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She's been avoiding me every chance she got up until now, not doing much except looking at me pitifully whenever she caught me looking at her during those two days this week that I had to go to school, in person, to settle everything with my teachers and collect study materials and assignments for my self-paced classwork (before the additional summer school) that the school agreed on; or ignoring me completely, acting like I'm not even there, pretty much glued to Timothy's side.

And now. . .

"You want to . . . drive me home?" I repeat again, pretty sure I sound like a moron but somehow, what she just told me isn't adding up. She just offered to take me home completely out of blue, without me even asking her or giving her the impression to.

There's an unmistakable sense of nervousness enveloping her as she steps from one foot to the other, pressing her lips tightly together while looking at the ground. "Yeah," she clears her throat, not able to look me in the eye for some reason now that Connor got up and left us out here all alone.

"What gives you the impression I'm about to go home already?" Before, going home seemed like a salvation because this party—even though it's my supposed late birthday party or whatever— kind of sucks and not even the liquor in my system has the power to change my mind about that. So it's not that I don't want to leave with her because, God, I do. It's just that it's not fully clicking why she wants to drive me all of a sudden after keeping her distance. And honestly, it's not even that. I don't trust myself to be alone with her because I'm bound to say something I definitely shouldn't in this raw, unfiltered substance-induced state.

And now I'm thinking about the sex that we never even had in real life. Fucking great, coma. How more twisted can my dysfunctional brain get?

She's looking at me as if there was an answer to that question written on my face. I wish there was. "Why are you being like this?"

I draw back a little. "Like what?"

A frustrated sigh escapes her mouth, "Difficult. I'm trying to tell you something here but you're not listening."

I honestly don't get what she wants from me. "I've been listening the whole time, Aspen."

She doesn't break the eye contact for a while. Then she's shaking her head. "Forget it." And turning to go back inside the house.

I pinch my eye-lids closed, sighing. "Wait," I push off the chair, a little too fast from the looks of it, because the entire world seems to sway with me.

She notices but doesn't reach out to steady me. I don't need her though. I got it. I support myself against the glass with one hand, taking a step toward her. I'm past the point of believing there's a chance for us now that she's clearly tangled up with Timothy but somewhere, deep inside, there's a part of me that would regret letting her walk away when there's clearly a reason she offered in the first place. "Okay," I give in.

"Okay?" she asks, a little confused.

"Okay, you can take me home." I clarify.

Part of me expects her to decline, for whatever reason, but she doesn't say anything, except "Okay," which makes this whole situation awkward as hell but I don't have much time to dwell on it because she's walking away and then I'm walking behind her, following her through the house.

She doesn't stop to say her goodbyes to anyone, doesn't search for Timothy. It's as if her only mission tonight was getting to her car, with me in tow, nothing else mattering.

Then we're inside her car and she's turning the key in ignition and starting the engine, neither of us uttering a word.

A brief thought flashes through my mind just as I'm putting on my seatbelt. "You sure you're good to drive?" I know for a fact I've seen her had a drink that Timothy made for her earlier at the kitchen counter.

She pauses and turns to me. "Why wouldn't I be?"

I don't want to sound like an asshole but I have to say it. "You've been drinking."

Her nostrils flare in what I can only assume is anger as she faces forward again, resuming her movement and backing out of her parking spot. "You think I'd be stupid enough to offer to drive you home if I was drunk?"

"I. . . didn't say that."

"I'm not you, Collin."

I don't know why she says it but it's a blow she didn't have to deliver. Not right now, anyway. Yeah, I might've been stupid enough to do that in the past when I wasn't thinking clearly and didn't care about anything but hearing her say those words stings.

If I were playing her game, I'd tell her off. Tell her a simple, fitting: Fuck you.

I clench my jaw and turn toward the passenger window instead. The last of my hope for us slowly dying inside my chest.

"Sorry," I hear her say after a couple of minutes once we're off the Brenton's property and driving through the street. "I didn't mean that."

I keep staring out of the window, starting to wish more and more by each second that passes that I didn't agree to come with her. I don't get why she's suddenly emitting such an aggressive vibe. If anything, I should be the one angry here. She's been toying with my heart long before the accident and now she's stomping all over it once again.

This is one of the reasons why I stopped dating. People are just too damn complicated and the outcome usually isn't worth it.

We sit in silence after that for what feels like eternity, her car reminding me more of a suffocating cage than anything else. The roads aren't that bad tonight so it doesn't take us longer than thirty minutes to get to my Mom's house but it might very well be the longest thirty minutes of my life.

When Aspen pulls up to the curb and puts the car in park, I remain sitting, still looking out the window even though there's nothing that I want to do more than step out and run inside the house, escaping this predicament for good because sitting here with her, alone, is just too damn painful.

I never thought stupid feelings could get this painful. I'm surprised how well I'm able to cover it when there's a raging war going on inside me.

"I didn't stop," are the first words she says, so quietly though I think I must've imagined it. It prompts me to turn to her and finally face her, finding her already looking at me. "Coming to the hospital to see you, I mean," she clarifies, "I came by every day."

I don't tell her I know that already. That Rose told me. I just keep staring at her, waiting to see where she's going with this.

"I just wanted you to know that." She says, "I didn't want you to think that I didn't care. . ." Shifting a little, her eyes flick down to her hands folded in her lap, her voice dropping to a mere whisper, "I didn't want you to think I . . . moved on with Timothy the second you were out of the picture."

I shouldn't care that she's mentioning Timothy. I know I shouldn't. But I care so much it's actually making me sick.

I struggle to find my voice and have to clear my throat before I'm able to say, "We don't have to talk about it." I really, really don't want to talk about it. Seeing them together tonight was already painful enough. It doesn't matter what she says now, what her explanation is, reasonable or not, it still won't change a damn thing.

"No," she shakes her head slightly, raising her eyes back to mine with determination, "we do. This. . . thing between us. . . I— we didn't mean for it to happen, Collin. It just. . . did. I don't know how— these last few months have been crazy and Tim. . . he was there and we were both so scared how things would go with you. The doctors said there was a chance you wouldn't wake up at all and— and I didn't know what to do and—"

I pinch my eyes closed, interrupting her, the words sobering me up instantly. "Aspen, stop." I can't take the edge in her voice, the tears that I know are now cascading down her cheeks. "Stop."

"I'm sorry," she chokes out and even though my eyes are still tightly shut and I'm attempting to breathe through my own emotions to reign them in, it's apparent she's full-on crying. "I'm sorry. I didn't want it to be like this."

But it is.

It is.

Part of me wants to blame her still because she might feel sorry but at the same time, she is responsible for it. In a way. It's not like I could've done anything while I was in coma. But she could've.

"I'm sorry," she repeats again. "Collin, please, look at me. I'm sorry, okay?"

I don't know if killing whatever was between us is the only thing she's apologizing for anymore. It sounds like there's so much more hidden underneath those simple words but I'm not brave enough to ask her about it when I'm doing everything in my power to not crumble right in front of her.

And I don't know what to respond to that either. The only words I want to tell her are: I think I love you because I've never felt this kind of pain before upon the idea of losing someone, not even Adam, but I might've realized it a little too late. But I know I can't tell her that. It's the last thing either of us needs.

Despite her previous plea, I still haven't opened my eyes, so when I feel the gentle brush of her fingertips against my cheeks, I can't help but wince a little.

She doesn't move for a moment, just keeps her fingertips on my skin and I'm trying to keep my breathing as steady as I can manage. Then, her hands move, her palms splaying across my cheeks, cupping them, at the same time as her forehead comes to rest against mine.

Now I can feel her shaky breaths falling onto my lips, mixing with my breaths, tickling, our chests heaving and caving wildly and I know opening my eyes is a mistake but it seems that I don't have enough willpower to stop myself.

We're both greedy for this stolen moment, no matter how wrong it might be.

There's no way of telling who kisses who first. My hands fly to the sides of her head, mirroring her, tangling in her hair and holding on for dear life as if we could possibly squeeze the upper parts of our bodies closer than they currently are.

I don't care that I'm not able to breathe properly because all I can focus on is my tongue in her mouth and hers in mine, and how they're battling one another, lost in their own rhythm.

The kiss doesn't bring a relief, it only adds to the pain. There's an unspoken certainty cementing it for what it really is. A goodbye.

It's in her tears that are still falling, some of them catching on her upper-lip where I can taste them; in the slight tremble of her body, her labored breathing. I know she's regretting this and maybe she knew it'd come to this all along, and I'm thinking I should be regretting this too, for so many reasons, but I'm not.

Goodbye, Aspen.

I wish things were different.

I thought we'd have more time.

She tears away from my mouth first, immediately turning away and shamefully hiding her face in her hands.

I want to tell her something, anything, to ease her mind, to make her stop crying because it's tearing me apart but I don't want to ruin it—ruin her, or me—any further.

So I do the only thing I think reasonable in this moment: I press my lips together, glance at her one more time and get out of the car.

I don't dare to look back until I'm standing on the patio, paused at the front door. Her car hasn't moved and she's still in the same position with her head in her hands and seeing her that way makes me want to go back to her and comfort her. It makes me feel like an asshole for walking away without saying anything but I sometimes, words only make things worse and I have a feeling this would be that case.

That's why I reach inside my pocket and pull out the keys, and then unlock the door and retreat into the safety of the house.

It feels like someone has just thrown bricks at me and I have to lean against the door for a second to calm down because what just happened wasn't easy and what's about to happen is even more difficult than that.

I know I need to do this though.

For myself.

To finally get better and stay better.

To give myself a chance to heal and to give Aspen and everyone else that we managed to drag into this mess the same opportunity.

I work up some goddamn courage and tell Rose the truth later that night when she comes home. I tell her everything I know about Carlos and our mother, the cheating and the fact that Leal isn't her biological father, admitting I've known for about a year but wanted our parents to be the ones to tell her, not me. Or maybe I was just too big of a coward.

She doesn't want to believe me at first but then she bursts into tears and cries so hard I have to squeeze her to me. She isn't mad at me for not telling her (or at least, she doesn't seem to be), she doesn't slap me like she did in the coma hallucination when I broke the news to her.

I also tell her about my decision to go to rehab, which causes her to freeze and look up at me. "When?" she asks.

"As soon as possible. Tomorrow? The day after? Sometime this week? I haven't discussed it with Mom yet." I respond. I don't mention the fact that my father will most likely try to talk me out of it because he can't handle the shame that comes with being a police chief and having his only addict of a son treated at a facility.

It makes her cry even harder, squeeze me even tighter.

"I need to get away, Rose." I tell her. "I'm not strong enough to heal in the same environment that fucked me up."

"I know." She whispers into my shirt. "I know." 

*PLEASE DON'T FORGET TO VOTE! IT TAKES JUST A SECOND BUT GIVES THIS STORY MORE EXPOSURE AND THEREFORE HELPS ME AS A WRITER SO SO MUCH :) *

a/n: we're not at the end yet, there are still three very exciting chapters + epilogue left. did you expect this turn of events? what do you think is in store for Collin? And Aspen? what are your reactions to their *goodbye* kiss? did you want it to happen or not? what about Collin's decision to finally go to rehab? please do let me know your thoughts, in regards to anything tied to this story. i love chatting with you about it. <3