"You've been acting awful tough lately, smoking a lot of cigarettes lately. But inside, you're just a little baby." –Marina Diamandis, "I Am Not a Robot"
Sam watches the smoke curl up around her, shading the stars above in a grey haze. The ground is hard and cold against her back, but she hardly takes notice of it anymore. She doesn't know how long she's been out here, how long ago she snuck out of their bedroom to lie out on the terrace in the middle of the night. She pictures Cat curled up in Sam's bed, her arms empty and groping, waiting for Sam to return. She can see so clearly Cat's face in her mind, long lashes fluttering against tan, strong cheeks. Frustrated, she takes another long drag of her cigarette and watches the smoke billow away. The stars shine just as brightly through the smoke, but it's easier to ignore them when she tries to cover them up.
She doesn't remember taking up smoking. She'd never even considered buying a pack of cigarettes when she was up in Seattle. Hell, even now, she can hear Carly's voice, disapproving and stern, and see the concerned, disappointed look on her face. But things were easier then. In Seattle, she knew who she was. Her world was defined by simpler things, by Carly's laugh and Spencer's caring smile and putting dead fish in Freddie's locker. She had no expectations, not from Carly, not from herself, not from her mother, and she was content to just be. Anything that bothered her was certain to go away, and she was strong enough to handle anything, so as long as she had her friends by her side. She was Sam Puckett, and she was sturdy and dependable, like a cliff against the ocean. But here…here things are different. Here nothing is defined, nothing is expectable. Here everything is Cat, Cat, Cat, Cat, and Sam hates it. She hates how she crumbles so easily, how Cat has softened her, how she takes care of her, how she had to start smoking just to keep herself from shaking too hard and falling apart.
Sam isn't afraid of anything, but she thinks she might be afraid of Cat.
Briefly she wonders what time it is, wonders if Cat has noticed she's missing. Cat's bed has been neatly made for weeks now and Sam can't remember the last time she'd slept in her own bed. The smoking and Cat's companionship in her bed seem to go hand in hand. When she tries to map out a timeline, those two events fall around the same time, just after Yay Day, just after she'd cried in Cat's arms, her most vulnerable display of emotion to anyone, ever. This time, when she takes a long drag of her cigarette, it's angry and quick. She exhales again and the stars blur under the cover of the smoke. Sam squeezes her eyes shut and tries to feel better.
She doesn't.
Everything starts and ends with Cat here, a concept she doesn't understand. Everything reminds her of Cat, her motorcycle parked a few feet away with her (she can still feel Cat's arms around her waist that first time they rode together), the sweatshirt against her skin (Cat wore it once, and now her scent is permanently attached to the fabric), the cigarette in her hand (a painful, jolting reminder that she's not in control of everything she does, everything she feels). Some days, she wishes she could leave. She knows she could. It would be so easy, cutting the cords, and she pretends that it wouldn't hurt her to do just that. She's not afraid of being hurt, not really, but she's afraid of hurting Cat. She's afraid of Cat waking up one morning and coming into the kitchen, all smiles and soft good mornings, and finding that Sam isn't there. She's afraid of Cat, the panic slowly rising in her chest, as she rifles through Sam's empty drawers, looking for any sign that she was ever there to begin with. She's afraid of Cat, staring numbly into every corner of their apartment, filled to the brim of memories with them.
So she doesn't leave. She's Sam Puckett, and she's tougher than this. Tougher than Cat, tougher than her feelings, and tougher than being afraid of being out of control. This won't bother her, it can't. She tells herself that every single day, yet she smokes a cigarette and tries to sort her thoughts every single night. She worries that she's losing herself, that she doesn't know who she is here, with Cat. Even more troubling, sometimes she thinks that she's the most herself when she's with Cat, laughing with her, comforting her, protecting her, simply being with her. But is that so wrong? Everyone has a picture of who they think they're supposed to be, a perfect, self-created image of them, without fault and without the judgment of others. But everyone's image is created from what others think of them. Sam's never cared what other people thought of her, not her mother or Freddie or Mrs. Benson. She knew who she was and what she wanted, knew the path that was laid out for her. Cat changed all that the moment she laid eyes on her, and now Sam is falling, no sense of who she is or what's in store for her. Her only permanents are the cigarette on the terrace and the stars in the sky.
Cat is permanent, too, even if Sam doesn't always think that's a good thing.
She can't leave. Running away won't solve anything, will just make her the coward she fears she is. She can't stay. Being here with Cat will destroy her, will let Cat continue to find the kinks in her armor until there's none left, and Sam will have to come clean, to face her feelings and face Cat. She doesn't think she can do that either. She's not naïve enough to pretend she doesn't have feelings, but ignoring them helps. She can't run away from Cat, can't run away from what she feels, not forever. She can't pretend that everything is normal, pretend that she's too tough, too Sam to feel what she's feeling (not when she's not even sure who Sam is anymore).
Sometimes, she is vulnerable. Crying with Cat, crying over Cat, smoking cigarettes on the terrace because she's so overrun with emotion, taught her that. She's always thought of being vulnerable as being weak, but now she knows that it's just being human. No one can stop how they feel, no matter how hard they try. Feeling something, truly and deeply, is no weakness. The strongest people Sam has ever met are those who can admit what they're feeling. She can't hide from what she feels forever and that doesn't make her vulnerable, does it?
No, she decides, it makes her real. And being real, being Sam, even a Sam she didn't think she could be, a Sam that Cat depends on and believes in, is better than being lost, or not being herself at all.
She's reaching the end of her cigarette, and the chill of the night starts to settle in her bones. She becomes more aware of the ground against her back and the exhaustion settling in the pit of her stomach, slowly spreading upward and threatening to overtake her. She takes the final puff of her cigarette and then stands up, grinding the remains of it into the ground with the heel of her foot. Tossing her head back, she takes one last look at the sky above her. It never looks the same when she looks up, and when she looks back down, things are different here, too.
The apartment is dark and empty as she pads through, her feet cold against the hardwood floors. She tiptoes into the bedroom, shutting the door quietly behind her and sliding into bed with practiced silence. Cat doesn't stir and Sam breathes a sigh of relief, rolling onto her side (away from Cat and far enough away from her scent and her warmth). Her nightly routine stays safe, at least for one more night, and she closes her eyes, secure. Just as she is about to slip away, leave her thoughts behind, she feels Cat's arms slip around her.
And everything about her feels whole.