a/n: i could be watching the SAGAwards and of course i have a Psychology quiz to study for, but i'm doing fics. of course, of course.
You know that you're going to want to wake up every day to her, even though you're only sixteen. She has this habit of making you feel unsettled, even though your parents hate that she methodically places stripes in her hair and that she dresses like the lovechild of Stevie Nicks and Wednesday Addams. The thing about Tina is that she's special; really special, not in the way that meant smirking parents patting you on the back, pinning gold stars to your chest and talking a mile a minute about your so-called 'achievements'.
And yeah, you hate the way she's wound so tight and sometimes when she looks at you, you can see that she wants to start stuttering. It makes you want to shake her. Tremble the stutter right out of her. You're pretty positive that someone'll rip her heart right out of her if she stammers on stage.
And she doesn't take you seriously, maybe, because it's just high school and if you're going to be realistic, Tina could have anyone. Maybe not at McKinley, but anywhere else she went. She wants to go to New York so badly that she could cry, just like everyone else that you know. You don't know why, not really. Ohio isn't that bad. The bullying isn't that bad. You don't know why you can't just both go to Ohio State and date. Meet up after graduation, kiss, run headlong into the sunset. You don't know why she doesn't want this as bad as you do.
Tina rolls her eyes. "Mike, it's New York. C'mon, don't you wanna go?"
Well, no. You want to stay here, in Ohio, where your mom makes dim sum in the kitchen and Tina looks at home in your living room, tracing her fingers against your old soccer trophies. You don't know why it's so bad to stay with the familiar, where you could stick with the easy touch of Tina's head on your shoulder and the sun shining through the cream-colored blinds.
Tina's made for the stage. Dramatic colors and that soothing alto that makes your fingers curl into your palm, she's everything that you're going to see on the television for years afterwards, snorting as she holds an award in her small hands.
You've kept far too quiet in the back, your toes tapping against the linoleum. You'd watched Tina swirl past you, laughing, arguing, dancing and never wanted to be anything like that because you didn't need it; you were just Mike Chang, football player, former starter for McKinley's soccer team, friend of the equally quiet Matt.
You were just Mike, Tina's boyfriend, and even when people were talking to you, they were looking for her. Always peering over your shoulder, looking for that precious girl, that wonder-woman in ripped tights.
You brush your nose against hers and say, "I'm good, baby," and you almost mean it. Because you're Mike Chang. You're always alright, and you're laidback and you're gentle and you'd never, ever be furious at the fact that your girlfriend wants to travel nine hours away from you, where you wouldn't be able to grab her or force the line of her elbow to rest against your back.
Tina laughs. "Will you miss me?"
"Not even a little bit," you snicker, and you smile so she knows you're joking. You are, a little. Just a little. You're just a bit jealous, a bit of not-alright that she didn't want some rib-crushing, heart-melting romance with you.
She grins. Someone's going to write songs about that smile. Someone who isn't you is going to kiss the spot between her eyebrows that wrinkles when she's worried, and they're going to smooth down the creases in her dress, and they're going to love her in a way that's bigger and better than all of the love songs that this world has to give.
You wait for her to leave, and you steadily cross out the pictures you took with each other and pile them neatly in the trash.
