A.N: Oh my god. What the hell? Someone kill me now, please.

This...this thing (I'm not even sure it can be considered a story, it barely has a plot)...I have no idea where it came from. All I know is that a.) This was inspired by Chuck and Blair of Gossip Girl, especially during the second season finale, and b.) I dislike this alot, for so many reasons. It popped into my head, and when I reread it, I just got this oh-shit-did-I-really-write-this-monstrosity feeling all over me. And my mind blanked when I tried to revise it. So yeah, I dislike this, but I'm posting it anyway as a punishment to myself so that it'll serve as a reminder to never write something like this ever again. Constructive criticism is welcome now more than ever. And if you guys actually end up liking it, then...well...

I have no words to say now. On with the story. *apologizes for the drama. I just ate a lot of chocolate.*

Three Little Words

Give it up, Derek. I know the truth. It may have taken a long time for me to get here (and I never realized how dense I could actually be until this moment), but I understand it now. You don't hate me at all, at least, not anymore. You love me. I can see it in your eyes. (They never lie.)

I should be bothered, maybe even scared. You, the popular, 'invincible' Derek, could have your pick of any girl in school—and yet, you chose me, the one girl who could see right through your bullshit and call you out on it, the one who you argue with constantly over the smallest of things. Your own stepsister.

But I'm not freaking out—not as much as I should be in this situation, anyway. Why that is, I don't know. I'm just not. I suppose that's better—it'll only make me jumpy and drive me crazy (and this, you would probably say, is based on years of experience.)

My heart beats faster when you're around, now, though. Because I don't know if you've realized it, but no matter how well you mask your emotions, sometimes, you can be so easy to read. And I see it, every damn time, in your eyes: You feel something for me, and it's the exact opposite of hate.

It amazes me. Because how can you keep a secret when it's written so clearly in your eyes?

You'll insult me, make fun of me, and you'll say anything to get under my skin. But that's just your mouth working. Your eyes tell me a different story. (They're the windows to a person's soul—haven't you heard of that line yet? Or were you sleeping in class when that first came up?)

I'm curious to know, though: When did you wake up and realize that you'd crossed the line? Or are you still lying to yourself and saying that you haven't?

What gets me about this whole, twisted situation, though, is that you might still be lying to yourself, but you don't really seem to have a problem broadcasting it to other people. You can tell our friends—maybe not using those three words, yeah, but if you really, really read along the lines, it's the same thing. You sometimes tell the family, sometimes through when you put your arm around my shoulder or find a way to touch my skin when we're fighting (do you think I never noticed that?), but mostly through the times you drop the Derek-is-heartless façade and help me out (The thing about the family, though, is that most of them are clueless. Or at least, mom and George are.)

So why can't you tell me outright? Why can't you say it to the one person who matters?

I won't call you a coward, though. Because that would just make me a hypocrite. After all, how can I call you a coward for not saying how you really feel when I can't do the same thing myself?

I'm not stupid, though, and neither are you. You know that I know how you feel. I know that those things you do to help me out may have some reluctance behind them, but they're born from those feelings that you're trying to stomp away (Word of advice: Trying to get rid of them doesn't work. Take it from someone who's tried and failed.)

But you won't say it out loud, and neither will I. Not because of our family, not because there's a child on the way that's going to become a sibling to us both, not because of what society will say. I'm sure you couldn't care less about other people, and honestly, now, I don't care either.

It's not because of them. No, we won't say it because this is still a game (Yes, a game. Because we bring out the immaturity in each other), and we're waiting for one of us to break and admit it first. We're waiting for the other to yield, to admit defeat, because we don't want to be the submissive one, the loser. Because we're both so damn stubborn.

(Nothing ever comes easily for us. Why should we expect love to be any different?)

I'll let you in on a little secret of mine, though: It hurts. A lot. And I've finally had enough of the pain.

So I decide to break first, and to hell with my pride, to hell with winning the game. Because I'm tired, and if not winning this is the only way to get rid of the hurt, then I'll take the loser's position without any complaint.

We're in university, during a weekend, when it happens. The both of us are in bed, minus the clothes, plus the passion…or is it just anger that's fueling our actions? We'd been arguing a minute ago in your dorm room (and god, I don't even remember why I'm here in the first place, much less what we were fighting about), and the next, my back was against the wall, your lips on mine. (It's funny how things can progress so quickly.) It didn't take long before we moved towards the inevitable.

(Did you hear the sound of me hitting the mattress, Derek? That's the sound of breaking, of crossing the line. That's what letting go sounds like.)

I'd be lying if I say I didn't want this. I'd be an idiot if I say I didn't enjoy it. After wanting something for so long, and having it handed to you like this, what else can you do but revel in the pleasure? It's frenzied, at first, needy and angrily passionate…and then, after the pain subsides, it changes. It becomes gentle…caring. Like every kiss, every touch, every mark you made upon my skin (why do I have a feeling they won't wash away when tomorrow comes?) was made not only to claim, but also to say something. Something like…

(We say each other's names when we go over the edge. Because we've already gone this far. And there's no need to pretend anymore.)

When it's over, we stay side by side (and thank goodness your roommate's gone for the weekend), not looking at each other, and the only sound is our breathing. Finally, I break the quiet by saying your name. "Derek?"

"Hmm?" you reply, and your voice is still raw and husky.

I turn to face you and take a deep breath. "I---"

And then suddenly, my throat closes up, the words leave me, and I just can't say it.

There's a dead weight on my shoulders, and I feel my stomach sinking. My throat has suddenly gone dry, and my mouth can't form the words I want to say. But this has nothing to do with being nervous or scared—I don't feel either. I just feel…well, I can't describe what I'm feeling as of the moment. All I know is, I can't say it, plain and simple.

(My mind whispers something to me. It sounds suspiciously like, Not yet time.)

Getting a hold of myself, I shake my head quickly. "Never mind. It's nothing."

"Casey."

When I turn towards you, you grab my hand, and when I look at you, your eyes tell me one thing. I know.

We both can't say it, at least, not right now. More than just playing this game –although after this, I think the game has turned into something else entirely—we simply aren't ready yet. I want to say it, but I need to be able to say them without feeling like my throat's closed up, without feeling like I'm possibly making a big mistake—and the same goes for you. There's still so much more to say, to do, before it happens.

Forget the game. We might be able to tell everyone else, but we can't say it to each other yet, at least, not using those words. Because it's just not time.

Someday, we'll be able to say those three little words to each other. Until then, I'll have to content myself with the knowledge that there might be something for us after all, even if it's set in the future, and no matter how warped it may be. After all, we've come this far, haven't we? (Besides, who else would put up with our dysfunction?)

The words can wait. So we do nothing else but lie in the silence.