There are days when I close my eyes, and all I can see is her, bright as a sunspot on the inside of my eyelid. I long to keep them closed and follow her progress across the dark space, watch her zoom and float and flicker, careless and free as a dandelion flitting in the wind. Then I remind myself of who I am, my responsibilities, and I force my eyes open, and she disappears.

Sometimes I can almost believe that she never existed, that the intangible person in my memories is just that -- indiscernible, fictitious, a character created by a bored mind to help pass the time, ease the daylight to night.

But I remember her. I'll always remember her.

---

She wanted to go to Mexico to swim with the dolphins and see just how fast they were -- were they faster than light, faster than touch? -- to Alaska to scale glaciers and feel the cold soak through her gloves and numb her hands, to the Eiffel Tower to discover exactly how high it was, to know what it felt like to have the breeze slap your face and know it was a *French* breeze.

She spun through life like a top, whirling faster and faster and faster until she wore herself out, and collapsed, breathless and exhausted. Still, her store of energy seemed never depleted, and soon, she was in the hands of another, being spun and twisted so that she twirled in busy circles, all brilliant colors and bright light and extreme beauty. Until she wound down, and the colors were primary, ordinary, the light faded, the beauty there, always, but without the effervescence that defined it.

Sometimes I think I preferred her that way; when she was calm instead of raging, I had a chance. I could glow a little, not shine as she did, but glow, softly, warmly.

Then I remember how much fun she was; how charming, and adventurous, and so exquisitely beautiful she made my throat close with tears. With envy, but also with the simple joy of being around her, with her. It was like standing on the lushest, greenest grass and holding up your hands to the sun. There were times when I reached up and I could almost touch her, almost feel the heat and the burn on my palms. Almost.

---

She loved Logan, intensely, passionately. When she spoke of him, she raged with anger and beat her fists into the ground until they bled, sobbed with a sorrow so deep that she lost her breath, her voice, wept so fiercely that the veins in her eyes ruptured, making it seem as though she cried tears of blood for him.

There were days when she'd tell me how they met, how connected they were, and she would almost overflow with exuberance, and pure delight. She'd dance until her feet cramped, until she developed blisters and they burst and scraped her soles raw, until she trailed a path of blood everywhere she went. Then her feet would need to be bandaged and she'd have to be constrained to a wheelchair for days, to prevent permanent injury.

God, she didn't do anything in half-measures; the glass was either completely full, or completely empty. She was wild and vicious, and her emotions were so violent, so ferocious that they terrified me. *She* terrified me. And exhausted me, and as much I hated her, I loved her.

---

As each day passed, she became wilder, more untamable. And I began to wonder why I'd even tried. She would grab my hand and tug me along with her, joined hands swinging merrily, and she'd laugh, and for a minute, everything would slow, so that I could see her hair swing into her eyes, and her teeth flash in a smile, her eyes dance with laughter. And I realized that the reason time had slowed was not because of her, her beauty, her life, but how she made me feel. As though *I* was beautiful, as though I deserved happiness and a future. She was my best friend.

---

She liked to take risks. Wanted to experience everything, wanted to go to extremes, be all she could, feel it all.

I don't know why she wanted me with her; I was reluctant at best, terror-stricken and panicked at worst. But she coaxed me into it, somehow managed to make me believe that it would all work out, that it would be safe.

So we'd dive to the bottom of the pool and hold our breaths as long as we could, until there was no air to bubble out, until I could feel my throat clutch and my eyeballs grow larger, and I'd have to surface, gasping for air, flailing in the water. And she'd still be under, smiling up at me, calm for the first time since I'd met her. I'd have to dive under and grab her under her arms and drag her up, struggling and kicking. She wanted to stay there forever, in the cool water, protected and soothed. And I pulled her up, away.

She wanted to take risks, to go further, further into the darkness; I only wanted to remain in the light. I held her back, I stopped her from plummeting headfirst into danger. It didn't help any; she became bitter, resented me, for not letting her do what she felt she needed to. What *I* felt I needed to keep her from doing.

Because the one thing she'd never understood, perhaps never wanted to, was that I needed her. I was her stability, but she was my recklessness; I feared that without her, I'd be drab and utterly without, without anything to offer anyone.

But I couldn't tell her that, couldn't tell her anything of importance to me, because as self-indulgent as she could be, she was loyal and she loved me, and if she'd known she was hurting me, she would have disappeared one night, never to be seen again.

So I said nothing, even when she told me she wanted nothing more than to be blown away by the wind, to know what it felt like to stand on top of the Eiffel Tower and see the ground race up to you.

She asked me if I knew about loss, she said she did, she said there was nothing poetic about it.

She said, "You lose and you lose and you lose. Until... eventually, everything's gone. You're alone and you're empty and there's nothing left."

She said loss equaled despair, and despair was the worst kind of tragedy, because it was a bottomless pit, one that you couldn't be dug out of.

And those words gave me something new to fear; because she was slipping away, and there was nothing I could do to stop it this time, no way to halt her or prevent her from leaving.

So, we flew to Paris on the Professor's account, and we climbed to the top of the Eiffel Tower, and she smiled and said she knew what it was like to feel a chill breeze, and know it was a *French* breeze. Then she released my hand, and I was forced to let her go, and she slid over the edge, and finally knew what it felt like to have the ground rush up to meet her; she whispered as she fell, that it felt like freedom.

I returned to the mansion, in a daze of grief; my heart was raw and pulpy, and then *I* knew what it was like, to cry so hard your tears ran red with blood, to open your hands on the stony pavement and watch with a kind of detached wonder as color filled the darkness. I understood, now, too late, why she'd been who she was, even if I couldn't be her, then, or now; I could almost hear her say that sometimes pain is the only thing that brings you back to life.

But, if she'd said it, she would've been wrong.

Pain is only a temporary solution to a larger problem, to an ache in the soul that can't be appeased by cuts and wounds and blood. There are times when the only thing that can fill you, remind you of who you were, are, is another person.

And when Logan came back, at precisely the right moment, I knew he was that person. He enfolded me in his arms, not afraid of the danger of my skin, enfolded me in his life, in his heart. I embraced him, felt happiness and peace with him, and I loved him, more than anyone I'd ever loved before, even Rogue.

I felt fulfilled with him, knew this what she'd been searching for, what she'd been destined never to find, because, sad as it was, it had always been fated for me.

I didn't tell him about her death, metaphorical though it was, and in fact I don't think he even knew she had existed, inside of me. And so he didn't miss her, didn't mourn her, didn't love her. He'd only ever loved me, known me, was only upset when I was, *because* I was.

The memory of her faded, she became less and less important to me, and I couldn't regret that, any more than I could have regretted knowing her, *being* her. That extreme section of me, the section that was Rogue, was gone, but the real me still has parts of her, the best parts; like the sweet happiness of living, the bright strength of loving, the hint of adventure -- those are the qualities she bequeathed me.

Now, holding hands with Logan, time seems to slow once more, and I can see him reaching out to push a strand of hair behind my ear, see his eyes filled with tenderness and his smile with love.

And I am happy that I am Marie.