So, this story idea has been in my head for a while now. It's not a story, really, just a series of drabbles about measuring life as Seasons of Love describes. I started, keeping all the pieces separate, on no particular timeline. However, I couldn't help but connect two of them. Hope you enjoy.

How do you measure, measure a year?

In Daylights

Sometimes Roger doesn't see daylight. He doesn't notice much anymore. Before, he had a spark of daylight living with him constantly, waking up in his bed, singing off-key in the shower, wearing his pants, rolled up and tightened with a leather belt around her small frame. But daylight faded, leaving only some dark stains on the bathroom floor. The blinds in Roger's room stay drawn, constantly. Sometimes he doesn't leave his room all day, save only to use the washroom. He often forgets to eat, to take his AZT. Time shapes itself in weird ways around Roger, and he doesn't notice it passing. Roger misses daylight.

In Sunsets

"Keep them closed. Just a few more steps. I promise, Joanne, it's worth it."

"Maureen, it's freezing out. Are we on the roof? Can I please take this off?"

"Ok, stand here. There. Now you can look."

"Oh my God."

"I know."

"It's beautiful."

"I know."

"Oh, Maureen. I haven't seen something this beautiful all year."

"I see something this beautiful every day."

In Midnights

My shift starts at seven, and ends at midnight. It's the early shift, which is lucky. Some girls dance from twelve to five. By that point, most of the patrons are either passed out on the sticky, cigarette butt covered tables, or have already stumbled out into the night. The club closes at six, when the bouncers start throwing out hung over guys by the armful. But at midnight, the party is still rocking, the men are still horny as hell, and the tips are generous. I know that if I stay here for a few years, I'll eventually end up on the late shift. The older girls, the ones who are beginning to show their age work the late shift. I see them come in as I pack up for the night, tired already and fed up with the club's smell. But I don't plan on becoming them. Even without the drugs and the AIDS and the second hand smoke, I know I'll be long gone from this world before I'm ever given the late shift. I'm a shooting star, fast and beautiful and gone before you know it. I have midnight and I'll stay there until I finish burning my way across the sky.

In Cups of Coffee

Every single day, three hundred and sixty five times a year, Mark Cohen makes a pot of coffee. He drinks one cup himself, and leaves the rest for his roommate. More often than not, the rest of the pot goes down the sink, cold and untouched. Mark knows he could easily make a single cup for himself, leaving Roger to decide whether or not he wants to wake up today. But he doesn't. Every day he makes a pot of coffee, and every day he takes only one mug of it.

In Inches

"Hello, baby. How was your day?" Angel leaned down to kiss Collins' cheek gently as he flipped a page, then closed a book with satisfaction.

"The usual," Collins said as he stood up, pulling Angel into his embrace. Suddenly, he stopped and took a step back. "This is new," he said. "Since when are you taller than me?"

Angel grinned at him. "Six inches," she said, holding out her foot for inspection.

"Damn, girl. Those heels could do some damage."

"Exactly. They're a wonderful defense weapon. I'll never have to worry about being mugged again."

"That," Collins said, "is excellent news. However, we now need to fix this matter of height. Unacceptable."

In Miles

It's about two thousand miles from Santa Fe, New Mexico to New York, New York. The drive is about a day and a half, nonstop. I got home in two, sleeping in my car and eating at fast food places along the endless road. I didn't have much. Santa Fe had not been kind to me. I carried the clothes on my back, a few changes in a duffle bag, a bottle of pills and a song in my head. The melody followed me across the country, the cords playing off the wires in my brain with no guitar to come from. Words didn't come until I crossed into my home state. I knew these words. They were easy. They were mine.

I hear it, my song!

In Laughter

Laughter is the best medicine. Sometimes she believes it without question. The way long, dark curls seem to stick up every which way in the mornings make her laugh. The messages left on the steamed up bathroom mirror bring forth silent amusement. She knows that she hears the best laugh in the world daily. But she can't help but wonder who else hears it. When the apartment is dark and silent, she imagines hearing the audible tinkling from somewhere else, far from her side. The laugh, spilling in from someone else's bedroom as she waits, routinely, for the sound to come back to her again.

In Strife

Mark, Collins and Maureen sauntered down the dirty streets of Alphabet City, ignoring the grime in exchange for the sudden summertime sun in the middle of an otherwise dreary April.

"Mo, don't look now, but those guys are staring at you. Want me to tell them that they've got more of a shot with Collins?"

"Do I detect bitterness?" smiled Collins as he and Maureen followed Mark's gaze across the street before he stopped in is tracks. "Shit."

"What?" his friends asked at the same time, staring at their friend's usually cheery face that had suddenly gone pale.

"Those are the guys who mugged me on Christmas Eve. The one guy, with the long hair – I'd know him anywhere."

"Well," said Mark uneasily, "they can't go after you here. Not in daylight, with us with you."

"You should get them back," put in Maureen, who was still staring defiantly back at the men.

"No way, Maureen. The first ass-kicking hurt my pride enough."

"Come on, Collins! This is war! We'll go with you, right Mark?"

"Maureen, I don't think-"

"Fine," said Maureen firmly. She examined her tall black boots before stomping the heels on the ground a few times. "I'll be back in a minute. I want to try something Angel taught me."

Measure in Love

She hadn't ever said it before, because she had always considered it cheesy, overused, overrated. It lost its meaning ages ago, the first time she steamed up the windows of a boy's old Ford. I love you, he had said, which she knew he didn't. He wanted her to say it back, which she refused to do. I love you turned into Get out, and so started a trend. She never said it, and eventually, they all stopped saying it back.

Now, cold and delusional with sickness and relief, she grips his hand tightly. She weighs the words on her tongue – they don't feel so heavy. It's right, she knows, to say goodbye. Anyone else and she wouldn't bother.

"I should tell you, I love you."

And it's okay. She'll die, maybe. If not now, even, then soon – in days or weeks or months. But it doesn't matter anymore. Because now she can measure life the one way she couldn't before.

I love you. I love you.

I love you.

This is the part where I beg you for reviews. But I would never do that to my dear readers, oh no. I'm too far above that. I will not remind you that comments, both good and constructive, are much appreciated. It will not happen.