I watch her leave and sigh.

Damn. Tom was right. The holodeck is easier. Here, the cards are stacked in your favor ... you program it, you control the variables, you make it .... easier.

The tricorder is a discomforting weight in my hand. She modified it, gave it to me. A gift. A thank-you present. I've taught her well.

I suppose that's something.

Without really thinking I activate program Paris 3 - Sandrines. A quaint little program and a long-time crew favorite. The piano is there, unplayed for now, in the center area where the pool table once stood. I deleted it specifically for her lessons - what need of it has one who wiped the table with every taker? And Seven's not so bad either. Again without really thinking, I slide onto the piano stool and slip my feet over the pedals. The modified tricorder is placed gently on the top. What to play.. what to play... Something to suit my mood. Something slow... 'bluesy'.... Ahh, I know. We danced to it but a few days ago.

My fingers caress the black and white keys, picking out the melody and it's accompanying harmonies. I taught myself to play some time ago, though I suppose 'taught' isn't exactly the right word when you can just download the requisite information and knowledge into your database. Still, there are some things that can't just be downloaded, pleasant though that concept may seem. These past few days are proof enough of that. Seven of Nine, beautiful and talented ex-borg, has undergone a rapid transformation in my eyes from respected colleague and prized student to being the object of my affection. I didn't ask for it, didn't want it to happen, but it did, and I'm stuck with the consequences. I couldn't admit it to myself until recently, really yesterday, today. Tom had a big hand in that, among other things. I'll get back at him someday. Damn him and his bet. Damn. Ironic that in the course of educating her about romance, I learnt much more about it's trials and pitfalls. Unrequited love is not a pleasant experience.

I begin to sing softly, accompanying myself on the piano. "Someone to Watch Over Me" - we danced to the instrumental track here, in Sandrines, after her fist date turned into something of a disaster. Nothing that couldn't be repaired of course, nothing she couldn't handle, but still something of a mess. For a moment we're dancing again, her hand in my hand, her arm on my shoulder, her cheek against mine, pleasantly close and warm.... her breath tickles my neck - an odd and unaccustomed sensation. I blink and I'm suddenly back at the piano, alone, but smiling slightly at the memory. It's one of many memories, both happy and bittersweet, that I'll retain from this experience. Many of them took place here. Sandrines already holds a great number of memories for me, even some from previous loves. I don't think a few more will hurt.

I brought Denara here a few times, when she first came on board, resurrected as a hologram by my brilliant medical skills and creative thinking, and later, as the Phage-accosted but beautiful living person that she was. We danced here too, though that was some years ago. Midway through the song that I am, the thought of her is still enough to bring a smile to my face. Tom was right then too - every now and then, often for no apparent reason, I'll remember her, her face, her smile, her laugh... she had the loveliest laugh.... Sometimes, things set it off - a whisper of conversation, a place, a snatch of music, an object..... I know I'll always have a soft-spot for '57 Chevy's and 'parking', despite what I may tell Tom. Out there, under the open sky with her, gazing at the stars, I truly discovered what love was, what it was like to love someone and know that they loved you in return. She came to know me in a short time.... she knew who I was, knew my faults and my fears, my nagging inadequacies, things I'd admit to no-one else, and she loved me despite them. For my part, disfiguring disease or not, I loved her with every photon in my being. I learnt a lot that night, and those following it, the two glorious weeks before she had to leave....

I sigh again as the song draws to a close, the last notes hanging in the air. Such memories..... I hope she's well, wherever she is now, and that she's happy. I wonder if she saw the cure for the Phage arrive to save her people, after so many years of hunting for it. It's different now, I know. I'm older, wiser, more aware. She's probably moved on with her life, like me. Thinking of Seven now gives me the strangest sensation ... a tingle and a tightness across the chest, accompanied by a twisted mess of emotion - sorrow, happiness, jealousy, longing..... I can only hope the feeling will fade with time. She feels there are no potential 'mates' for her onboard. From lowliest crewman to departmental heads, there's not a soul for her, apparently. That includes me. I can respect that. I don't think I'd mind as much, well, actually I probably would exactly as much no matter what, but she's inadvertently rubbing salt into my wounds, saying that if she does miraculously find an individual who meets her high standards, she'll again seek my advice in pursuing him. I snort and shake my head. I can just envision myself as a kind of Cyrano de Bergerac, only instead of advising my rival, I'll be advising my love to win his heart, all the while being her trusted friend, nothing more.... a trusted friend pining away after something unobtainable, but still trying to make her happy. Her happiness was his happiness, as hers is mine. I'm her friend, nothing more. Her friend, her colleague, her mentor... I'll have to content myself with that. It'll be hard when I see her every day, when she's .... when she's become such an integral part of my program, when I don't feel quite complete when she's not around... but I should be able to manage it. Some day. Eventually.

Tomorrow, business as usual in Sickbay. Nobody but myself needs to know what happened - it would only make the situation worse, if that's possible. Tom will be met with blank looks and my standard sarcasm, and *she* certainly doesn't need to know. She's not ready... and in a way, I don't think I'm ready. For now, however, there's an ancient tradition that I'd like to explore. I believe the Kadi ambassador acquainted himself with it while he was on board. If I'm correct, it involves consuming copious amounts of synthehol or alcohol, to the point of complete inebriation, and then pouring your woes out to the bartender or whomever is handy. Why not? I'm always game for new experiences, and, at this time, this one seems more than appropriate. I'll just have to program away the hangover come tomorrow.