Chapter title: Nineteen Stars.

Summary: His life's a movie.

Author's note: Agh, I need to update more. I'll try and update at least one more time this week cos this is a small post. Have a happy Thanksgiving.

He doesn't remember changing into the jumpsuit or being checked into the white collar jail. He doesn't remember them allowing him to keep his photographs. He doesn't remember trading his picture of the city skyline for a pack of cigarettes.

All he remembers is her mouth against his, tasting like sleep and orange juice. He remembers his fingers on her jaw, her knees sticking out from under the long tee shirt she wore, her hair tied up. He remembers her bouncing nervously on her toes, twisting her fingers together, blinking her bright eyes.

"Come home soon."

Come home soon.

"You gotta girl, kid?"

Ryan blinks, turning to look at the man next to him. He looks older, probably in his 50's. His beard is streaked with grey. He talks like they're in a mutherfucking Western movie and who in shit talks like that?

"No." Ryan's lip twitches slightly, almost as if he's trying to bare his teeth at the man.

That evening he finds one of her pictures in the pile and he crawls over the side of the bunk, sticking his hand out. Fred, his cell mate, takes it.

"She's lovely."

"Yeah. I know."

He's living in a mutherfucking movie.

Fred isn't there his first night. He doesn't care either way, he's alone in the end. And shit shit shit he misses her.

He flicks through the photos quickly, letting out a laugh when he comes across the one of her panties. It sounds hollow in the cell. Or maybe in his head.

Either way.

He smokes a cigarette. They're cheap and suck, but it's something at least.

There's a notebook and pen on the small bolted in table. He stretches out on his bunk with it and a cigarette is dangling from his mouth.

He thinks of the picture she took of him.

"Dear, Pam."

He writes her name neatly and clearly across the top of the page. Even writing her name hurts.

"How'd we get here? And I don't mean jail."

The smoke furls around his face, drifting over his skin.

God, he misses her skin. The way it looks, the way it smells, tastes.

"A few months ago, I never would have thought that I would have been writing to you from prison."

He can hear security guards down the hall talking.

"Then again, a few months ago, I never would have though I'd be in prison."

God, it's hot in here. Sweat's beading along his forehead.

"I'm just too… spontaneous. Is spontaneous the right word?"

He never has the right words.

"Sometimes I wish I'd just settle down. I'm constantly doing, or thinking, or saying."

He finishes the cigarette, flicking the butt lazily between his fingers.

"Fuck, man, I miss my cigarettes. Good thing you don't smoke, huh? That way I'll still have a pack when I get home."

Home. Home. Home. Home. It feels so far away.

"You're too good to smoke. You're too good for a lot of things. Namely me."

He begins to reach for another cigarette, but the last one left a gross taste in his mouth. He shoves the pack away.

"I heard some guys talking about the Yankees game last week. Hey, they're playing tomorrow against the Indians. Guess I'll have to pretend I like New York, otherwise I'll probably get killed. God, I wish I could watch it with you."

Shit, he misses her.

"I miss you.'

And he wishes to God that he was home.

"I want to come home."

Goddammit. He loves her.

"Love, Ryan."

He folds the letter up, placing it underneath his pillow along with his Polaroids. He'd send it out tomorrow.

The mattress is hard and uncomfortable. It doesn't even smell like her.

This is his first night without her nearby.

This is his summer in jail.