Janeway knelt down and placed her palm on the cold metal trying perhaps as always to bring some warmth to it. Pressed her hand down hard trying to make the letters a part of her. Silly really – those letters were burnt into her heart – her every thought – her every regret.

Salty drops flowed down her cheeks dripping into her hair. After all this time, all these years it is still as raw as if it were yesterday. Now she lay prostrate on this small piece of metal trying to make all of the pain go away.

Pain for things not said, for kisses not delivered, for love not shared. Janeway was such a good Captain they all said. But no one said what was under the uniform, such an empty woman. Shields always at full. No attack could break that barrier.

Futilely she thumped the earth – begging her heart not to break so. Begging the stars and moon and every spirit known to man to make it different. To make it not true. To make it only a nightmare. Futile because the coldness of the metal reminded her that she was not dreaming this; she was awake and conscious and all alone. All alone that is apart from her regrets and her longing and her aching void.

Her regrets have haunted her mind, a constant presence in her dreams. All it would have taken was one touch that was more than a gentle brush. One glance that lingered just that minute longer than it should have. One leap of faith that her instincts were right and true. One moment where she had put the Captain aside and listened to the woman in her soul.

Instead she had pushed the thoughts deeper inside. Barricaded them behind her role as Captain, mother, protector. Never allowed them even a moment in the light. Yet despite her will, her strength, her determination they never went away. The thoughts of gentle moments together, skin touching skin, lips pressing lips, kisses dancing playfully down her back.

Yet none of it happened. None of it is real. All that is real is this rectangle of metal, these letters raised upon the metal. All that is real is that it is too late. Too late to say I love you. Too late to say I want to touch every inch of you, to burn it to my memory, to wake and see your smile.

Instead all she has is this rectangle of metal. All she has is this desperate pain inside. All she can do is lie here and regret every second that she wasted every word she didn’t say, every feeling she has denied.

Sorrow owns her soul now and always will. Love was there once, and lust, and desire and longing. All in one place, all together in one person. And all she had to do was be brave, be honest, be true to every feeling in her heart.

Instead she did nothing. So all she has now is this rectangle of metal with the word etched on her soul, Seven.