Your first thought, when you see her hovering somewhat nervously behind Ronna, is that you and Chuck are going to have a serious talk about who he thinks you want to see.

It's a childish, immature thought - an immediate reaction to a situation you were never expecting to have to deal with, although you know that you did see it coming.

She came to you for a job years ago. In fact, she convinced you that she already had a job and wouldn't stop talking until you gave in and told her she could stay. Mainly because you admired her bravery, and her complete lack of embarrassment in asking - pleading - for somewhere else to go because she wasn't happy where she was.

"What can I do for you?" you ask, painfully aware that everyone around you has fallen completely silent, waiting to see what's going to happen.

Donna smiles at you, ignoring the curious stares of your staff and asks, "Is there somewhere we can talk?"

"About?" You don't want to make this easy.

"Josh," she says softly, and you clench your jaw and nod.

"My office," you mutter, pushing past her into the hall. Your staff are still silent and you turn and bark, "I'm sorry, I thought we had a Presidency to win?" at them and as if nothing had happened, all activity around you immediately resumes, and you and Donna are left to walk silently towards your office. It's nothing more than a room you grabbed when you rented this space in the building because it was bright and had a window.

She follows, close on your heels and you think how... old she looks. Older. Different somehow to when you saw her at random times during the campaign. When you cast your mind back, you remember that even then she looked different to how you remember her from the beginning. Young. Innocent. Fresh and unspoiled.

Perhaps you should say something to her, try to ease the tension that is so stifling, it must be visible to everyone, but you don't want to be the one to start. It's up to her and as you enter your office, she begins.

"Nice headline in the Post today." Her tone is light and friendly. "That's got to feel good."

"Yeah, it does. Heady stuff. How's Will?" You don't really care about Will, of course, but idle conversation is easy. You can do general pleasantries. You sit down behind a desk scratched from years of other people's work, heave your feet upwards to rest on a stack of scrap paper, and stare at Donna.

"Well, back in the VP's office," she says nonchalantly as she takes a seat. "He wanders around a lot like a guy who can't find his glasses."

"Yeah. You going back there too?" you ask as you lean back in your chair without looking at her. You hope she says yes to avoid what you fear is coming.

"The Vice President's office?" Donna takes a deep breath and launches into a speech so smooth that you know she must have stood in front of her bathroom mirror for hours, practicing. "I'm glad you brought that up. I'm... proud to say I've grown a lot in the last few months. The Russell Campaign gave me some wonderful opportunities. I took an active role in drafting policy positions and eventually was promoted to the role of the Campaign Spokesperson."

"Donna-" you start, your voice cracking on her name.

"Let me get through this," she interrupts nervously, eyes cast downwards to avoid yours. "It's one of the more awkward moments of a lifetime."

You realize that there were a hell of a lot more awkward moments that you both felt but here... you have the upper hand. You don't want to hear what she has to say. "We can't do this," you whisper, staring at the desk as you try to squash the feelings of regret beginning to surface. She's changed so much; all too different now.

Donna continues as if you'd never spoke, "I'm good... is the point. I'm as surprised as you are, and rumor has it," she takes another deep breath, "you could use a deputy." She stares at you, her eyes full of hope and desperation.

You stare back at her for several seconds and suddenly remember how her hair used to be in a ponytail or little messy round bunch things. She used to show her forehead and, even when her hair was down around her face, you could see all her face. It was never covered up - she never hid behind a curtain of hair. You can't remember exactly when she started wearing it like this.

She used to smile widely whenever she saw you - apart from when she was glaring at you but, even then, you were able to turn her mood around. She was never... wary of you, never nervous. She looks nervous now. Tense and on the edge. She's sitting forward in the visitor's chair, hands folded in her lap.

She used to slouch in the chair in your office. The office in the White House, that is. This is your office until you can take Leo's - no, CJ's - office when you win the Presidency. And now you're just staring stupid at her because you don't know how to do what you're about to do.

Because that was then and this is now, and she's staring at you, waiting for you to speak. No... you really didn't think she would come back to ask you for a job. Not after everything you two have been through. And yet, that's exactly why she is here. So while you hoped that she wouldn't return to you, you really did expect it. And you're prepared.

You've made a career out of being prepared, but no matter how hard some of the other things in your life have been, you know nothing was as bad as this moment is about to become.

You drop your feet to the floor, yank open the top drawer of your desk to pull out a manila folder. You really had hoped that you didn't have to do this, but you know her and when she has an idea in her head, she won't let it go for neither love nor money. You don't look at her as you flip open the folder and begin, systematically, to tear her to shreds.

"Matthew Santos is throwing a ton of numbers at you hoping you'll be so confused as to miss the fact that his education plan is both impractical and unaffordable," you read from the top sheet of paper, your voice monotone. "He was a House member - you'd think behavior like that would annoy him." You look up at her briefly as you say her name, "Donna Moss, Spokesperson, Russell for President Campaign."

She tries to defend herself with a shake of her head. "I didn't mean that he was-"

You ignore her. "Claiming that three House terms qualifies you to be President is like me saying I'm a foreign relations expert because I ordered Kung Pao last night."

"I didn't say that, did I?" she deadpans.

Still, you ignore her, and continue reading the list of her crimes like a judge at an execution. "February twenty six - Coffee, Cake, and Candidates. Raleigh, North Carolina." You look at her reproachfully again before continuing. "He wasn't a military strategist, he was a pilot. Ask him about the overhead compartment, not about defense." Briefly you recall that, when you'd first heard her comments, you'd laughed to yourself. It was pure politics to deride a candidates background and even though it was your candidate she'd been insulting, you had to admit that she had been brilliant at it.

"You called Russell a cowpoke," she responds, eager to prove that you'd been just as spiteful during the campaign and you drop your head back to rest on the chair, waiting for her to finish her finger pointing before you tell her to leave. "You said the President avoided him in the halls. You hummed 'These Boots Are Made For Walking' every time the press mentioned his name."

"Yeah, but I won," you say softly. And really, that was it. You had won, and she had lost and now you have the upper hand and you're in control and you want to end this ridiculous farce right now because you're never going to take her back no matter how much she begs. No matter how much you suddenly feel like bursting into tears at how far away you are from where you both used to be.

"It was my job, Josh," she says, a pleading tone in her voice. "You're not used to me being in a position of authority. I'm sure that's uncomfortable."

You start speaking before she finishes, resenting her accusation. This isn't about her being in authority - you're proud that she's accomplished so much. You always knew she could, you just hate the fact that she left you high and dry to go do it. "I got an airplane hangar out there filled with five hundred strangers looking at me for direction. I've got a candidate who doesn't trust any of them, and frankly neither do I, and if you think I don't miss you every day...

You trail off as your throat closes up. You hadn't meant to say that. But she's wrong if she thinks that the reason you're rejecting her now is personal. It isn't personal, it's just business.

She looks down at your desk and licks her lips. You know she's trying not to cry as well. How did it come to all this? Your eyes burn, tears pricking as you stare at her.

"I can make a couple calls," you offer, desperate to help, but she holds up her hand and you stop speaking.

"Thank you for your time," she whispers, her voice breaking as she stands, gathering her bag. She turns and suddenly your emotions explode to the surface yet unable to escape as your mouth stays resolutely, stubbornly shut for probably the first time in your life.

Don't go, you want to scream. Over and over in your head the words tumble around, frantically trying to escape, desperate to seek an exit. They crash together in panic, roaring through your mind. Don't go, don't go! But you force them to be silent, squash them together until they become indistinguishable in a blur of noise. Your jaw clenches as she heads towards the door and you sit still for a few seconds, trapped in your chair by some invisible weight crushing your lungs.

Her heels are clattering on the linoleum floor, loud at first but fading as she marches away from you, and you stand up slowly and go to your door and look out past Ned and Ronna, focusing everything you're feeling on her departing form. You project it all out of you, and you clench the noise in your head into silence, will your mind into silence, empty all thought, all emotion, all pain and loneliness until you're back to the same day in and day out numbness that you've become used to.

And you push her away, invisible fingers forcing her once more from your life only this time you know that you're doing it and you feel oddly euphoric from the control you have. Your hand grips the frame of your office door and you let your body relax as deep cleansing breaths of air expand your lungs and clear away the fog of confusion.

You turn to go back into your office, but then pause, and look again. She's at the doors of the elevator now, waiting for it to arrive, arms folded in front of her body, back stiff and unyielding. You should turn around now and get back to work but you have to see her leave. This time, unlike the others when she was there one minute and gone the next, you need to see her leave you.

You tell yourself that if you see her leave now then it's over. Final. You can move on. The End.

The doors of the elevator open and she steps inside and reaches for the down button, turning to face the front as she presses it. Her head rises slightly and she gazes across the crowded, open plan office, straight at you. Her eyes, wide and unblinking, stare into yours as the doors begin to close.

She still doesn't blink and her expression remains unreadable, and you know that your face matches hers and you're both feeling the same thing but neither of you can do anything about it. You raise your hand because that's what people do when saying goodbye and no matter what you feel, it's no excuse for incivility.

Her shoulders drop and her head bows and, in those last few seconds before the doors snap shut, her body tells you she understands, that she accepts your reasons, that she's sorry. Her posture is meek and passive; agonizingly contradictory to the woman you know is hidden behind that icy, professional exterior.

But it doesn't matter. It's over now - as it should be. You turn away, go back into your office and shuffle through the stack of papers that you'd read out to her. The nails in her coffin now belong in the trash because you have no need for them anymore.

You dispose of them with no emotion whatsoever. Somehow you thought it would make you feel better. You weren't happy about having to tear her to shreds but you knew it was the way it had to be and the knowledge that it's finished once and for all should be filling your with relief but you feel nothing.

The trash can is by the window and as you let the final piece of paper float from your fingers you see her again. She's standing on the sidewalk, probably waiting for a cab, but her hands are at her face and even though you're several stories above ground you know exactly what she's doing.

Crying.

You'd thought you would be able to do this; thought it would be easy because it was inevitable and you'd have no choice but the pain of seeing her face buried in her hands, knowing that you've caused her to cry, rips through your chest and leaps into your throat, strangling you.

Sorry, sorry, I'm so sorry explodes through your mind faster than the pleas of five minutes ago and your head howls with the receptiveness of your desperation. Your hands grip the window latch, ready to unlock it and scream down to her that you're so sorry, that you need, that you want, that you lo-

But your tongue is too big for your mouth and the words get stuck; trapped behind the defensive wall of loneliness that you've erected to save yourself, and you close your eyes against the torrential thunder in your head and you bury it all away, never again to see the light, never again to hurt you.

Stop, you beg, closing your eyes and holding your hand over your chest to slow your heart. Stop.

And... finally... finally... your emotions become quiet, and crystal clear clarity slowly fills the aching recess.

You're never going to get it right with this woman because you're never going to be in the same place at the same time.

Maybe there were moments - brief flashes when you were both indeed right there but she was going one way and you were going another and you saw it - could have seized it. But you were never very good at Latin and you convinced yourself there would be other times. As much as it seemed right you ignored the signs because... because you just did.

So maybe all those times you were smart. Unconsciously, you realized it would have ended at some point. Your passing ships would have drifted apart and whatever tether keeping you together would have eventually rotted away under the strain of two very different people who were actually exactly the same but could never admit it.

Your fingers are making smudgy marks on the glass, leaving smears that some random person on a salary probably a hundred times less than yours will have to wipe away later that night. You rub at the glass with the sleeve of your shirt, because even if it means nothing, it still might mean something to someone.

As your arm passes over the glass a final time, you see a cab pull up and she bends down, opens the door, and climbs in. One leg first, long and slim, an arm, torso, hips, the other leg; you close your eyes for a beat and when you open them all you can see is her small hand, pulling the cab door closed.

There's a hollowness in your gut and you wonder why you even should care that you probably won't ever see her again. The cab pulls out into the traffic and you turn away from the window because there's nothing to see anymore. There's no reason to care about the fortunes of Donna Moss anymore because she's finally gone from your life.

One day, not too far in the future, someone will ask you how Donna is and you'll scratch your head and have to ask Donna who? and when they add her last name, you'll dredge up the long forgotten memory and you'll shrug and say you have no idea. Because you really will have no idea how she is or even where she is. What's more... you won't even care that you don't know.

After all, she's just a kid who once worked in your office. Nothing more.