This is written from Kathryn's perspective, many years hence.

I wish I could have been what she needed. Of all the demons that haunt me, the faces of dead crew members, the memories of lost friends and lost time, of all the years wasted, that one thing more than any other troubles my dreams and wakes me nights, the bitter taste of regret filling my mouth. I wonder at the irony of fate, which brought me halfway across the galaxy to find her, and then conspired with my most hated enemies to slip her, unresisting, from my grasp.

If it had been the Borg who stole her from me, as they did once, tearing her, struggling and defiant, from my unrelenting hold I would have found some measure of solace. I could even have unearthed a little comfort at losing her to the arms of another, knowing that she was treasured and beloved by someone able to be friend and lover.

But those enemies who took her from me were not of flesh and blood. Looking back now, I know that no mortal foe could have taken from me the one thing I prized above all others. That was something I could only do myself, aided and abetted by Duty, Pride, Responsibility and, most dangerous of all, my own Fear.

Time and again I was given the chance to love her and be loved in return, but every time, I allowed myself to run, to slip the silvery and delicate threads of affection, of longing, and of desire. It was as if the gentle weight of her love was all that was needed to pull me under those treacherous waters I so fiercely tread. Only now am I aware that instead she was the solid ground I clawed for, searched for in vain, the one thing that could have saved me.

Of all the people I have known, she was the most determined, the most unyielding. No problem was without resolution, no enemy was without weakness. None except me. I think she finally recognized that while Voyager was still so long from home, while my Duty and my Responsibility sat ever vigilant beside me, that the only thing I could offer her was an occasional hour here and there and a sort of half-hearted friendship.

Lying in my barren bed, I pour over in my mind, seeking out that one moment, that one look, that one word that should have told me she was gone. All I find are all those moments, all those looks, all those words I should have acted on, seized hold of and never let go. I rehearse and stammer out the litany of my lost opportunities, like a daily prayer, offered as penance for sins of which I will never be absolved.

Maybe if I had acted right there at the start, embraced all those feelings that rushed over me like a torrent over a crumbling dam. I didn't though and the longer we were out there, the more I managed to shore up that dam, fixing the holes, so that only a thin thread of emotion escaped me. I had to. It was the only way I could have survived.

At least that's what I tell myself, what I long to tell her. If I could explain, if I could make her understand that it wasn't about loving her, it was about hanging on to that part of me that we all needed to get us home. That part of me that I would have lost somewhere in the warmth of her skin and the softness of her lips.

Somehow, I doubt she would allow me even that small delusion. Those ice blue eyes would cut right through to the heart of my rationalizations. And she would be right. I try to convince myself that she would argue, that those eyes would flash with passion and fire, that she would tell me that it wasn't too late.

I can almost believe it, until those icy fingers of reality reach in and wrap around my heart and I remember that it is too late. She is gone. Even if I opened my door tomorrow and found her standing on my doorstep she would never be more than a phantasm, a shadow of what I have irrevocably lost.

The whisper of a memory skirts across my mind. I am standing in the Cargo Bay, watching as she regenerates. Those brilliant orbs are shuttered and her face is so young and lovely in repose. For a few precious seconds I can pretend, pretend that I have the courage to love her, the willingness to abandon everything I am and believe for the sanctuary of her arms. Then the red lights begin to flash and the klaxon wails. Another red alert, one of thousands we endured.

Her chamber automatically wakes her. In that instant before she is aware of me, before those eyes focus and those other shutters descend, I whisper softly. Whisper to her and to me.

The tears don't bother me now. In fact, they are my nightly companions, staunch and true. A lifetime ago I was offered a benediction, the chance to love and be loved and I let it slip away. I know that I will never be presented with that chance again, that I will never know the salvation of her love, full of grace.