darling, it was BLUE.

(A/N: This update took a bit longer than I anticipated because it definitely got longer than I anticipated. With that being said, I've integrated a new style for this chapter of the story. The first half of this chapter will surround Jessica's story. The second half will surround Taeyeon's. Once again, both will be written in second person!)

It's the wave you've felt crash over you, the wave you've felt consume you. It's the ocean you feel like you're drowning in. You try to keep your head above water, to smile when you're sure your insides are burning with the desire to let everything go, but the current continually sweeps you under. It's the feeling of sinking while you're trying to swim, trying to forget something that has become so ingrained in the very core of your being.  It's the feeling of trying to forget something you don't want to forget. It's the feeling of missing her.

It's the lacquer shining on Hyoyeon's nails as she pulls you close, murmurs promises of "everything will be okay," into the curls of your messy hair. It's the disbelief in your voice when you tell her that things don't feel okay, that things may never feel okay again. It's the betrayal that sinks into the heart of your soul, chilling what had once been warm an inviting. You feel stupid, foolish. Stupid for believing the lies that slipped from perfectly glossed lips when she told you she had to "work late." Foolish for believing that forever was a concept that existed outside the fairytales you loved to read while tucked snuggly into bed. It's the feeling of trying to forget something you don't want to forget. It's the feeling of missing her.

It's the glimmer of pity you see in Yuri's eyes when she drops off a few tubs of your favorite ice cream; you're sure the pity comes from a good place, but the feeling makes your skin crawl and bile rise in the back of your throat. It's the tone of her voice when she asks if you're okay and it's the nod of your head when you tell her that you will be, that you're going to get through this even if it kills you. (You don't tell her that there are moments when you feel like it might kill you, when you feel like your heart is being ripped from your chest at the thought of fingers grazing the expanse of a stomach that doesn't belong to you.) It's the sadness in her words when she tells you that she's sorry, as if there was something she could have done to prevent this. You smile for the first time in days when you tell her that it isn't her fault, that she couldn't have known what happened behind tightly shut doors. (You don't tell her that you still think it's your fault, that maybe there's something you could have done to prevent her lingering eyes and wandering hands.) It's the feeling of trying to forget something you don't want to forget. It's the feeling of missing her.

It's the layer of ice that slowly freezes around your heart; the same layer of ice that someone spent so long trying to thaw. It's the frozen tundra that sits in the hollow of your chest, leaving you feeling cold and empty when you used to feel so warm and alive. You'd always joked that perhaps your heart was carved from a block of ice, but now you begin to wonder if there was truth to that statement, if the once comedic line now carried a weight that was absent before. It's the feeling of trying to forget something you don't want to forget. It's the feeling off missing her.

It's the shake of shoulders as sobs tear through your body, arms wrapped tightly around your torso as the steam from the shower rises around you. Maybe if you held yourself tighter, you could keep the pieces together. (You try. You fail.) It's the image that lingers in the corners of your mind, the image of them together. The thought makes you sick; you heave until your throat hurts, until your stomach protests and you sink back to the floor. It's the questions that bubble from your lips: Why wasn't I enough? What did I do to deserve this? Why her? Why me? You don't ask anyone in particular, but they hang in the air until the silence becomes deafening. It's the feeling of trying to forget something you don't want to forget. It's the feeling of missing her.

It's the sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach as you survey your belongings scattered around Hyoyeon's living room. It's the realization that, in your haste to pack your bags, there's things missing that still remain in the nooks and crannies of the apartment you share -- shared -- with her. Hyoyeon tells you to let it go, that she'll take you to the store, that the little things aren't worth risking the progress that you've made. (You don't tell her that you spent last night sobbing into your pillow. You don't tell her that her face still haunts the backs of your eyelids. You don't tell her that you aren't making progress at all, that if anything, you're falling deeper into this hole that threatens to close in around you.) It's the feeling of trying to forget something you don't want to forget. It's the feeling of missing her.

It's the way you tap your fingers against the screen slowly, analyzing every character you type. It's the way you backspace only to rewrite the same phrase, only to backspace again, only to rewrite it once more. It's the continuing push and pull, the tug of war inside your heart that's placed you firmly between a rock and a hard place. It's the ice in the message you eventually send.

(message sent to "Taengoo" ;; 6:54 pm): I would like to come collect the rest of my things from the apartment, and I would prefer it if you weren't there. - Jessica.

It's the drop of your heart when you read her reply.

(message sent from "Taengoo" ;; 7:01 pm): Okay.

It's the feeling of being unable to forget something you no longer wish to remember. It's the feeling of missing her.

It's the breath you, slow and unsure, as your fingers rest on the cool metal of the doorknob. It's the pang of disappointment when you fail to spot the familiar car in the driveway, and it's the sadness you feel when you realize that you shouldn't feel that way at all. There's a part of you that isn't surprised; you told her that you'd prefer to do this alone, that you preferred she be away. There's a part of you that wishes she was here -- you hate yourself for that. It's the hesitance in your actions as you twist the key in the lock and push the door open. It's the feeling of wanting to change what you had no control over. It's the feeling of missing her.

It's the flash of color you see on the couch, folded neatly on the cushion just the way you like it. It had always been your favorite blanket; you can't count the number of times she'd come home to find you on the couch, head pressed against the arm with the book on your chest, blanket draped over you. It's the softness that rubs against your fingers when you pick it up. It's the flood of memories that crash into you, overwhelming and uninvited. It's her scent that lingers on the fabric, clinging to it the way you used to cling to her. For a fleeting moment, you wonder if she's touched it. You wonder if she wrapped it around herself the way you used to wrap around her, if she curled under it and breathed in the scent you left. It's the feeling of wanting what isn't good for you. It's the feeling of missing her.

It's the shaking of unsteady fingers sorting through piles of clothes. You're careful to avoid anything that belongs to her, all too careful to avoid anything that might have been touched by greedy fingers and hungry eyes. It's the way you drop the shirt she was wearing that night as though the touch of fabric to skin had burned you. It's the way you swallow around the lump that's formed in your throat, willing yourself not to cry. Not long ago, you were strong enough to push away the tears. Now, something wet hits your cheek before the sensation of tears ever registers in your mind. It's the feeling of wanting and resenting, all in one breath. It's the all-consuming feeling of missing her.

It's the way you sink to the floor, crumpling against the carpet with the blanket clutched tightly in your arms. Everything smells like her. When you close your eyes, you're convinced you see her standing in the kitchen over a pot of coffee, flipping eggs like a pro. And you wonder why it wasn't enough, why things couldn't stay the way they were. It's the questions that swirl in your head, questions you aren't sure you want answers to. Why wasn't I enough? Why weren't we enough? What happened to us? It's the questions that might not have answers. (You want to know where you went wrong. You want to know why you weren't enough, why everything that you had given her just didn't seem to be enough. You know it isn't your fault, but the blame settles on your shoulders and seeps into your bones, burdening every move you make as you rise from the floor.) It's the feeling of wishing you could offer more than what you had to give. It's the feeling of missing her.

It's the bags that you take out to your care -- despite your best efforts, you still have to make multiple trips. It's the way her scent hits you every time you cross the threshold. It's the way you linger in the bedroom you two once shared, fingers running over the sheets of the bed. It's the way your skin crawls when you remember you aren't the only one that got to see her at her most vulnerable state, bare in every sense of the word, showing a side of herself that you thought only you got to see. It's the feeling of trying to hate someone you can't seem to hate at all. It's the feeling of missing her.

It's the look you throw over your shoulder as you close the door behind you.

It's the way you pull your car into the shoulder of the dark road. It's the way you cry until your eyes are colored a scarlet hue, until your muscles ache and sleep threatens to claim you at any moment.

It's the feeling of missing her... missing her... missing her.

It's the fading mark on your hip, the bones protruding slightly from the skin that creates a curve you've been told is delicious. It's the bruises that pepper creamy skin, some old and some new. It's the shadows they cast against a hallow shell of a person -- a person you aren't quite sure if you recognize. After all, the old Taeyeon would have never thought twice about ruining the best thing that had ever happened to her. But then again, perhaps you aren't "nice little Taengoo" anymore. Perhaps you were never "nice little Taengoo" in the first place. Perhaps you were always the wolf dressed up in an innocent sheep's attire. It's the feeling of regret that seeps into your pores and settles just beneath the surface. There's a part of you that hates yourself for hurting her.

It's the disappointment that lingers in her gaze when you tell her "not tonight." You don't remember the last time that phrase came out of your mouth to Tiffany. To Jessica, well, that was another story. It's the memories of all the nights you came home to her waiting, eager to see you. It's the memories of all the nights you uttered the words "not tonight, babe." She'd blink, smile fading from her face for a moment before it reappeared. She'd nod, tell you that it was okay, that you needed your rest. It's the memories of slipping between sheets that smelled like her while you reeked of someone else entirely. You remember how she'd cling to the edge of the bed those nights. It's the feeling of regret that overwhelms your senses until tears spring into the corners of your eyes. There's a part of you that hates yourself for being so greedy.

"She knows." The words leave your lips before you can process what you're saying, hanging stiffly in the air as shock crosses her face. It's the stirring in the pit of your stomach as you wait for a reaction, knowing that this moment would have to come sooner or later. You'd thought about it some days, hunched over your desk as your fingers frantically pressed keys on a keyboard. What would you do if you were ever put in this position? Who would you choose? At one point and time, the answer might be simple, obvious. Now, however, a haze of uncertainty clouds your mind and you're lost. Who do you choose? It's the feeling of not knowing the answer to a question when that answer should be obvious. There's a part of you that hates yourself for even needing to think about it.

It's the gentle touch she presses to your shoulder, dangerously close to the mark that was beginning to disappear from view. In a few days, it would be nothing more than a memory of a searing kiss and biting teeth -- a memory you haven't decided if you want to forget. "How?" It's the slump of your body when the question is asked. "A mark." It's the squeak of your voice, barely audible. It's the shame that covers you like a blanket, suffocating you to a point where you think all of the air might have been out of the room. There's a part of you that hates yourself for being so weak.

"I'm sorry."

"You're not."

It's the silence that lingers, chilling the air that vibrates between you. She doesn't protest. You don't push. It's the way you stand abruptly, knocking papers from the couch you were perched on as you struggle to straighten yourself. It's the silent question in her eyes -- a question that doesn't need to be asked. Why don't you stay? You can't give her an answer -- at least, not the answer that you know she wants. It's the sadness held in brown eyes when you glance down at her. It's the question whispered in the back of your own mind, taunting you -- tempting you. Do you want to do this? 

"I love Jessica."

It's the dryness those words leave in your mouth, and for a moment, you feel pathetic. Perhaps you are pathetic. Months ago, there was no question sitting in the outskirts of your innermost thoughts. There was no twinge of doubt, no slight edge of regret in those words. Things had been perfect for nearly four years. Your love burned in vivid color, passion that could only be captured with the most vibrant shades. And then, it started to fade. You don't blame her, because it wasn't her fault. You got complacent. You valued your work more than most would ever consider necessary. The love that had once been painted in technicolor grew monochromatic. But her love for you, her passion for you, had never dulled. It's the way your throat tightens as you remember that; it's the way your chest aches as the realization sets in to the hollow of your ribcage. She never stopped loving you. There's a part of you that hates yourself for failing her.

And when you met Tiffany, things had changed. It's the ache in palms as you recall it, remember the way she'd glanced at you from across the room as though you were the only person in her line of vision. Where Jessica was full of brilliant light, colors that shown even in your darkest moments, Tiffany was not. She was dark hues that screamed of lust and seduction. She was smoldering gazes and temptation that was too great to resist. She painted your world in colors you thought you'd never experience. You liked it. Maybe you even loved it. It's the lump that forms in your throat, the pain you feel as you try to swallow around it. There's a part of you that hates yourself for feeling torn... lost.

"I love Jessica."

You repeat the words again, allowing the words to settle on your tongue, allowing you to taste the syllables that felt familiar, yet foreign. You do love her. You always did. Somewhere along the line, along the ever-changing path of life, you got lost. Now you're trying to find your way back home. It's the intake of air, slow and agonizing, filling your lungs with bated breath as you wait for a retort. 

"But you love me too."

It's the chill that slides down your spine, colder than you could have ever anticipated. It's the ice that coats her tone, frost dripping from blood red lips. Do you? Do you love her, or do you love the way she makes you feel? Do you love her, or do you love the sensation of her body pressed firmly against yours as the layers that once separated you lie forgotten on the floor? Do you love her, or do you love the idea of her? 

It's the way you cast your gaze downward. It's the way she stands, hands resting firmly on her hips, challenging you. It's the way your body aches to feel a touch you haven't felt in so long. It's the way your body continues to yearn for the taste of forbidden fruit.

You never do reply to her statement. You never confirm or deny. 

It's the sound of feet padding softly across the floor as you silently leave the room.

A part of you hates yourself for what you've done.

A part of you hates yourself.

(Notes: Oh no. Where are these two going to go from here?  The next part of this story will, unfortunately, be the conclusion to this trilogy. I'd planned on doing more colors, but I think the next installment is a very good place to wrap this story up. But I hope you all enjoyed these two and I hope you guys enjoy the next installment which will be coming very, very soon! Thanks for your support, you guys!)