Sasha James is dead. The real Sasha James has been dead for five goddamn months, and Tim never fucking noticed.

He doesn't even remember what she looks like.

Jon had explained everything to him, or at least as much as he could before Tim had gotten so pissed off he couldn't even stand to be in the same room with him. He always seemed to be angry now.

He didn't even have a picture of her. Not one that wasn't tainted by that thing that wasn't Sasha and would never be Sasha. There's not even proof of her actual existence outside of five people.

...Who is he even sad for?

It's not like he remembers her. Not really. There's a smudge over everything that made her herself. He still has the memories of the times she took him out rock climbing, the few fleeting moments of romance between their work breaks. But it's not her and Tim doesn't know who she is. He doesn't get to have that anymore. Have her anymore.

He doesn't have anyone anymore. He thought, for a while, that he could've had Sasha. Not really. He hadn't. But he had dreamed, before she was gone and he was too busy worrying about his friend — his friends who he had never quite gotten over getting the promotion instead of Sasha — to tell if anything was wrong. And now she's gone.

He doesn't have his brother. Even before Danny died, he wasn't that close to him, was he? Just because he could somewhat keep up with his interest didn't mean he really knew him. And now he's gone.

He can't stand to be around Jon anymore. Or Martin. Or Elias, or Melanie, or Basira, or anyone really. He's sure they can't either. His fun and banter's been burnt out of him, and there's only the embers of bitter, mean-spirited sarcasm. It's just him, a pile of useless work, and a pack of cigarettes.

He said he'd quit smoking. He never got around to it.