Walking After You

Disclaimer: If I owned 'Roswell,' would I be writing fan fiction?

Author's Note: I actually started writing this a few days ago and I just finally got it betaed and ready for yíall to see. I donít really know what brought it about, other than the muse, but I like it. Itís different. Or maybe it isnítÖ yíall tell me.

With that said, enjoyÖ

* * *

ďTonight I'm tangled in my blanket of clouds,
Dreaming aloud.
Things just won't do without you, matter of fact,
I'm on your back,
I'm on your back,
I'm on your back.

If you'd accept surrender, I'll give up some more.
Weren't you adored?
I cannot be without you, matter of fact,
I'm on your back.

If you walk out on me, I'm walking after you;
If you walk out on me, I'm walking after youÖĒ

- Foo Fighters, ďWalking After YouĒ

* * *

I followed you home tonight. I tried to tell myself that I should just let you go, let you walk away from me, but I didnít. I never listen to myself and now Iím starting to dislike that aspect of my personality.

You broke up with me and left me there, assuming I wouldnít follow you. You didnít even have to say it.

Walking after you, I realized that I apparently donít listen well. I never have and I probably never will.

And as I sit here outside of your window, wondering what happened and what went wrong, I watch you go through your nightly rituals before you climb into your bed and fall asleep to beautiful dreams. I bet you didnít know that I ever noticed them. Youíd be surprised at what I see and what I remember, though, even if I donít speak of it all the time.

I notice a lot more things than youíd think I do.

You always brush your hair first, singing softly to yourself while you gaze at your perfect reflection in the mirror.

Then you put on lotion, from your legs to your arms and back again, to make sure that none of your soft skin is ever calloused or marred. My skin was always rough and I have found myself asking numerous times, ĎAm I the reason you do this?í Because it wouldnít matter if your skin were calloused or smooth Ė I would still love you, no matter what.

Next, you write in your Ďdiary,í as you like to call it, but mostly, you write songs in there. Thatís what you use it for, mostly. But sometimes, when youíre really frustrated or angry, you actually write. Iíve never read what you have written before, but I know that there arenít all songs in that notebook. Itís your own place where you can get away from the world, and I respect that.

Thatís what youíre doing right now. I bet youíre writing in your journal, not just penning a new song. Youíre probably writing about your decision Ė about how you came to it and what youíre going to do now, since youíre no longer tied down to Roswell and attached to me. Or maybe you already wrote about it, before you came to talk to me.

I donít know.

I never meant it to be that way, to hold you down. And I never meant to hurt you, or to make you feel youíre trapped in plain old Roswell, New Mexico. After all, you and I both agreed, there is something better out there for us, and I guess youíre telling me that there may be something better out there for both of us, separately. Not together.

I donít want to be called the Ďbreaker of your dreamsí or of your heart. I learned that lesson a long time ago.

As I watch you, I sigh loudly and itís amazing that you havenít seen or heard me. In some ways, Iíd like for you to spot me out here and take pity on me, invite me into your warm bedroom, and tell me that you never meant to hurt me and take me back without a second glance. But something inside tells me that you arenít in that kind of mood tonight and what you have decided isnít going to change for a while. Youíre just as stubborn as I am and you have no intention of changing your mind. And you arenít going to be here much longer - you donít want to pick up the pieces of my broken heart.

I canít believe it - you actually broke up with me. It was always the other way around, in our tale at least. I was always the one running from you, and now that youíve turned the tables, I know how you felt all of those times I pushed you away without looking back.

What did I do so wrong that you had to leave me? Surely this has to be my fault. Itís always my fault, anyway, because there is absolutely nothing wrong with you. There never is anything wrong with you Ė Iíve always been the problem in our relationship. Always. You know that. I know that. Hell, everyone else seems to know that, too.

Or maybe what you said is true. Maybe it is you, but somehow, I just canít see that. Youíre perfect in my eyes, Maria, whether or not you believe me. You are.

I wonder if this is payback for all the pain Iíve put you through over the past three years. After all, I was always the one who fled at the first sign of trouble. I just wanted to protect myself, and you, so I did it. And I would always reason with myself that youíd be okay, but now I see that I left you shattered and broken at the worst times.

And Iím sorry for that. I really am, Maria.

But somehow, I doubt that youíre trying to get back at me for all the unintentional times I hurt you. You arenít like that. You never were.

Are you trying to protect me now from yourself or your dreams?

Because if you are that is not acceptable. You and your dreams could never hurt me, not like this. The only way you can actually hurt me is to leave me here, like you just did.

Maybe Iíll have to get used to it, though, because youíre showing no signs of changing your mind.

Are you scared of yourself? Or are you scared of me? Or maybe both of us are frightened of each other, in some way or another, of our relationship and the direction itís heading?

I was that way once, but you changed my mind. The only thing Iím scared of now is what has happened.

I donít want to be alone.

And youíre just up and leaving, ready to travel across the country right after youíve broken my heart?

God, Maria, how can you do that? How could you do that?

Donít be like me.

Iím being cruel to myself. I was the one who followed you home. Yes, thatís my mistake. But at least the pain makes me feel alive. Iíd rather feel that than the nothing Iím going to feel when you leave.

I put myself through torture to see you. And Iím not fair to myself, apparently.

I should be at home moping or sitting in utter disbelief or maybe even trying to fix this problem. But I had to see you once more before you left Roswell.

Will I ever see you again?

Youíre turning out your light now and I wonder when your flight leaves for New York tomorrow.

Will you think of me while youíre flying there? When youíre there? When, and if, youíre coming home?

I hope so.

Thereís been something you have taught me in the past three years we have been together, or sort of together. Whatever. You never gave up, Maria. Never. Which is why I cannot believe that you are leaving me here in shambles while you venture to New York to pursue your dream.

I donít want to give up on you and I donít intend to. Remember that no matter how far you run away from me, Iíll always be walking after you.

The End