Liz and Alex had passed out sometime after the seventh inning stretch, and she carefully pulled herself up from the couch so as not to disturb them. Sleep was a precious commodity on nights like this one.

It felt odd to be doing mundane things like rinsing out ice cream cartons or washing off spoons. Ever since the accident part of her had expected the rest of the world to come to a halt, for the world's very existence to change since hers had so drastically. For the world to stop or, at least, slow down. But the world did, after all, keep moving. People had told her that it was important, that it was what let people heal. But on days like this one, where the loss felt somehow closer and more real, it was simply annoying.

She shut off the water and put the cartons in the recycling bag, the spoons back in the drawer, and stared out into the night though the tiny kitchen window's dirty pane and rusty screen. Where had they come from?

She thought it somewhat fitting that she couldn't see the stars. The rain of the late afternoon had stopped early enough to make the game possible, but the clouds had lingered so that all light from the sky was blocked. Another barrier between them.

Had it been cloudy a year ago? She couldn't remember, and that made her mad. It made her mad that she couldn't remember exactly what the last thing he had said to her had been. It made her mad that they hadn't kissed goodbye that day because they were too rushed. It made her mad that her mind hadn't realized then that it was the last time.

She had known he was leaving, that they were leaving, someday. For a while, and in a while, but never unexpectedly and never for forever. There was supposed to be a goodbye. And there was supposed to be a return. Because part of her knew that he loved her as much as she loved him. She would never willingly leave him for forever, so she knew he wouldn't either. Part of her knew that even if he didn't.

He was supposed to come back. And he was supposed to say goodbye. And somehow she had been cheated out of both.

She hit her hand on the yellowed kitchen counter, the pain from her fist somewhat comforting as she felt tears gathering in her eyes. It wasn't fair, that was what it came down to. It wasn't fair, life wasn't fair, and it made her mad. It wasn't the way it was supposed to be, that was what it came down to too. It wasn't the way it was supposed to be, and it made her mad.

If she had known, she would have made sure she told him she loved him that night. If she had known, she could have said goodbye. It pained her to know that she should have done it all and more, and that now she had no way to remedy the mistake.

She closed her eyes and concentrated. She believed in another existence, one beyond this one. She believed that you went somewhere when you died, that you didn't simply cease to exist. She hoped desperately that she was right. She concentrated hard and thought all the things she had failed to tell him -- I'm sorry that I wasn't always nice to you, I'm sorry that I lost my temper, I'm sorry that I made fun of your hair, I'm sorry that I gave you a hard time when I should have let things go, I'm sorry that I didn't realize that we didn't have forever, I never would have left you, I would have forgiven you anything, I love you more than I can say, I miss you more than I can believe, please let me know that you hear me and that you're okay.

She waited, just as she had many nights before, her eyes scrunched shut as she unconsciously held her breath. Nothing. Again, nothing. Every time only nothingness would answer her and still at odd moments she felt herself compelled to try. She opened her eyes slowly and the rest of the world returned. She heard the rush of cars and the drone of the post-game show, she saw the grayness of the night and the blueness of the light from the TV.

She let out the breath she had been holding and suddenly realized she was tired. Bone-tired, as her grandmother would say. She rubbed her eyes, which had stopped leaking tears, and marveled at how exhausting emotions could be and at how quickly the exhaustion took hold of the body.

She shut off the overhead light in the kitchen after doing a tally of the apartment -- deadbolt in place, lights off, oven off, windows locked. She padded into the living room and leaned over to turn off the TV.

"Maria."

Her head snapped around at the voice and met the sleepy eyes of Alex. "Hey," she responded. "Didn't mean to wake you up, I was just going to bed."

"It's all right," he said, shifting the afghan covering him in a sleepy invitation, falling back to sleep almost instantly.

She paused slightly and studied her friends in the flickering light of the TV screen. They looked their age when they were sleeping. When awake, they looked older, especially when compared to the carefree teenagers and young adults that populated their college campuses. The hardness of their expressions was gone in their sleep; the now ever-present subtle tightness of Alex's jaw vanished, and the stiffness of Liz's carriage disappeared. They looked young, peaceful, free -- things that they would never be again in the waking world. It pained her to recognize these things in her friends, to see the physical marks of their loss. It sometimes seemed more than she could bear to see the heavy burden of her pain mirrored in them.

She loved them, she realized, with a power that scared her. It scared her because it made the prospect of losing them all the more terrifying. When the other three had died, there had been two roads to take -- one of friendship and one of isolation. Though she had instantly recognized the safety of a lonely life, she had found the path impossible to follow. She had chosen the riskier one, the one of love and loss.

It was worth it, though. She knew it. She felt within her the rightness of it. She remembered learning somewhere that true friends were missing pieces of yourself that had somehow gotten lost in the shuffle, and that finding them was finding yourself. That was why the loss of the other three had been so shattering, she suspected. For when the six were together, they were complete. They were each other's missing pieces, and now three of those pieces were gone forever. She lost a part of herself to the void, she felt a sense of incompleteness that didn't seem like it would ever fade. It scared her. And being with Liz and Alex seemed to be the only thing that dulled that fear within her.

She shut off the TV and crept over to the couch. Alex and Liz were on opposite ends, both resting their head on an armrest, an overstuffed cushion between them. Alex had moved so that most of the green afghan rested on the cushion next to him, and Liz had her own blanket wrapped snugly around herself. Had she ever told them that she loved them? The real, true, "I love you" of deepest friendship that she knew she felt? She couldn't remember, and that made her sad. She stood between them, and leant down alternately to them, whispering into their ears the three words. Other people, she knew, would have waited for the morning, for a better time. She knew better.

She gently lifted the afghan and sat on the couch, twisting her body so that her head rested in Liz's lap and her feet in Alex's. It was more comfortable than she expected it to be, but still she knew that she was bound to wake up with a painfully stiff neck and back the next day. But for the moment it felt just right.

She felt sleep approaching and welcomed it, lulled by the sound of her friends' gentle breathing. Maybe she would dream of him. She felt the subtle feeling of falling that was the last step before the world disappeared completely. She welcomed the blackness that surrounded her. Maybe this would be the night he would be there, imagined or real, maybe this would be the night she would be able to say I love you and say goodbye . . .