4.5.10: It's been a while. My mojo's off and a dear friend of mine just passed away. So I decided "Screw it. I'm going to drabble." Which I did. Hm... It's the first time I've actually written through our beloved Mr. Troy Bolton's POV. Enjoy as you wish.

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the copyrighted material mentioned in this short story.

Wake Up

—Somethin' filled up
my heart with nothin',
someone told me not to cry.

But now that I'm older,
my heart's colder,
and I can see that it's a lie.—

Wake Up by The Arcade Fire.

In a universal perspective everything that is born, must eventually die. That, of course, is not necessarily correct.

Most people would agree, that they'd want at least one thing granted in their lives to be immortal. If we could reserve one little thing, wrap it up in sparkly paper, and ship it off to Neverland for the rest of eternity, because there, it would be safe to know that it would never age, never get old.

By the time I was nine years old, I already knew what I wanted to stow away.

It wasn't destiny, and I'm pretty sure it wasn't "meant to be" either. It was a fluke. Wearing braces for eight years straight wasn't the fluke, but it just so happened that in the second grade my metal mouth caught in a pretty girl's raven hair.

I admit to staring at her whenever she wasn't looking, and immediately I'd think "Wow. How the heck did I get so lucky?", but she'd always catch me and smile, kiss my cheek, and remind me that she'll see me the next day. I'd think I was dreaming. Then I'd have a longing pain in my chest wishing she was mine. I was a routine that's lasted more than eighteen years.

Not long after, when she broke up with her first boyfriend, instead of the bubbling volcano-experiment explosion I expected, she left me with a passing realization:

She called me that night, sobbing on the other line, asking me to come over because she didn't want to be alone. So I did. And after two Nicholas Sparks' movies and three rounds of ice cream, she fell asleep on my lap and I watched her chest rise and fall peacefully, and I wished, over and over again, that I could keep this forever. I wished she was mine. But instead, I hoped she would have sweet dreams and carried her to her bedroom. She never did believe in nightmares.

I slept on her living room couch thinking, 'Would I have been tossed aside if that had been me? If I was her boyfriend? She wouldn't have called if I was the one she broke up with.' So by seventh grade, I changed my decision and made sure we'd always remain friends. I didn't care if we were best friends or had a hey-hello-bye relationship, as long as I could still be with her without having to risk being with her. Because I was a pansy.

But we weren't physically in Neverland, so we eventually had to grow up, and I grew more and more in love. She knew me like no one else, but I couldn't tell her the most important detail because I knew that in reality, I had enough power to destroy anything that really matters.

So when she married a man at the altar that wasn't me, she never knew because I never told her. That I loved her, that is.

The night of their wedding, I left early, telling her I had work in the morning.

"Oh! Are you sure?" she pouted, "Well, I'm really glad you made it. It means a lot to me."

I stared at her thoughtfully. She looked gorgeous in her dress, and but when I locked in with her soft eyes, I fought my gag reflex. I felt like throwing up. "I'm glad I made it too." Following in routine, she kissed my cheek and told me she'd see me the next day. And again, I thought I was dreaming, "Sweet dreams Gabriella." Because she never did believe in nightmares.

Was it not contradicting? Or is it just me? When you slept with sweet dreams, wasn't it a nightmare having to wake up from them? Isn't that what reality is? An awakening?

But in the present, as I hold onto her when she needed me most—more than her first break up, or her pre-wedding insecurities—I have the biggest barf of regret boiling up in the pit of my stomach.

"I-i thought we would last forever...I-I loved him so-o m-much," she sobs as I rub her back, "Why'd he have to die?!"

The coffin holding her husband lowers down the typical six foot deep hole, and she tightens her hold around my middle. But why is it, that even after the death of her husband, all I want to do was tell her how much I wished she was mine? Here I am, pathetic and alone while I still long for my best friend since grade school after the loss of her own love.

And I'm man enough to admit it, the lost innocence and reels of words buried inside people are meant to carry on and eat your insides. It's cold and unfeeling, and there's an urging rumbling inside of you that's trying to force these innocents to be honest with themselves for once and confront these things.

People never want to grow up, because after your first experiences of carelessness and purity of time, you age and see so many adults around you repressing things and not talking about whatever haunts them—because there always are. But in the end, it just breeds more pain.

So when my hour's up, I don't want any of that leftover shit on my mind, I just want to be there and be happy with my life.

I want that shifting experience that just hits you, and somehow, you know you're going to be okay. That's the moment that changes our lives.

I stroke her soft hair, remembering how it was practically the reason I met her. God, I love you. "Gabriella...I—"

"Wait. Troy," she whispers helplessly, tugging on the hem of her blouse and leaning against my chest, "I...I've L...—" she sighs, "Don't you ever feel like sometimes...Life's just a complete dream? That nothing's ever real?"

I could of told her right here. Right now.

I remember when we were younger, and she'd make the biggest deal about not believing in actual nightmares and how I always wished I could agree with her. But I knew I couldn't; she was not necessarily correct.

So I give her the most heart warming smile I can muster up and kiss her cheek, "Yeah. Sometimes." I sigh contentedly, wishing she could stay in my arms forever. "But it's too late to wake up now, isn't it?"

—If the children don't grow up,
our bodies get bigger but our hearts get torn up.
We're just a million little gods causin' rain storms turnin' every good thing to
rust.—

Arcade Fire.

So...er. How was it? I've decided to put this up on a challenge. So any favorite lines? Please review. Especially if you're planning to vote :)

-Miss Haps