It was depressing, really. I was laying not ten feet from your mattress, listening to your soft and even breathing, and I couldn't sleep because I just couldn't stop thinking of you. I saw you and spoke with you on a daily basis, and yet I couldn't tell you my feelings. My own self loathing and fear of rejection held me back. If you could hear me now, I'm sure you'd laugh.

'Look at poor little Twister! He can't even tell the one he loves how much he's in love with him! How pathetic.'

I snort softly and turn on my side, away from the cause of my insomnia, away from you. The floor is uncomfortable, and my shoulder is throbbing, but I accept it because it's helping to distract me from you. I don't know how I'll tell you in the morning that I didn't sleep at all. You'll question me about the bags under my eyes (you will right? you will because you care, right?..right?) and why I'm looking so pale. And then I'll explain to you that I've been living off of energy drinks and quick sugar fixes for the past two weeks. I'll explain to you that I just can't sleep anymore because you're always there inside my head, finding a way to crawl into my thoughts and keep me awake. And maybe you won't laugh at me. Maybe you'll comfort me and tell me that you're here to help me with this, because that's what friends do. Even if I want more. But it will be okay, because just having you ten feet away from me is good enough sometimes. And somewhere along my thoughts, I don't want to ruin what we have.

I hear your alarm clock going off, and I squint my eyes shut and try my best to look as if I'm just waking up. I fling my pillow a few feet away from me quickly and I rid myself of the sheet I was using and sprawl out on your floor. I can hear you groan and slam your fist into the beat up alarm clock. I can hear the squeak of you climbing off your mattress and the soft footfalls as you cross the floor and you stop in front of me. There's soft breathing, but you're not 'waking' me. Your actions confuse me, and I accidentally flutter open my eyes and stare up at you. You appear to be confused for a moment, then you slap on a grin.

"Mornin'," you say brightly and you reach out a hand to help me up.

I rub my eyes wearily and clasp your hand and lift myself to my feet with your help. I can feel my spine tingle and a soft blush caress my face as your strong calloused hand wraps around my small and smooth one, but you don't notice because you're looking across the room, away from me, and something in me tells me it's deliberate. Another part of me just tells me it's coincidence. As you walk away I cast a defeated and longing look to your back, because I know deep down within me that you'll never look back to see if I'm following you.

I suddenly feel nauseous and I feel the need to get out of your room, out of your house, out of this everything.

I don't know what to say during breakfast, so I just sit there poking around through my omelett. By the time you've finished yours, I've taken two and a half bites. You cast me a quizzical stare, and I shrug.

"Had a big, er, lunch yesterday," I say, breaking our eye contact. I can't look at you for too long anymore.

"You..." you trail off, unsure of what to say exactly, "you didn't eat lunch yesterday. And you said you weren't hungry at dinner when we hung out with the others,"

I begin to fidget in my seat, uncomfortable where this conversation was going.

"Twist," you pause again. Is this conversation making you as uncomfortable as it's making me? "is.. everything alright?"

And I just can't do this anymore. My face falls into my hands and I sob.

"No," I croak out, "everything's so wrong."

I don't know how long I sit there sobbing into my hands, but when I begin to calm down and I look up, you're looking away from me. You don't even ask what's bothering me. You don't soothe me. You do nothing.

And I know deep down that's what I really expected of you. Otto Rocket, hardcore sports man, Mr. No Empathy, how could I have ever expected you to care for something? How could I have expected you to love me?

After a beat you look back to me, and I smile.

"Let's go surfing," you say. But my body is on auto-pilot, and I'm at war with myself.

I nod, even though I don't want to go surfing.

I just want to dissapear.

Bah. I've had a huge case of writer's block. I'm quite satisfied with this.

I wouldn't suggest you getting your hopes up for a next chapter for a couple of months though.

At least I'm nice enough to warn you.

Review if you want. I kinda really just wrote this one for myself. It's so hard finding angsty/dramatic Twister/Otto fanfiction.

Oh.

Disclaimer: I DON'T OWN ROCKET POWER. Obviously.