Thomas Wolfe had been right all along. You really can't go home again. All those paths that we traverse, all those roads we walk, one leading on to another, the next one taking us even further on than the last. None lead us back to where we began, not really. Too much time passes, too much changes. The old signposts fade and we are left wandering down unfamiliar roads, with nary a recognizable tree, or remembered house.
Alex Cabot felt the weight of this mournful epiphany settle onto her chest as she stood outside of the window of McNally's Bar, in New York City, the golden light spilling out to pool around her feet, like waves lapping the shore. She had been here so many times, another lifetime ago, embraced by the warmth of good Scotch and good friends.
She had sat in a scarred booth and felt the thrilling press of Olivia's knee against her own. She had glanced over to meet the laughing brown of eyes that held the secrets of the universe in their depths, if only she had the will and the courage to discover them. There had been no hurry then. She had been content to wait for the what-if that never came to pass.
The snow of a late November night fell in a silent, swirling hush, covering the sidewalk, the roofs of cars, a layer of confectioner's sugar, coating the surface of the city. Inside the bar, in the yellow glow of all that remained possible, in this present moment, where no past, no future intruded, Olivia sat, a beer at her elbow. Her gaze now met green eyes that bore no resemblance to Alex's own blue orbs. Her knee pressed gently against a knee that would never again be Alex's.
Even if she walked in there right now, battled the usurper, reclaimed her place at Olivia's side, it would never be as it once was. She might finally be Alex Cabot again, but she would never be that Alex Cabot, the one who had sat, content, complacent, laughing at one of Munch's jokes, happily contemplating the none too gentle pressure of Olivia's thigh against her own.
As the door of the bar opened into the chill November evening, Alex heard the sounds of laughter, of clanking glasses, of loud voices. She heard the sounds of her past, carrying for miles it seemed, on the frigid night air. She had heard them in every little town she had lived in over the last six years. She had thought that they were calling to her, calling her home.
Now she knew, they had only been memories of a life she had once claimed as her own. The snow was coming down faster, heavy, wet flakes that clung to her hair and coat. Turning slowly, a half-smile of regret just gracing her lips, Alex walked along the snow laden sidewalk, her footsteps quickly disappearing under a new layer of white, so that by the time she reached the corner and hailed a cab, there was no trace of Alex Cabot left outside McNally's Bar.