It would be a hundred days today. Spike wondered vaguely if the others knew, if they had been keeping count. Maybe he should call them up and tell them. After all, a hundred days is a milestone. They could have a party, with balloons and funny hats and a cake that says “100 Days Without The Slayer” in blood red icing.

Spike laughed to himself. Because it didn’t mean the same thing to them as it did to him. They didn’t believe he loved her, didn’t know how he felt. That the last hundred days were cold, empty and meaningless, because of him. Because he couldn’t keep a promise.