HI. Enjoy the musings of my imagination following the end of 5x07 when Emily calls Paige. Oh, and I tend to rhyme. It's one of my super powers.

Warning/Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with ABC Family's PLL. Rated T for use of language.

School.

Where I read. Write. Add. Subtract. Multiply. And divide.

School.

Where I smell the thick aroma of chlorine. Where I strategize. Where I practice. Where I win.

School.

In this tiny fraction of life that I have known, Rosewood has given me generous opportunities. But generosity comes with a price. For every gift Rosewood gives me, penalty soon follows.

There was a brief time when I thought my gains outweighed my losses—now I reconsider. Yesterday, I fled the bane and benefice that is Rosewood High School. Forced out by a rat.

I see you roll your eyes; I see you lick your teeth. You saw it—if you didn't see it, I know you heard it. I feel you judging me. The scream. I know you heard me scream. In the locker room. I have a thing with rodents—didn't anyone tell you? Of course not. No one knows. The only thing you know is the scream. You hear it still; don't you?

I meant to ask: have you no fears? Don't lie. I know enough liars.

Superman has kryptonite. Daredevil has noise pollution. Iron Man has EMGs and Flash max velocity. Batman has bats and Paige McCullers has rats.

My fear. Have I became my fear? The rat. Batman became the bat, and I became the rat. But spare me the suit and cape—I'm not auditioning for the Nutcracker Suite.

But . . . my god what have I done? To help the girl you hate after she steals the girl you love.

It hurts so damn bad, but you do it anyway. Because you love that girl. I did it anyway, and I became the rat. I'm forced to lay low for now. There's nothing left to do but sink beneath the surface on this chilly autumn night.

My pool isn't even heated. My parents are asleep already. It's just me: this breezy Pennsylvania air. My churning stomach. My pounding headache and this flawless starry sky. There's nothing left to do but sink beneath the surface.

So I do.

I plunge down until I'm anchored at the bottom. The silence is beautiful, only the sound of water gushing around my ears and the steady beat of my heart can be heard. I want to stay like this. I wish I could stay like this. In silence. Above the surface, my cell phone rings. And rings. And rings. But mute beneath the surface. I stay as I am at thirty seconds and counting now.

And then it happened. Like an asteroid falling to the earth. As I'm surrounded by atoms of oxygen, hydrogen, and chlorine, everything hits me all at once. I feel pathetic really. I keep telling myself ... this is it, Paige. This is the last time you're going to think about her.

But it never lasts. I've lost count of how many times I've put myself in danger for her. Put a target on my back for her. Put up a fight for her. For her, I became the rat. And for what? Jesus—fuck. My eyes flutter open under water, the familiar dull burn of chlorine stings my eyes. Ninety seconds and counting.

I'm crying. I feel it. My salty tears dissociating with the chlorine anions. The pool and my tears becoming one. I've needed this. There are moments when everyone needs to cry. Well, I just need to cry. A sharp pang shoots through my chest.

How is it that the greatest source of one's happiness can also be the greatest source of one's pain? With Alison back, Emily is my virus; Emily is my cure. It's all so messed up now—sometimes I think it would be easier to forget everything we shared. Sometimes I think that would be easier.

But then I remember Emily—my cure. I remember the way her hands feel on my face when she kisses me. The dimple in her smiles. The gleam in her eyes. The sway of her hips. The gentleness of her voice. The sweetness of her laughter—I miss her laugh. God, who am I kidding? I could never forget Emily Fields. Not by a long shot.

I'm crying harder now I think. Maybe not, it's tough to say. I've never cried under water before. One hundred and eighty seconds—still counting.

My lungs are starting to stress. I try my best to relax because I'm not surfacing until I figure this out. I tell myself to hurry, but despite my intentions, two hundred and thirteen seconds is all I could bear.

I torpedo to the surface, gasping for air, rubbing the chlorine from my eyes. I take my time to catch my breath. I don't want to rush it. Moments later, I emerge, rising to my feet. Water drips heavily from my body to the cement. Goosebumps are all over me—I'm freezing, desperately reaching for my towel to dry my sopping hands.

I grab my phone from chair. It's late. I know it's late. With my towel draped over my shoulders, I wake my phone. Instantly, a notification pops up on the screen.

Missed call.

Emily Fields

My heart is in my stomach. My knees are trembling and weak from the cold. What's this? Another notification for voicemail. With shaky hands, I review the message.

"Hey, Paige. It's me."

"I heard what happened to you in the locker room."

Like pouring salt in the wound. I never wanted Emily to know about yesterday. My cheeks stung and were hot red in embarrassment and shame—a stark contrast to the bitter fall air.

"I should've called you sooner."

"I'm sorry if this was because of what you told me about Mona. Which . . . I think it was."

I became the rat for you.

"I'm sorry I put you in the middle of all this."

"If you need anything, please call me."

I don't need anything.

"Listen, even if you don't need anything, just call. Please."

"Okay, I love—"

Lub dub. Lub dub. Lub dub. My heart sputters and palpitates. It's like the world stops in this infinite moment. Her delayed pause contributes ever more. I love . . . hangs on eternity.

"I'd love to hear from you."

"I hope you're alright. Bye."

I sink to my knees. The gritty cement makes my bones ache and skin chaff, but I don't care. Why didn't she just delete that voicemail before ever sending it? God—here goes my brain, over-analyzing every detail. But seriously, why didn't she just get rid of the message before sending it? Did she just slip? Did she just make a mistake? If she did, why not just delete it?

It was her choice. She wanted me to hear that voicemail.

That's what I keep telling myself. I'm still trembling, mind and heart racing too. I sound like I have asthma. My finger lingers over the dial 4 button—closer, closer, do I need to hear it again?

Stop. Just stop. A violent car crash happens in my head. I draw a deep breath of air. This doesn't change anything. At the last second, I redirect my finger downwards and tap dial 7 before I even have a chance to reconsider.

"Message deleted. You have no new messages."

It's done.

I could've replayed that message a thousand times over, but what good would that do? As much as I fancy the idea of Emily running back into my arms, as much as I desperately wonder if deep down . . . she still loves me, as much as I want a happy ending for us . . .

I won't cling to this. I could stay up all night and weigh the pros and cons, but no. No I won't. Not anymore.

I love you, Emily.

But this time . . .

You are going to fight for me.

I rose from the cold ground, never to regret what I had done. If given a second chance, I would've done the same and that's when I finally realized that this was a turning point. My mind was at ease when I finally pulled my warm bed covers close to my body.

You'll have to do better than this, Em.

Gradually, I faded into a blissful sleep where I dreamt about the rats from the Nutcracker Suite.

Author's EndNote: Thanks for reading. Hope you enjoyed! This is my first piece for Pretty Little Liars and Paily specifically. I wanted to give a different perspective on how Paige could have responded to the message. Many people think she would replay it over and over again. And while that's possible, I think she could also have found the strength to delete it. It's going to take more than an apology to make up for this. Even if Emily does still love her, she's going to have to prove it with actions not words. Anyway, review. I'm looking for Paily prompts.

- Paily today. Paily tomorrow. Paily forever.