Author's Notes: I was sitting around the other day, just watching TV, when Stacey Farber's Degrassi Unscripted came on. Whilst watching it, I was thinking of all the lovely little Pellie moments, and even the Lauren/Stacey moments - what is that, like, Lacey? - and realized, baam, I hadn't actually ever written a story for this amazing pairing. So, I bring one with me now. Please, if you read this story, I would really, really appreciate some feedback!
She's not broken, not really.
Cracked, maybe. A few pieces of skin, jagged and wet with salt water tears and just the slightest hint of liquid pain, caught on her sleeve, pulled from porcelain bones that are not as sturdy and self assured as portrayed, but not as shaky and frail as some people are led to believe, pushed back by toxic air and bitter wind. Just a few bits and pieces of shattered heart, unnatural colors of dark and light and some type of outcry in between, are digging into her eyes, faltering what are otherwise sparkling, beautiful pools of what can only be described as alive. There are a few edges on her face and hands and arms, surfaces that aren't as smooth and soft and glowing as they usually are, because instead the patch of skin under her eyes are puffy and dark, smudged eyeliner and tears tainting alabaster skin, and instead of cheekbones that seem soft and angled, she seems withdrawn, gaunt, darker and more roughened.
But not broken.
Because she's still got that aura around her, the slightest since of vitality and a type of jumping, neon heart buzzing inside of her veins. Her hair is still that same of color of bright light, twisted firecracker, sky illuminating crimson, that still gives the illusion that if touched, one lock brushing against uncovered skin would be corrosive and scaring but in the end, worth the slight flash of burning, worth every millisecond of skin numbing hurt. Her smile, when she has a reason to smile now, anyway, which has been seldom and feather light in significance, is still that kind of dazzling, hope filled and fused with pure, childlike joy that can not be taken away. She's still that girl who, despite what whispers are made in the hallway, despite the quickly stolen, harsh glances from the masses that will never understand a girl as magnificent and bleeding, can laugh with a tone that bounces from the walls and can walk down the hall with her head up and perfectly glossed lips moving at the speed of sound, excitedly speaking about the latest punk rock revolution.
She's not broken, but you're still trying to fix her.
It's a natural reaction, something that pure instinct and little voices in the back of your mind beg of you. You see her, still hanging on, still gripping this sharp edged life line, sitting with her legs pulled up and her chin resting on her knees, no tears on her cheeks, though they glisten in those eyes which, today, are more shatter still than sparkle livid, and you want so badly to reach out and hold her hand and sooth her. You want to glue her back together, piece by piece, reach out and measure each little square of pain, shape it with your hands, still soft and warm, whisper phrases to ease the scars, kiss and kill all the little things that brought her here today and yesterday and all the days before this. You would give anything, blood and dollar bills and breath and everything, just to fix her. Just to fix a girl who isn't broken.
You want to walk towards her, pretending to exude this sense that you know exactly what you're doing, exactly how to make everything all right again. You want to sit across from her, starring down at the grimy tiles and counting the bits of filth littering the floor until she looks up, the exact moment you do, and you meet each others gazes for the first time in two weeks. You want her to push her hands forward, until bitten down fingernails are touching perfectly manicured fingertips, and you want to close the distance, and you want her not to hesitate for a single moment when you thread your fingers with hers. You want her not to be so angry with you, not to hold a grudge, because you know she does, you know behind the gratefulness for your moment of caring, she feels betrayed, hurt that you could actually turn her in like that. You want her to keep holding your hand, and you want to look into her eyes and you want to know how to make it better. You want to know how to fix a girl who isn't broken. You need to, you have to understand what you can do, what you can say to make her okay. You want her to smile at you, that smile that makes it impossible not to grin like crazy in return, and you want to tell her that you want to make it better, and you want her to kiss you like there's nothing shattering and shaking and cracking between you, or inside of her, or inside of you.
But you can't. Because you're too afraid, too cautious, because as much as you know you need to do this, as much as you know you have to do something that will never make her want to cry again, you can't. You can't make your feet move, and you know you can't make your hand hold onto hers, and you know you can't make your body stop trembling long enough to tell her that everything is okay without making the promise stutter, and you know you can't stop your lips from sliding too nervously over hers. Not yet, not today, because you're not ready to give so much, because you'd be lying to yourself if you thought you were impervious to this breaking too, and she's not ready to accept such deep rooted, genuine love.
So you turn around, and close your eyes, and make yourself promise that one day, the first second your insides are threatening to explode into your outsides, the very moment you can think about her and keep your body from shaking, you'll be here. You'll be in that dingy bathroom stall, right across from her, holding her hand and making promises you can keep and lulling her back into the arms of a world that means safe and cared for. You turn around and you walk away, and you can't keep your mind still, can't keep yourself from breathing in such shallow air.
You want to fix a girl who isn't broken.
And you're willing to break yourself to do it.