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Beating My Heart

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There are times every now and then,
I forget why I’m breathing out and why I’m breathing in.
And I get so sick with the little things,
I can't relax when it's happening to know what it means.

Seven years, Buffy decided, was a good time to take stock; or maybe, like the old saying went, she was feeling that itch.

But not in any nasty gyno way.

Everyone was out of the house for whatever reason – at this point, she didn’t much care – and she found herself alone for a few hours. She walked the halls and peered into empty rooms, searching for her dead mother and other fleeting moments of happiness. She paused in the doorway of her room, smiling at Mister Gordo sitting atop her bed, and was filled with a need to evaluate her life and what she wanted it to be.

So much had happened these past seven years, most of it bad, but some of it good, too. For every demon, there was a latte with Willow at the Espresso Pump. For every apocalypse, there was a movie night at Giles’s apartment. For every loss was the recognition her life had been enriched by the time which prefaced it. She turned toward her bulletin board and wondered when it had been taken over by pictures of her mother and Tara and Cordelia and the solitary, tattered snapshot of Kendra sharpening Mister Pointy.


There's a sun coming over the horizon.
I wanna know where its coming from, but doesnt everyone?
It’s like ‘who am I and why am I here?’


In the past seven years, there were moments in which Buffy had wished she was dead, those in which she wished she had stayed dead, and moments she had wished dead people whom she would now give anything to have returned to her. She had lost a lot, but still had more than most people, and this life which she had once wanted to be over she now embraced with greedy pleasure.

And then I open my eyes,
and I know you’re beating my heart, beating my heart.
Look at the sky.
I know you’re beating my heart, beating my heart.

~ Jon McLaughlin

Her eyes lingered on a photograph of Xander and her heart warmed even as it was struck by a knowledge at once alien and familiar.

Every loss, every gain, every heartbreak, and every hope included, in some way, a memory of him.

He was her strength, her guiding light, and, in this moment of complete honesty, the most important person in her life.

If she knew anything for certain, it was her total belief in him.

Maybe she should tell him.