Disclaimer: If I were in any way associated with "My So Called Life," Quween on the Scene would be protecting me from the pozzarassi.

A/N: I wanted to have this up a few days ago, and I can't even say real life interfered. I just wasn't feeling inspired. The following chapters will all be this length or longer.

I want to thank everyone who has read this story so far. It really means a lot to me that you took time out of your day to do that. Reading means even more to me than reviewing. But those of you who did review, subscribe, or otherwise contact me, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. It means a lot that you've enjoyed it so far, and I'm touched and a bit confused that even in one short chapter, some of you see great potential in me and this story.

I am, by the way, new to the fanfic writing arena, and this is my first multi-chapter story. Thank you for bearing with me, and honest criticisms and suggestions are always welcome. On to the story!

Jordan Catalano's footsteps echoed through the gallery. He liked that sound. Residue had a day off from their tour, and he'd shocked his band mates when he announced he planned to spend the afternoon at the Art Institute.

"I didn't think you liked that stuff," Jake remarked.

"You mean, like, paintings and stuff?"

"Yeah."

"I don't really."

He left them without bothering to explain. And at this particular moment, he knew he'd been right. He didn't exactly dislike art, but he didn't come for it. He came here as a retreat. The quietness that seemed to be a necessary trait of museums allowed him to be alone with his thoughts. Much as he enjoyed the company of his band, touring wasn't exactly conducive to self-reflection. He also escaped the attention of fans. While he was a public figure and would probably be recognized by a few people there, his fan base didn't tend to frequent museums. Furthermore, his standoffishness would be expected, as all patrons withdrew into themselves.

He idly walked through the exhibits, glancing at one every now and then, and just let himself think. Hatred of interviews was the first thing he ruminated on. He gave them periodically throughout the year, and daily on tour. They always end up a disappointment for all involved. Jordan Catalano the man was quiet, always had been, and reluctant to discuss his personal life. The reporters all want Jordan Catalano the Rock Star, high energy, wordy, and charming. Even if he'd wanted to, he didn't know how to give a good interview. So, he answered their questions and nothing more, hoping the yeses and no's were enough. He rounded a corner and walked into a room. Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw the one thing he didn't allow himself to think about.

He walked closer and turned to get a better look. She was blonde. She'd been blonde for the last two years of their relationship, but it still seemed weird to him. She was wearing a black suit, which fit her closely. Quite a change from the attire she wore when they dated. She'd become a beautiful woman. She may have looked different, but he knew it was her. The vulnerability and insecurity rolled off of her. Maybe not everyone could see it, but he could. It was part of what he'd liked so much about her. She might look confident and successful to the passersby, but he saw the bend of the knee and fold of the arm that belied her self-image.

He hated seeing her like that, not understanding that she was special and amazing, but also knew he was partially to blame. He tried not to think about what he'd done, but the memories came unbidden. He'd been so excited when a major label had shown interest in his band, he'd jumped at the chance to make it big without really thinking it through. He'd realized shortly that it meant leaving Angela, and he'd gone to tell her. He'd wanted it to work out. Upon reflection, asking her to give up her life for him probably wasn't the best game plan, but it was what he wanted at the time. But really, what made him leave was that she didn't ask him to stay. That made him think that either she didn't really love him, or she thought they'd work it out somehow. They didn't. He never called or wrote or visited, and neither did she. But he knew it was fundamentally his fault, and regretted it every day of his life. He tried not to think of her, or their relationship, or anything related to it because he couldn't stand that he'd caused so much heartache for himself, and, he imagined, much more for her.

He considered turning around and leaving, but realized that once again, he would be running away. She deserved more than that. He deserved more than that. He steeled himself with a deep breath, and uttered the name he avoided as much as he could.

"Angela?"

The woman turned towards him, and he found himself momentarily lost in her eyes. She erased any lingering doubts as to her identity, confirming she was Angela Chase.

"Jordan? What are you doing here?"

He had no idea what he was going to do next.