It feels like a mistake.
	I'm driving down the coast, on my way to my uncle's place, and
I know it's a bad idea, but it's Christmas. The family demands my presence.
Makes sense, I guess. After all, I spent the past year and a half gallavanting
around the world. I think I may have gallavanted. I might have moseyed at
one point.
	How long have I been awake? The floor of the van is littered with coffee
cups. I need to crash.
	I think today's the last day of Hanukkah. Almost Christmas Eve.
	And then I drift off, thinking of her, thinking of all that red...her hair, her lips,
the dress...especially her cheeks. She was so shocked at herself.
	The grooves on the side of the payment bring me back to reality. After all,
that's over. It's been...how long? Doesn't matter. Over.
	Does she ever think about me?
	Do I really want to know the answer to that question?
	I grab the pack of smokes from the passenger seat and pull out a cig.
What? You try spending half your life in clubs and see if smoking doesn't
become a habit of yours. Besides, I feel fine. Werewolves have great lungs.
	Yep. I'm a smoker now. Sorry about that, Willow.
	Werewolf. It's been months since I've wolfed out. After...after that night,
I admit, I let myself indulge. I drove up to Oregon, found some woods way
out in the middle of nowhere, and surrendered to the moon. It was a stupid
thing to do; it took me hours to find the van again, and I nearly got busted by
park rangers a couple of times, who tend to look unkindly on naked people
in their national parks.
	No, nowadays I'm a good wolfboy. I take my herbs and I meditate like a
mother and the full moon passes like nothing.
	Listen to me. I'm babbling. Well, inside my head, anyway. Luckily, the filter
between my brain and my mouth is mighty strong. Somehow it all comes out as
"Yeah" or "Mmm-hmm" or other single syllables.
	It's twenty miles to Sunnydale.
	It's okay. It is. It's not like I'm going to turn off the highway. It's not like
 I'm going to drive to her house, or dorm, or wherever she is. It's not like I'm
going to beg her to come with me.
	Because I'm not. It's too dangerous for her. And besides...there's
what's-her-name, too.
	I wonder. If I'd come back and smelled Xander all over her, like I half
expected to, would I have wolfed out?
	Great. Not only am I a werewolf and probably guilty of manslaughter,
I'm a homophobe too.
	Janine would be surprised. I've been rooming with her and her girlfriend
for the past few months. San Francisco's far enough away, right?
	But just close enough...
	I'm listening to a mix Janine's girlfriend made for me--all punk Christmas songs.
Odd tastes, that one. I try to lose myself in the music as Sloppy Seconds slaps the
shit out of "Hooray For Santa Claus."
	Ten miles to Sunnydale.
	I gotta stop thinking about this. Think about the family. How old is Jordy now?
He's gotta be at least three. Probably quite the little monster.
	Heh.
	Probably got a muzzle on the poor kid by now.
	Five miles to Sunnydale.
	It'll be nice to see the family, though. Mom and Dad...I've been sending them
postcards from the road. They didn't believe it when I sent 'em the postcard with the
biggest ball of twine in Minnesota on it...but you learn something new every--
	Oh.
	Oh, God.
	I pull the van into the breakdown lane and kill the engine. I step out onto the
pavement; a minivan nearly turns me into paste and I barely notice it. I look out at
Sunnydale. I'm half a mile from the turn-off.
	I can smell her.
	I can smell her from here.
	That unique book-pencil-herb-green-tea-soap-and-water smell cuts through the
exhaust and the stink of the highway.
	Maybe...maybe she's not with her anymore. Maybe it'd be different this time.
Maybe--
	I stand there on the side of the road for a minute or two, my eyes screwed tight,
her scent filling my nostrils.
	And then I get back in the van. I start the engine and drive past the turnoff.
	Somewhere down there, she's with her friends, with the Scoobies, with
what's-her-name, and she's not worried that her werewolf ex is about to show up.
	Happy Holidays, Willow.

All of this is copyright Joss Whedon, except the stuff that isn't.