Parting is Such Bittersweet Sorrow
SUMMARY:She used to be that girl; you know the one who left a trail of broken hearts in her wake. Staring at her, you wonder if even a tiny remnant of that girl even remains.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This will probably be a twoshot or maybe a multi-chap, depending on how motivated I feel. I didn't mention any of the Transformers because I wanted this to be centered around Sam. Sorry to disappoint. I felt like if I included any of the Autobots, this would turn into a huge, lengthy story that I would never complete. This is really about Mikaela and Sam's relationship and how I interpret Sam's feelings surrounding the aftermath.
Am I the only one who's pissed off with the third Transformers movie? I really wished they hadn't replaced Megan Fox. Well, more like, I wished they hadn't replaced Mikaela Banes. I think Mikaela was a more genuine character than Carly. Carly was the epitome of a Mary-Sue in my opinion. Beautiful, intelligent, courageous, and she always manages to come off as the victim. Gag me. At least Mikaela had her flaws and she was a strong character. Carly just screamed. And Sam was really annoying, too. In the first two movies, his awkwardness was cute, but in the third one it just got annoying. They should have stopped after the second or at least forced themselves to deal with Megan Fox's supposed attitude. They're all adults, aren't they?
Anyways, I'm probably boring and pissing you off with my rant. Here's the story.
It's been four years, you think. Four years is a long time.
That last time you can remember seeing her is when she stormed out, eyes flashing, her stomps heard all the way down the hall. Then, suddenly you were alone. Suddenly, she was gone and you didn't do shit to make sure she stayed.
She looks different, you notice. No longer is she the tanned, exotic beauty with the lusciously dark hair and come-hither eyes. Her hair is short now, sweeping her jaw with a sort of messy elegance that you highly doubt comes from a bottle (How you can tell? See: Carly); she is incredibly pale in a way that would seem sickly if she didn't pull it off so well. Even as she's sitting down, drinking a cup of coffee (medium, one cream, two brown sugars; you don't know how or why you remember that), she gives off this sort of jenesaisquoi that you never knew she possessed.
To your dismay, the barista calls out your order, as well as your name.
"A large Americano for Sam Witwicky!"
You cringe. You wish the barista hadn't yelled your name so loudly. Out of the corner of your eye, you see her head whip around. She sees you. She smiles.
"Sam? Is that you? It's me, Mikaela." She waves you over to the table she's holding residence over. You walk over and sit down across from her.
You're shocked to see that she's hardly wearing any makeup; not that she ever wore much when you two were going out. It's just that, you've been surrounded by females who always feel the need to "put on their face" whenever they wish to leave the house.
She grasps your hands. You nearly reel back, but refrain yourself. You don't want to offend her. Besides, you figure it's a gesture of politeness more than anything else.
"Hi Mikaela," you say softly, hoping it'll make her ease her grip on your hand. However, it doesn't. Her smile grows wider and she gently squeezes.
"Sam, it's been too long. I really miss talking to you. It's too bad I deleted your phone number or your email." She speaks in a calm voice. You look at her carefully, trying to divulge any potential lies from her admittedly stunning visage. She looks honest. You take the plunge.
"It's okay. It wasn't like I really wanted to talk to you anyways."
Inwardly, you curse yourself to hell and back. You really wish you had thought before you spoke. Now she's going to get angry and storm out again or maybe she'll pour coffee on you, you really hope she doesn't pour the coffee because it looks really hot and you don't particularly enjoy the feeling of second-degree burns and—
She laughs.
You're kind of shocked. She haschanged. The old Mikaela would have either rolled her eyes or cussed you out.
"Oh, Sam!" She shakes her head…fondly? "You haven't changed one bit."
At this point, you're not sure whether to feel offended, or glad that she's remembered you. You settle for glad, as you don't want to ruin this nice atmosphere between you two.
"I've changed," you find yourself saying.
"Really?" Mikaela smirks, but not in a mean way. More teasing-like, you would assume. "How?"
"Well, I've got a fiancée."
The silence that engulfs you both is suffocating and slightly awkward. At this point, you really don't know what to say, and you're not sure she does either. But, it's not like you can really tell. She's still smiling like a crazy person and it's getting freaking annoying.
You must have said that last part aloud or something because the smile slips right off her face. Damn. Now you kind of feel guilty.
"Sorry."
"Pardon?" You ask, not quite trusting yourself with longer sentences just yet.
"Sorry," she repeats, "for everything."
"Did I miss something, here?"
"Just about the worst part of my life."
Okay, now you're taken aback. This entire time, she's been in the Smiley-Pants Cul-de-sac and now she's taking a turn down Bitter-Bitch Avenue.
"My dad died last year." She spits out slightly venomously.
"I'm sorry," you say. You don't really know what to say in a situation like this. Yeah, you've had relatives who've kicked the can and all, but you've never really experienced the death of a close family member.
"No, you're not," she counters. "You barely knew him."
"Well, what do you want me to say?" You retaliate. This is escalating, you think, and the last thing you want to happen is a full-blown fight in a coffee shop with your ex. Because that would be embarrassing and Carly wouldn't be happy, you guarantee.
"Nothing. There's nothing you can say." She looks at you directly with her ocean eyes and all at once, you're taken aback. Despite the fact that, yeah, she's always been the most beautiful girl you've ever met (note to self: never, ever, ever, ever, EVER mention this to Carly), she still looks so tired. Like the kind of tired that sleep doesn't really help. You wonder how badly a toll her father's death has taken on her.
"How—"you don't really trust yourself with full sentences, "—did he die?"
She stares at you over the rim of her coffee cup. You swear that her eyes are definitely burning into your soul, and she's probably performing some sort of spell on you that would render you infertile and Carly is going to be so pissed that you're even having coffee with your ex and—
"Liver cancer."
"Oh," You gulp nervously. "That's terrible. I'm sorry I wasn't there."
"S'not your fault." She confesses. "I should have told you."
You really don't want to make her feel bad. If you've learned anything from your relationship with Carly, it's not to make girls feel bad. That's like, some sort of mortal sin or something in their books.
"You had no obligation to tell me." Now you really want to pour your steaming hot coffee all over your head. Raising your eyes slightly skyward, you feel like cussing out the Big Guy Upstairs for giving you defective brain-to-mouth filters.
"If I had told you," she hesitates, "would you have even come to the funeral?"
"Uh…sure?"
"Really." It's more of a sarcasm statement than a question.
"Uh…probably not." Damn your non-existent verbal filters to hell. Damn them. "But, it's not because I didn't like your dad or anything." You try to save face frantically. "It's just…I don't know. Probably because of my immaturity," you finally admit, shamefaced.
"Thank you."
Okay, now she's seriously starting to freak you out. Like, one moment she's all "Oh-I'm-So-Happy-To-See-You" and then she was, "I'm-Going-To-Cut-You" and now she's "I'm-Saying-Thank-You-And-You-Better-Understand-What-I'm-Talking-About." How the hell did you get so good at reading girl moods anyways? Oh yeah. Carly.
"Uh…you're welcome?"
"Do you even know what I'm thanking you for?"
"If I say 'no' will you get angry?"
She smiles and chuckles at you. You probably should be pissed because, she's like, making fun of you. But, you're not. Funny how things happen the way they do.
An obnoxiously loud beeping interrupts your reverie. Mikaela's smile slips off her face as she frantically rifles through her bag. Pulling out a flashing phone, she grimaces noticeably.
"Sorry, Sam. I've got to jet."
You don't know whether to be relieved or saddened that she has to leave so abruptly. On one hand, your reunion was incredibly awkward for you. However, you have missed her and you did enjoy your catching-up. The words are out of your mouth before you can stop them.
"Where are you going?" Why did you have to sound so desperate?
For the first time ever, you notice the hesitation in her eyes. "I'm going…to an appointment. To my dentist. I have to get a cleaning."
"And you decided to drink coffee before you go to the dentist?"
Ocean eyes cloud over slightly. "I…like coffee. Hence, the need to get my teeth cleaned."
"Oh, I see. Have fun," you say kind of lamely. In a situation like that, what do you say?
"I'll try," she responds quietly.
"Well," you clear your throat loudly. "Maybe I'll see you around?" You ask, hopefully. Scratch that. You don't want to sound too needy.
Mikaela stands up to leave. Maybe she didn't hear you? Oh god, you hope she didn't hear you. You are a total wimp. Totally. What are you? A twelve year old girl or something? You're supposed to be the manly guy with a super hot girlfriend (fiancée, your brain corrects you) and who doesn't care that the girl in front of him may or may not have broken his heart.
"I'm here every Sunday morning."
"What?" You're not sure you heard her correctly.
"I'll see you around Sam!"
Dammnit. She's already left.
Sunday mornings, huh. Well, you can wake up early on weekends if you want to.
Thanks for reading! Leave a review if you please.