A/N: This is just a drabble from Clare's POV. I got a sudden, short burst of inspiration, so I typed while I had it. I hope it makes a tiny bit of sense.

Oh, and I just want to state some kind disclaimer for those who tend to get a little antsy (not on any of my stories specifically, I just tend to go through reviews on other's) when there seems to be a bias POV. It's different when you rant and rave about your own opinion's on the show in A/N. You can expect backlash from that, always, any time you say something that someone might disagree with. But I would just like to say that though fanfics do portray bias point of views, remember that it is what it is: fanfiction. And that stories don't always reflect opinions of the author. I have fics where Clare is made to be the hero, where Eli is made to be the hero, and fics that just have a whole lot of self loathing. I've never claimed that Eli and Clare in my fanfics are particularly IC. I just come up with scenarios, dive deep into a mix of what I would feel in that situation and what I think that character might feel in that universe. I'm just letting you all know that I do not favor either Eli or Clare, as I understand that they've both made their share of mistakes, and I love them both equally. I'm not here to go into any opinions because honestly I do enough of that on tumblr. I just thought that this needed to be said.

Enjoy, or cry or whatever. I haven't exactly been writing fluff. God, I miss Canned Peaches. Someone force me to stop being so depressing.

It usually starts out with nothing. Just a wide, blank expanse of absolutely nothing, and for some reason, I'm scared. I'm scared because I can't see anything. I have no future, no past. I don't even have the present. I can barely remember who I am, and if I try too hard, I wake up. I wake up from the most terrifying dream I will ever have. I hate waking up, though. The darkness of my room contrasts with the blinding white behind my eye lids, and I feel as if I've just come inside from playing in the snow without tinted goggles.

But sometimes, if I wait, if I will myself to relax, even a tiny bit, I'll continue to dream. What else can I do, really? I just stand, and I wait, because I know something's coming, though I can never remember what it is until the moment it happens. The moment when I see you walk out of the white fog, your face brightly alight and beautiful, that's when everything comes flooding back. You don't say anything to me as I take you in, your wide smile and glowing eyes intoxicating me a little bit. But that doesn't mean it hurts any less to see you that happy, and for some reason, that makes me hate myself. I hate myself because I hate to see you happy. That's pretty messed up, you know? All you've been is sad and upset and angry, a mix of undistinguishable emotions all tied up together in a big knot that people don't want to take the time to work out. So instead of trying, they just deem you crazy.

I know from experience that that's so much easier.

And now, right there in my dream, you're standing in front of me, and you're smiling that smile that I've only seen a couple of times. I remember it from when I told you that I loved you for the first time, and once more when I watched you sit in the audience of our school's annual award show, unable to take my eyes off of you even though I was supposed to be looking down at my speech cards. The funny thing is though, it's not your lips that let me know it's a special kind of smile. I know when it touches your eyes, your cheeks, your nose, every part of you. It looks so alive, and for a brief moment, I feel that you're the most beautiful thing that has ever lived, or ever will live.

That's the kind of smile you're smiling in my dream, and I hate it.

I hate it so much, but I'm so drawn in by it. And so I reach out to touch your face, almost afraid that you'll dissipate into the white blankness. But you don't. My fingers stroke your cheek and the skin is soft and warm. I feel your hand clasp over mind, and I almost feel like weeping when you lean your face into my palm. You're so real, but you're not, and I won't know until I finally wake up.

That's usually when the white starts fading, and that makes me happy.

But you start fading too, and I try to tell you to stay with me, but you don't, because I don't have a voice. I can't make a sound. You start to feel less and less solid, and as soon as I blink, I'm standing in the dark. Somehow, it's better than the white, but so much worse when I realize that you're no longer here. There's no such thing as light here. No such thing as special smiles, or any smiles at all for that matter. Everything is blank, just like before, only this time, I won't be able to see whatever comes for me out of the darkness. I can feel it, the jolt in my stomach, the urge to flee. And just before I'm bolted back into reality, I feel a whoosh of wind right in front of me, as if I've barely escaped something's grasp. Maybe it's death. Maybe it's manic depression. I'm not sure, but I'm left sweating and gasping for air beneath my comforter, and it hurts so much. Because I know you're real, you're alive, but that smile, that special smile…it's reserved for someone else now. And I hate that. It's so selfish, but I've never hated something so much. Because I am selfish. I expected you to wait for me, wait while I got myself together.

I guess you got tired of waiting.

I usually try to go back to sleep for hours after this thought, unable to do so deeply but enough to be able to dream, over, and over, and over again. It's like torture, but it only comes at night, as soon as I drift into unconsciousness.

Just a white, blank expanse, myself in the middle, waiting for something that I can't remember, knowing that it will always slip right through my fingers.

Reviews give me this little happy feeling in the pit of my stomach and let me know that I'm doing something right...or wrong.

ahem.