Loving you is not a choice, it's who I am.
Loving you is not a choice, and not much reason to rejoice,
But it gives me purpose, gives me voice to say to the world,
"This is why I live."
You are why I live.

Loving you is why I do the things I do.
Loving you is not in my control.
But loving you, I have a goal for what's left of my life.
I will live, and I would die for you.

Death is no stranger to me. All I have to do is turn my head, and I see him-Thanatos on his pale horse, pacing beside me, waiting for me to fall.

I have seen my demise a thousand times, seen my body jerk from the bullets that enter my chest. Fourteen years of missions, and these visions never bothered me. Far from it. I viewed them as a comfort. They were a promise of eventual relief-an end to a life that had known too much death. I never actively sought death, even after Simone. It was not my right. I knew that I would not die until I was allowed to. But Death was always there, a promise floating in his empty eye sockets.

And then Life appeared, in the form of Nikita. I accepted responsibility for her. I trained her. I tried to tame her. But instead, she tamed me. I am hers now, whether she believes it or not. I should know better. I do know better. There are a thousand reasons why I shouldn't need her. But when she touches me, I don't care. The world could swallow us whole, and I wouldn't care. She is alabaster and honey. She is Life, vibrant, loving, and defiant. And despite all that I have done, she loves me.

Of course, I was lost long before I ever touched her. Not that I've ever told her that. Not that I've ever told her anything. And that is for many reasons, not the least of which is her safety. But there are other reasons. How do I tell her that I tremble when I touch her? That I wish I were like her? That she is more important to me than my life, or anyone else's life? I could never find the words to say such things. My throat would close up, and she would only be hurt again.

At least she loves me. I have that much. But she doesn't understand me. I know she doesn't, and there's no reason that she should. She feels the pain of my betrayals, and I have no right to expect her to feel anything else. I can only wish it were otherwise.

Do I love her? Of course. The question isn't worth asking, if it ever was. But is our love worth the pain it causes? I wish I knew. I would like to say yes, but I am selfish. Does the terrible pleasure, the terrible joy of knowing her, loving her, outweigh the anguish she feels?

I don't know. I fear not. But I am too weak to live without her. Death still beckons, but I no longer pay him any heed. I have another option, for as long as I'm allowed to survive. Now I want Life, in the form of blond hair and smiling eyes. And so I follow her like a road, hoping to eventually reach salvation.