She didn't miss him.
She was positive. It just wasn't possible.
She was loner. Always was, always would be. She laughed alone, she cried alone, and she certainly did not flash him one of those secret 'accidental' smiles that no one else saw every now and then. She didn't miss him when she laughed, and she absolutely, positively did not cry just a little harder because he wasn't there.
Nope. Not a chance.
And she definitely would never admit that she couldn't tell whether it had been 730 days or the same number of years since he had, because it was absolutely not true. And, no, it was beyond a doubt not obsessive to keep count. She had just happened to notice that this was the anniversary of the second year he left, that was all. Common coincidence, and the fact that she had circled the date so hard that it engraved itself into the next seven months. She had just decided it added character, and had so continued the tradition over her next two.
His cot, which she simply hadn't had the time to take out of her room, was only made up in perfect, immaculate order because she thought it looked nicer that way. It wasn't like she was waiting for him to come back and burst with joy that she wanted it to look nice for him, not a chance. It just seemed like something to be done.
She would never tell anyone that she found herself counting the exact number of steps between her room, to the meeting room, where Professor X. had summoned him, back to her room, where he spent an hour or two, she wasn't sure and didn't care anyway, to pack and to promise her that he'd be back soon, then down to the garage, where she most certainly did not add the three steps he took on his motorcycle gear to start it. After all, that was something a crazy person did.
She didn't miss him one bit. It was inconceivable. She didn't miss him so much that her heart had acquired a slight ache which refused to leave. She was sure that she did not need him. She never had.
Just because he was gone did not mean that the feeling like someone had sliced off a piece of her heart to take as a souvenir, and then cut the rest up for fun, was related to that. The only reason she wasn't sure she knew the person in the mirror was because she had yet to get used to the new style she had acquired. And, no, when he told her he liked her face without make-up, she would never have run upstairs and scrubbed it off so hard that her face turned a rose color that he had then complimented.
Just because she spent the day waiting to hear his nickname for her did not mean she missed him. Even if his gentle teasing had made everything seem just a little better, she guaranteed, quite loudly and to the entire breakfast table one morning, she did not miss him at all.
She had never felt this way before. This way, of course, being the absolute apathy towards him. It didn't say anything that she avoided hanging out by the lake, or in the open-mike cafe that they had loved to visit. Even if she refused to look at their spot in town because she felt an uncontrollable, and inexplicable, urge to break down and sob, that had nothing to do with the fact that they had met for real there, for the very first time.
She could care less that one of his coats, complete with the queen of hearts tucked into the front pocket, lay, folded and pressed, on his pillow. Just in case he suddenly returned and needed it. And it meant even less that there was another jacket, unwashed and still bearing his special scent, lay crumpled on her closet. She knew that she hadn't woken up every night for the first three weeks, and frequently after that, and crawled to it, wrapping herself up in it and crying quietly into the collar. And she never, ever slid the beat-up deck of cards out of the pocket and just stared at it, smiling fondly at his love for solitaire, and his mad passion for poker. She didn't remember the first time she had beaten him, fair and square. She hadn't jumped up and down, squealing and causing Kitty to look in, worried.
She knew that, despite the rumors flying around the school, that she was definitely not heart-broken-ly in love with the man. She was sure that the only reason Logan growled and cracked his knuckles whenever both she and him were mentioned in the same sentence was that he was still angry at the young man for denting his bike. Not her heart, no siree.
She didn't need him. Somehow, no matter how often she announced this, be it to Kitty during a homework study session or to whoever happened to be in the library when she walked in, no one seemed to believe her. Although she made it quite clear that she was better off with him gone, they still shot her sympathetic glances. Or, at least, they did until she caught Jaime at it and knocked him...them, flying across the hall. Somehow, the Professor had not noticed this incedent, so she escaped with only frightened looks from the lost teenage boy who may or may not have only been innocently wondering why everyone was staring at her.
Besides, them being in love was ridiculous. Impossible, even. They were too different, that was the honest truth. She was the untouchable goth who had no real name or parents, he was the adventure-seeking, handsome, molecule-charging, French-speaking, wallet-stealing, Mardi Gras-loving wild card of her dreams.
She most certainly had not given him her heart and soul, just at he had not given her everything she could want from life. Besides, when you're heartbroken, it's hard to breathe. She could breathe just fine, it just took a little more concentration than it usually did, that's all. She was completely fine without him, and she knew that the whisper through the mansion of a two-year mission coming to an end meant nothing.
And the next day, Day (or year) 731, she most certainly did not jump out of her window to the roof of the garage at the growl of a motorcycle. She did not lose her breath at the sight of a messy-haired, broad shouldered man climbing off with his back towards her.
She did not force herself to stifle a sob when she saw his face.
She did not stare into his red-on-black eyes like in a sappy romance, not moving or blinking for what seemed like ages.
She did not throw herself into the arms of said man as he turned around, just as she did not give a watery giggle at his surprised huff.
She did not almost faint at the feel of rough lips at her ear.
And she most certainly did burst into noisy, joyous sobs when he murmured, "Hello, Chere. Miss me?"
* * * *
I'm not a particularly emotional person, so bear with me as I take a deep breath to supress the fangirly squeal which would be slightly unusual at one in the morning. (Takes deep breath, then sighs) There. All gone. Mostly. Anyway, I intended this to be what I call an anti-songfic. I took When You're Gone, by Avril Lavigne, and made a mirror image of it. Someone hopelessly in love becomes someone who refuses to admit it. Besides, I wrote this to prove to myself and a friend that I actually can finish my fic, after all. Anyway, I wrote this in about an hour, which is freakishly fast for me, so don't blame me if it sucks. Actually, go ahead and blame me; I wrote the damn thing...
I left the diclaimer for the ending, because nothing ruins a good fic like someone whining about who owns what. I don't own X-Men, and given the state of the whole Marvel thing with Disney, I'm not really sure who does.
On a different note, I still don't know what Ja Ne means, and now I don't know what Moe is either. It's a conspiracy, I swear.
Reviews are appreciated, but not expected. Flames are always a nice way to keep the count up, plus they're good for lowing self-esteem. Keep 'em coming!