A/N: This story starts in the summer before season three.

I squeezed my eyes tighter in vain; there'd be no more sleep that bright morning. Stretching in a very feline manner, my back arcing up away from the mattress with a gentle sigh escaping my lips I opened my eyes to the fresh beautiful morning, dust dancing in the sunlight above me, casting a very soft atmosphere. This was going to be a good day, sitting up my contentment disappeared as quickly as it had emerged, seeing the bare wall opposite my bed sent me crashing back down into my pillows; feeling very much as though someone had barreled into my stomach my breath came out in jagged pants. The photos formerly on my wall depicted a family, a happy and beautiful family. My family. Mornings were the worst, waking up and briefly forgetting that my world had crashed down around me; the hitting realization of reality.

Walking down the stairs I felt awake, too awake. I didn't ever feel that awake anymore. As the porch came into view I looked at it, I had glazed over it before but today I was awake. Letters were piled on the door mat, masses and masses of letters; a mountain that I couldn't bear to look at because it provoked thoughts and I had strictly forbidden myself from any such thoughts. Entering the living room that I spent my days in I absorbed its state, which pretty much didn't exist. It looked as though no one lived here, dust lay thick on the surfaces, no photographs portrayed a family, no mess showed signs of use. I ran my hand through my hair feeling a huge desire to grab and pull. I sat in the left armchair of this room every day, occasionally the food deprived pain of my stomach would draw me to the kitchen where I would open a tin and eat the cold food, and these cupboards were running low. Even old Mother Hubbard had more food. Other than that I did nothing, I thought nothing; I was nothing. I'd sit in my chair until the room around me fell dark and then I would walk to my bedroom and sleep.

I couldn't bring myself to follow my routine today; the haze that I had been living in seemed to have lifted.

Instead of walking further into the living room I ran back up the staircase, I looked around frantically on the landing, the energy that had been lying dormant suddenly coursing through me. I couldn't stand this house, this shell; I needed to be somewhere different. I couldn't leave the house; part of me still cringed away from the idea of going near those thought-provoking letters. I surveyed the closed doors around me, my own bedroom, the bathroom, the spare bedroom, the linen cupboard, my fath- my father's office, my parent's room. I looked away from those doors as if their very sight scolded me. My eyes landed on the last door in the landing, the door I hadn't been through in many years, the room that held no recent –painful- memories; opening the door I was faced with the colorful steps of my childhood, I had painted each step a different shade of pink. Walking up the staircase I felt my chest relax, the familiar creak of the 'squeaky step' felt somehow reassuring, not as reassuring as the room beyond it though. The old cream carpet lay out in front of me, still bearing the marks of my nail polish phase which I had 'cleverly' disguised with a pink fluffy rug. I found myself looking around in wonder at everything: Shuffling through a pile of young teen magazines clumsily piled beside the double bed with its brass fittings that I had painted white, the poles of which still baring the residue of those stickers you get in the very magazines beside it. I sat heavily onto my bed, and gazed around at everything else; the dressing table scattered with cheap makeup, the loping ceiling marking it as an attic, the poster on that very sloping ceiling of Jesse McCartney and Brittney Spears, the chunky stereo sitting on my chest of draws with piles of CDs stacked beside it, the huge window overlooking our neighbours identical house, the lava lamp, teddies, books and old photographs adorning the shelves.

The room was untouched, as though my child self-had just stepped out and never returned, which was precisely what had happened.

I had shed this room and all of its belongings just as I shed my glasses, braces, science books, pigtails and Lucy.

I walked out and never looked back.

I promptly flung myself onto my old bed though in the next moment was regretting that impulse; squarely in front of my face standing proudly on my bedside table was a framed photograph of me and my parents, me in a ballerina outfit with braces and all, my father's stern but proud face looking down on me and my mother's grinning figure walking towards us. I could already feel the tears streaming down my cheeks as I shot straight off of the bed and grabbed the photo, running down stairs I flung my parents' bedroom door open and threw the photo inside. Collapsing against the doorway I let reality wash over me, drowning me in my own tears. I let the memories replay in my head:

My mother greeted me with a very uncharacteristic smile as I entered the kitchen. I watched her intently, only glancing down occasionally to ensure no milk spilt or I'd picked up the appropriate jar; yes this was very uncharacteristic, at least since dad died, it had become rare. A rare beauty that I felt inclined to cherish, drink in whist it lasted. Mum was most beautiful when smiling, washing away all signs of age, of pain. I sat across the table from her and began to eat breakfast as she was, her fingers moved gingerly, tearing off pieces of toast, lifting them to her mouth and several times leaving them hanging there until they were all but forgotten about, she'd look down moments later with an expression of such surprise from seeing the toast there that I would have laughed if I had not been so worried about her. She'd proceed to drop the toast piece onto her plate and start again; it took her twice as long to finish her toast as it had taken me. I waited, still sitting when I had finished, an overwhelming need to talk to her, small talk, anything but at each attempt the simple words caught in my throat. We are so very dysfunctional. Her smile had become stiff, her eyes misty so that the effect had become almost creepy.

"Mum…" The words escaped before I had considered a follow up sentence

"Yes?" She looked up at me quizzically; her face unnaturally animated as though she were wearing an amusingly exaggerated theatre mask, although this was not amusing in the slightest.

My chest tightened as I struggled to find casual words that were not begging her to be normal; for us to be normal. It dawned on me that we'd never be normal again. Were we ever?

"Why didn't you use butter?" as the thought struck me, it spilled out. I would never have said that, I would have thought about it and concluded it as being involved in the topic we never speak about, the topic that had become blasphemy in this house; dad.

"I couldn't…" Her face dropped comically fast and I could have shot myself in that moment.

"I, well I tried to pick up the butter but, your dad, and I. The weather is nice today isn't it? You can really tell its summer now can't you?" She acted as though her statement where coherent and forced her smile back in place.

It hit me then that she hadn't used butter or any other condiment for that matter because my farther had always used excessive amounts; it was his 'thing', his little quirk that stood out against his strict personality. He'd come over to the kitchen table with his toast over-flowing with butter or jam. We avoid remembering him as much as physically possible.

"Yes" It came out as a mashed up mumble.

My mother nodded once, as though my voice had not cracked.

I left her then, just as the mist began to visibly cover her eyes again, just as her cheeks contorted in such a way that her smile looked stiff again. I left her and went to my room. I spent all day in my room, listening to music, trying to sing like I used to. Opening my mouth and willing the song to come out, instead broken sobs erupted and I ended up curling into the fetal position shaking to my core. Everything bombarded me; thoughts of my missing baby, wrapping my arms around the bump that no longer existed, thinking about woman who would be holding my baby, that thief. I thought about my farther, the man I spent over half of my existence trying to be perfect for, the man I loved more than the world, the man who turned me away when I needed him most. The man who now lay in the coffin. Isn't one person your world revolves around being torn away enough for anybody? But no life, karma whatever it was had taken everything; my baby, my boyfriend, my farther and now my mother. She's not really my mother anymore, she's a shell of a person; worse than the woman who didn't protect me, who let me slip through her fingers.

I noticed that the room had grown dark around me, I sat up bolt right. I had not expected this, I expected to be interrupted my mother calling for dinner, by the routine we had slipped into after his death. Perhaps mum had well and truly fallen off the theoretical cliff now? But she still needs to eat, to live. I decided to go down stairs, cook dinner for us, to take as much of the load off as possible. Walking through the hallway I could feel an overwhelming pressure as though the air around me was pushing in, attempting to suffocate me. I don't know how I knew something was drastically wrong but subconsciously I did. I ran through the rooms of our house frantically, somehow knowing I wouldn't find her.

She was gone and she didn't come back for me, didn't say goodbye. She left me all by myself grief ridden and abandoned.

Suddenly my clothes felt constricting, my collar choking me, the denim of my jeans immersed in the stench of sorrow; I ripped them off and ran to the bathroom. When I returned to my 'new' room I was clad in a loose white tee that fell from my slender shoulders with every movement and soft shorts, I stood in the mirror staring unseeingly. This is it my new life, fresh start. Hidden away in my attic I could be myself again, slowly let my soul fill this empty shell once more. I deserve at least that don't I? Once the steady trickle from my hair down my back became too much to bear I flipped my head over and began to dry it, I felt my voice swell up in my throat, my breath became jagged until I let my voice explode out harmonizing with the hum of my hair dryer. An old habit, an old song. For once I let it just happen. Britney spears; oops I did it again echoed around the room in but moments, my body reacting to the vibrations of music running through the room, I let myself commit to dance moves I had always vowed the public would never see. Turning off the hair dryer from my bone dry hair I ran to the stereo and cranked up my Britney album. Feeling very much like a character from crossroads I jumped on to my bed, hair brush in hand and synchronised my jumping to the beat of my songs. Free-falling back onto my bed I began panting and immersed myself in my adrenaline buzz, a musical laughter that had been gone for so long that it felt almost foreign chimed in with Britney's rendition of hit me baby one more time. And I felt like my 10 year old self, chubby cheeks, braces and glasses. Feeling as natural as if I were really in 2005 I rummaged through a box I had shoved under my bed and pulled my old glasses on. I stopped using my contacts as suddenly as I had stopped living when my father died, finding a blurry, soft edged world far easier to cope with; though not easy enough. So my glasses brought with them the reassurance of sight, feeling more safe than I had in months I rushed to the mirror stumbling in my haste I pulled up my golden locks into a pony tail and beamed at my reflection,

"Hello again Lucy, I missed you"

The words slipped out but felt right. This is the girl my mother and father loved, I didn't let my thoughts ponder on how late I was and what that meant to me, instead I began to spin until I felt dizzy, and let my music soothe the pain. It was only after a particularly violent batch of dizziness that led to me holding the window for support that I noticed I had an audience. A dark haired boy with sparkling eyes, curls splayed across his forehead and a cheeky smile stared back at me from his bedroom window next door. I hadn't paid much attention to the arrival of our new neighbours; in fact I was comatosed with pain when they knocked on the door to greet us. But suddenly I regretted it dearly, even though the embarrassment that was now burning my cheeks. This boy was the most beautiful boy I had ever set my eyes on, yet vaguely familiar. As I felt my shock and embarrassment subside a rush of anger began to form in their place, who was this boy watching my most venerable moments as though he had a right? Just as I was preparing to break my trance and violently slide my curtains shut he disappeared, without a backwards glance he was gone. I knew then that I wouldn't have shut those curtains because longing stabbed through me and I suddenly felt I would do anything to see his angelic face once more. I stepped backwards finding myself dizzy again, only this time not from excessive twirling. That's when he popped back into the frame carrying a wad of paper which he proceeded to hunch over and did what I can only guess as scribble something onto the paper, his eyebrows slightly tensed and his eyes narrowed briefly in concentration, I found myself obsessing over his every movement, every change in expression. When he lifted the paper towards me with the words

'Howdy neighbour!'

Neatly written in looping joined up writing,

I felt a chime of laughter slip through my lips and watched his eyebrows relax as though relieved. Relieved? Why would he be relieved unless he cared about my opinion, unless I hadn't completely tainted his impression of me through my cheesy dancing? However I didn't let myself ponder it as I was already clambering over my bed to my note pad, fully aware that I must look absolutely insane as I was still in full view of the window. I managed to slow myself slightly and walk around the bed back to the window. I stared down at the pad feeling abruptly speechless now wanting to impress him but not sure upon how, I ended up showing him

'Hi neighbour, isn't she lucky?'

He looked up at me in puzzlement until I looked down and noticed my mistake; I cursed Britney spears under my breath,

'Damn it, now I can't pretend I was dancing to something cool'

Not exactly an explanation but I couldn't quite bring myself to tell him how lame I was, looking up for his reaction I was again surprised to see the words

'I love Britney'

Sprawled out clumsily, and then felt an urge to run down the stairs, out the door across our gardens into his house and kiss him. Get your head straight Lucy, we're trying to impress him, you need to concentrate. Even so I let a grin spread across my face. Before I could come up with an impressive reply however he wrote another note,

'Sweet dreams little dancer'

And with that he crossed his curtains and was gone.

Swoon, can I have him?

Turning my stereo off and crawled into bed then proceeded to stare at the ceiling replaying our strange encounter over and over.

A/N: Thoughts? Opinions? Guesses? Your reviews totally make it worth sharing my work. I more than welcome to ideas and criticisms. I rarely get criticisms but they help my work thrive so please don't hold your tongue?