She wasn't over it. She wasn't letting go. She was holding on tightly with a visceral grip, and she was happy to burden herself with the pain if it meant she'd have Emma, in any way she could.

But she couldn't live like that. Not again. Her parents' deaths had left her cold, and Emma's, well she was either living in a delusion or denial and neither worked out in her favour.

Catching her breath, she turned the photo over to see Emma's handwriting. The blue ink smudged at places on the back, but the date and the note were still legible: May 2004 Me and Regina #1.

One? Regina questioned the number on the back and held her breath when she realized the significance. They never got to take a second picture together. Or a third. Or a fourth. Or fill that scrapbook Regina was planning on giving to her as a gift that was now stashed in the closet with the rest of her things that too closely resembled Emma. The only evidence of their relationship was a wrinkled photograph taken over three years ago. Her chest started to heave and she clutched at it with an open palm. Three years? This was three years old?

Her breathy shudder filled the quiet room as she dropped the picture and moved to the next one. Her, Henry, and Emma at his third birthday party. The Queen, the Prince, and the Knight hanging tightly off one another in their foil armour and paper hats.

Anxiety overwhelmed her, and Regina forcibly shoved the pictures back into the bag, picking herself up off the floor and holding herself around the middle. She was still alone. August and Henry were still out of the house leaving Regina with nothing but the ghost of the blonde soldier.

Habit led her to her study where she contemplated her liquor cabinet before bypassing it entirely and pulled out a piece of stationary, jotting down the words that always calmed her fluttering heart.

Dear Emma. . .

Chapter 23

Chapter Notes

Disclaimer in Chapter One

Chapter 22 was updated as well, so be sure to read that before this one!

Regina, no matter how difficult it was at first, continued to make a habit out of breaking out Emma's belongings. More often than not she would write to Emma afterwards, recalling memories they shared together. She never poured them all out at once, partially because she could never get past that first picture or that first letter or let go of the worn red leather gripped between her fingers, but also because she just couldn't do it. Whatever notion she had in her mind that having everything Emma possessed out in the open would finalize the young woman's disappearance cut a hole in her heart.

Archie was impressed by the initiative she took. Most times she even brought along a picture with her to their session where Archie got her to remember the happier times. A month later, she even confronted August about her outburst, apologizing and even volunteering to help him find a suitable location to live. The man had put a halt on his moving process, but their talk had brought some clarity to the situation. By September when he cautiously approached her about a loft above Marco's wood shop, she was able to nod and offer to see the place with him. He and Figaro were officially moved out two weeks later, and Regina was okay with that.

Her mood fluctuated most times. Some nights she would wake up in a cold sweat thinking she heard the late night ringing of a phone or feel the promising warmth of another body, momentarily forgetting there was no one willing to call her at this hour or that Emma hadn't shared her bed in years. Some days she was able to entertain a phone call from any of her friends, and though Kathryn persisted on inviting her out, the nerves of being made vulnerable made itself known and she would declined.

But there was the odd night, sometimes random but this particular night held such significance, where Regina would run to the bag in her closet and grab a handful of letters Emma had written to her or watch the video message she had sent for hours on end.

This night, however, was an average Wednesday night for anyone else in Storybrooke. Sheriff Graham was out patrolling the streets in his cruiser during the overnight shift. Mrs. Ginger's cat was out pawing through the neighbour's bushes. Henry was sound asleep in his bed, his Sheriff Woody costume he refused to take off in preparation for Halloween used as pyjamas.

And Regina, on this quiet October night, was sitting in the dark of her living room. For the first time in two years, possibly even longer given how much the soldier travelled, every item that Emma possessed with her was strewn about the coffee table. Pictures were scattered in a makeshift mosaic. The video tape August had sent to Emma lay on the throw pillow beside her. Letters from both women littered the couch and table. Henry's drawings were displayed in a stack so high they were precariously teetering off the edge. The scrapbook lay open next to Regina's untouched glass of wine, empty pages that were meant to be filled staring blankly up at the ceiling.

The only light in the room came from Regina's laptop nestled across her stomach as she lay back against the arm of the couch, revelling in her young lover's voice.

"I love you all. And I think about you guys all the time. Take care of each other."

She hit the play button again as Emma grinned at the camera.

"Hey! Happy birthday, Henry. I'm sorry I couldn't be there, but I bet your mom made it super awesome."

Her eyes shut slowly, imagining Emma to be right next to her, the warmth from the laptop heating her belly and Emma's voice over the speaker whispering in her ear as if the blonde was nestled on top of her.

"I really miss you guys. You, and Uncle August, and your mom. Regina."

She'd never grow tired of hearing her name slip from Emma's lips, either hollering for her from a different room of the house or simply saying her name just to get her to look. Regina. Regina.

The video ended, and the brunette let her eyes open to stare at the fuzzy image of the blonde soldier permanently still on screen. The time on her computer told her Emma's birthday had come and gone, but Regina stayed lying there in the darkness. It was Emma's 24th today, well, yesterday. She was so young. Regina never failed to bring that up simply because she couldn't believe it herself. She continuously forgot because Emma had matured so much for her age. Insight and experience would do that to her.

As she sat up, the letters on the couch shifted under her weight, and just as she moved to replace the computer onto an empty space of the coffee table, her house phone rang.

Only one person ever called her after ten, but the emotional exhaustion she felt overwhelmed her enough not to dive too deeply into it. She grabbed the cordless off the side table, immediately understanding once she saw the caller ID.

"Can't sleep?" She answered in greeting.

"I usually can't on this day," August admitted.

"Me too."

They settled into a comfortable silence, the whirring of the laptop's motor perforating the night on Regina's end while the soft mewling of Figaro sounded from August's. "Ruby and I broke up."

She crinkled her eyebrows and reached for her drink. "When was this?"

"Last month," he supplied.

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay. It was mutual. But you should really talk to your friends more often, don't you girls fawn over this stuff?"

"I talk to them enough."

"I doubt that." Another silence settled before August broke in with a quiet voice. "You know, Emma was convinced she could get through her service as a lone wolf, and she might have, but she wouldn't have been as happy."

"She was always so stubborn."

"In the best ways."

Regina nodded her agreement, fiddling with the stem of her wine glass.

"You kept her alive all those years."

Regina scoffed. "She's not alive now, is she?"

"You don't know that."

"And you do?" She took a moment to gather the letters in her lap, placing her glass down when it threatened to spill, and laid them on the table. Her elbows on her knees, she fixated on the pictures scattered about and she shook her head. "Please, August. We can't keep having this conversation."

"Archie says it's fine to hope as long as it doesn't hold us back."

"You're seeing the doctor?" Regina inquired surprise.

"Wise man," he provided with a shrug. "You know there are help groups for army wives who have spouses overseas."

She scoffed again and grabbed the glass, finally sipping it. "And what? Listen to their sob stories about their husbands while I'm there for my girlfriend, and then they can discredit all that she's done as a soldier?"

August chuckled softly, almost knowingly. Figaro purred loudly against the mouth piece. No doubt the cat was resting on his chest, and August was stroking him thoughtfully. "You still think of her as that."

It was fact, simple as that. She opened her mouth to refute it but found she didn't want to deny the claim. "She's—Emma—it's not like we ended things."

God, she was holding on, Regina groaned to herself as she gulped the rest of her wine and slammed the glass onto the table. Not for the first time she wished she could just turn off a switch to her feelings if that could make her head stop spinning for just a moment.

"What about you?" She croaked.

"She's still my sister," he answered obviously. "I may not have been able to protect her from everything and that's okay."

"My, my, you have been going to the shrink," she said with a wry smirk. She refilled her glass and swirled the liquid around as she mused to herself. "Do you go?" She asked quietly. "To these group meetings?"