Death

He really did think she was beautiful.  He had thought she was amazing.  He really did.  But he had been too wrapped up in himself to see her response to his emotions, even if he had tried to keep them well hidden.  He had not understood her point of view, so he had left it, but he had enjoyed how fervently she had fought to protect her view.  She had been something amazing, exotically beautiful, strong in her bending, protective, he had appreciated everything she could have been, they could have been.  

He had used her bending.  He had broken her trust, destroyed her naïve view of him.  He had thought he would be appreciated for what he had done, or tried to do.  He had actually hoped to gain her attention even more.  

And one glance of her was enough to rekindle that.  There she was, pinning up a sign, back to him with a small innocent sway to her arms and body.  He called out to her, maybe, just maybe, everything could be righted with a few sweetly spoken words.  

Her blush had made him excited.  The accompanying wave of water and ice particles did not.  

Yet he did not give up.  He kept pressing forward, hoping, hoping, maybe she would notice the change that he had forcefully wrought in himself.  Hopefully she would accept him for what he had been.  

Then, in a miraculous moment, he saw it in her eyes.  She forgave him.  He had a chance now.  The next thing he remembered clearly was the pain of the earthbending move, the impossibility to breathe.  The worried look as she worked, trying to save him.  He had soothed her, even though he knew his body better than any could expect: he was an athlete.  He knew when something was horribly wrong, and he had long ago accepted the possibility of death.  

He had soothed her, excited by her tearful expression as she was forced to leave, Smellerbee and Longshot left as the only sentinels to his passing.  They could have happened, he realized as she left.  THEY could have truly happened.  But he had kept messing it up, first by ruining her trust, second by dying.  

Only then did he begin to fear death, when he realized that he had so much to live for.  He could have had her, could have been with her for life, the fiery girl that had pinned him to a tree and left him for dead, the girl that fought him and forgave him and could have possibly loved him.  

And as he lay dying, what he knew was only his regret that he had never told her, and that he had never truly forgiven her.  Tears filled his eyes, ones that Smellerbee wiped away.  "Bee," he whispered.  The girl leaned closer, sobbing still.  "Bee, do me a favor, okay?"

She nodded.  "Anything, Jet.  Anything!"

"Find Katara, will you?  Tell her I'm sorry."  

Smellerbee started crying harder and Jet found himself crying with her.