

He too breaks his gaze, going quiet. "This is the right thing."

Somehow reading I'm muddling in confusion, he clarifies, "I refuse to be the source of any more of your pain. I refuse to a man who is blinded by his own needs if it means decimating those I love. I won't be like your father." Fine hairs prickle on the back of my back. I can't understand how he knows about my father's perturbation of entering the hospital to see me. "You've taught me I am a better man, capable of more."

He swallows hard, pausing for a moment to collect himself. "In the process, I became misguided, doing more harm than good. I told you my greatest mistake was lying to you. I realize now, I lied to you then. My greatest mistake was violating your trust. I never wanted to let you down."

Reluctantly, he pushes up out of the chair and leans over me, planting a kiss on my forehead, the same way he did moments after proclaiming his love.

Despite the betrayal and lies, it still has the same effect on me.

With pain-filled movements, he starts to walk toward the door.

I feel half of myself about to fall apart—the half that is still in love with him—and the only thing holding me together is a single thread, and when Christian walks out that door he'll pull it to my undoing.

That half would fight, not let him do it but the other half knows letting him back in or letting him go, it doesn't matter, I'll unravel either way. At least this way is less painful.

"My word will always stand," he says calmly, striding to the door. "Whenever you need me, I'm here."

The pattering of feet stop.

The click of a turning knob bounce off the walls.

"Goodbye, Ana."

I can sense his eyes on me, yearning for me to say the last word.

Though I owe him nothing, I say "Goodbye, Christian," after him—

Then he's gone.

I adjust my focus to the side, catching the ethereal phenomenon—the sun breaching the horizon—and as I'm about to close my eyes, my thoughts drift…

And ensconce on hope; that this very sunset is different, not just in its colors, but that it is a sign of new beginnings. It makes me reconsider… that perhaps, as I gaze at the bursts of luminance, light is real, not a figment. That good lies between the pastels of colors, hope is in the rise of the giant star, shadows are sliced as the highlights from the sun's golden rays pouring into existence.

It symbolizes a new coexistence. A recognition of my true self—that my demon will always be with me and so will the opposing forces—the dark, the light, the past, the present and everything in between. The yin and the yang. The sunset for every sunrise. The pleasure to the pain.

It's the balance that was always inside of me.