Waking Up

AUTHOR'S NOTE: So, I wrote this about 7 years ago. Recently, I changed pen names (from Jada1) and moved over all of my stories to a new account. But, I couldn't leave all of my old writing behind. Hence, re-uploading this after deleting it on the old account. Hopefully someone will enjoy reading it, but please be gentle. I was in high school when I wrote this and, well, hopefully I've improved since then :)

Disclaimer: I don't own these characters, just what I make them do.

Timeline: This takes place in the beginning of Season 5 of BtVS.

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As I lay in my bed at three in the morning, in those hours between dusk and dawn, when the world is asleep and reality fades away, I let my real self out as I watch the flickering of the street lamp make the light and shadows dance on my ceiling. This is something that I've always done. First, when I was a little girl scared of the night, it helped calm me with the predictability that it would always be there; then, as a teenager, while thinking about all life had to offer; and now, as a young woman, wondering how I ever got myself into this thing some call life.

When I cannot keep my eyes on the ceiling any longer, they wander to the window, the window that he used to climb through for late night talks and kisses in the moonlight. He was my first love, and as much as I, or anyone else for that matter, try to deny it, he'll always be my only true love. You know the kind of love I'm talking about, right? That all-consuming kind of love that you want to last forever, that love that like a small, naive child, you believe will last forever. But it doesn't.

I knew that kind of love once. We met when I was sixteen. My parents had just gotten a divorce and I had moved with my mother from a big city to a small, sleepy town. At the time, I thought I knew everything there was to know about love and about life. Boy, was I wrong, because in reality, I knew little more than anyone my age.

He, on the other hand, knew a lot about life – an old soul trapped in the body of what appeared to be a young man. And while he looked only a few years older than me, he was wiser than people three times that age. He had some hard life experiences, I guess. He never really liked to talk about that part of his past. But with all that he knew about life, he knew next to nothing about love. He'd never loved anyone or felt loved by anyone, until me. That's what he told me once.

After we met, there was this instant attraction; I just couldn't get enough of him. We were together for three years, and while it wasn't always easy, I loved him the whole way.

I remember lying in bed with him. I'd be staring at the ceiling, as I had been before, and he'd be holding me gently in his arms. I'd look to his face and see him looking back at me, a small smile playing at his features. I would lay my head against his shoulder, and we'd drift off to sleep.

I think all this, as silent tears run down my cheeks. I am without him now. Too many obstacles and too much pain breached a gap that both of us eventually gave up trying to cross. We went our separate ways two years ago and when he left, he took a part of me with him.

As I look over at the man who now lies beside me, I cringe. What are you doing here? I think of myself. You should be with him, not this cheap imitation of love that everyone else says is real, I hear that little voice inside of me scream. This voice is usually nothing more than a whisper that I push away when morning's blinding light shines through my bedroom window. But now, in the soft, quietness of the still night, the voice cannot be quieted to match, and it screams to be heard over the din of my denial. I can usually ignore it for the most part, but not tonight. I look over at the man beside me, the one I don't love, and I can't help but notice all of the things that I loathe about him. The way his hair falls in front of his eyes, the way his touch feels wrong, the way his kisses always taste sour, the way that I can't seem to fall asleep in his arms. Taking a deep breath, I am struck with a moment of realization. Call it an epiphany if you want, that's what I call it.

Faster than I thought I could, I jump out of that bed, with a force so strong that I wake the man next to me. With a sleep-muddled brain, he mumbles, "What's going on?" and then, "Where are you going?" but I haven't the time to answer him. I, faster than I think I can, run out the door and to my car.

Driving the long road to my one true love, I seem to be driven by an invisible force. Some little thing inside me nags, "Unless you get there before dawn, you never will." I have to get there before that voice disappears and the reality of my world and of what I am doing sinks in.

I race to his door just as the sun starts to stretch its painfully bright rays over the horizon. I knock on the door and hold my breath as I wait for him to answer. The door swings open and he is standing there, as gorgeous as ever, with a look of surprise plastered on his face from seeing me standing there. We stand in silence for a moment before he opens the door wider and I step into his apartment.

It is now six months later and I am still lying in bed looking up at the ceiling, watching the light play with the shadows. There are differences, though. It's a different ceiling and a different bed, but the most important difference is that I'm different. I am finally back where I've always been meant to be, with the only person I'll ever love. And as I look over at him, the man laying next to me – he looks back. He pulls me tightly against him, and I lay my head against his shoulder, as we drift off to sleep, together.