Disclaimer: I own neither of these characters, nor the shows from which they spring.

I leave Cat with a kiss.

I don't know how long we sat in there, talking about nothing and everything and anything. Movies we'd seen, ones we hadn't but we'd heard this and that about them, and didn't that actor in that movie also star in this one? No, that was that other guy who was in that show about that thing. We drifted along in the soft, humming light, and it felt like a romantic dinner at some fancy restaurant with candles on the tables. It felt like the small smiles and accidental brushing of hands and the shy game of footsie underneath that pristine tablecloth. All we had was a cheap, buzzing lantern and a few stale candy bars, chocolate chalky on our tongues, but it felt like more. It felt... intimate, and that's not really something I've had anywhere, fancy restaurant or not. It felt like that moment when you see two people, so utterly unaware of the world around them, so enraptured in each other. It felt like that twist of the heart right before I'd scowl and complain how annoying they are.

My moments with Cat are just that; moments. They're rushed, hurried things. Unzipped pants and nipping teeth and shaking fingers. They're a relationship packed into a few minutes, but in here, in this place, I never did more than hold her hand. I finally had the time to be with her, in a place no one could ever find us. Like being with her in a dream, in some private world, some shared hallucination. We didn't have to spit out our broken parts, hiss all the things that are wrong with us. We didn't have to spend each moment patching another leak that sprang in us, hands desperately trying to cover them all. We got to be normal. I got to be normal, and just talk to someone. Talk about stupid things, unimportant things. The way I used to talk to Carly. And somehow talking to Cat this way feels more important than telling her how hard it is, how I can't stand the pressure bearing down on me. She can't fix Carly for me, just like I can't fix the hurt that Jade did to her. The best we can do is distract each other, and that's invaluable right now.

I wanted to stay in there all night with her. I wanted to hold her against me until her rambling grew slower and more disjointed, until it turned to a soft murmur and then to sleep. But the chill touched us more closely than we could ourselves, and candy bars don't make much of a meal. The only thing that made saying goodbye less bittersweet was the thought that there could be other nights like this. That there was finally somewhere I could be with her and not be with me, with all the versions that I am. It wasn't until she disappeared out of sight, ruby hair touched with fingers of radiance from the streetlights, that the cold really set in. That I remembered how much my hands hurt, and how much my heart hurt, and how much everything hurt. But that's not right, is it? To forget everything when I'm with her. It doesn't sound like a good thing, it shouldn't be a good thing; to lose everything that I am. Everything about her is supposed to feel wrong, everything I do with her should feel that way, but she just feels like silence. Like the whole world is screaming at me, and she's a pair of earplugs, a soft touch on the cheek. She's comfort, and she makes me forget why I even need it.

I watch her disappear, and all I can think is when I'll see her tomorrow. How my heart will race when she walks towards me. How she'll touch my hand to make sure it's okay and I'll pull back and hate myself for it a little more. How she'll understand, and smile at me anyway.

I shove my aching hands deep into my pockets, backpack sitting low on my spine, jolting me with every step. The streets are cold and empty, wind whispering through the leaves of sparse trees, around the metal trunks of streetlights. I should be thinking of Carly, of this mess I can't seem to get out of. I should be thinking of what I'm going to find at home. Whether I'll have to call another ambulance for mom, or maybe one for myself. Whether she'll have one of her sleazy boyfriends there, the kind that stare at everything on me but my face. Whether she'll be alone, crying, calling out for me.

I should be thinking about those things. I should have a sense of dread stealing over me, colder than the icy fingers of wind that pry at me. But all I'm thinking about is Cat. How her cheeks dimple when she smiles. How sometimes that smile is a tiny thing, blossoming as a hand tucks her hair behind her ear. I picture her going to sleep, tucked up in that vibrant bed of hers. Her breath would be minty from brushing her teeth, her hair damp from her shower. She'd be in pyjamas spattered with cartoon animals, and they'd smell like fresh linen, of warmth. I imagine her waking up in the morning, applying each stroke of her make-up carefully. Picking out what she'll wear for the day. Wondering if I'll like it, if I'll notice. If today will be the day I hold her hand instead of pushing it away. Instead of all these very real problems I have, my mind is fixed on her. On the little minutiae of her life, and those things make the wind bite less cruelly. They make my blood surge harder, glow through my veins. All these little parts of her life. All these little parts I wish I was there for, just because they're parts of her.

I let out a long, uneven breath, shoulders hunched against the cold, the noise of the city humming in the background.

I think I love her.

My heart shudders in my chest, a stutter in the rhythm, a little hiccup of blood.

I love her.

I do. I have to. The maybe that always wavered after the thought isn't here this time. There is no maybe, there is no casualness about the thought. I'm not thinking in the afterglow of fucking her, it's not the last thought before I slip into sleep, and maybe it doesn't matter when I think it, maybe it's just as real those times as it is now, but there's no excuse to push it away with this time. I'm bitterly cold, and hungry, and my mind is clear, and sharp. And she's all that fills it, even when there are so many other pressing things. I know what I feel, and there's no hesitance in it. It's not the right time, it isn't. I'm not ready for it, I'm not ready for her, and that's part of what makes me think I mean it this time. I didn't choose when to love her, I didn't choose to do it at all.

But I do.

I want to call her, I want to ask her in a shivering voice if it's okay. I want to tell her like I'm spilling a secret, and she's the only one that gets to know. I want to say the words slowly to her, in a voice that doesn't quaver. I want to see her face and know if she feels it too.

I have to love her. She's all the things I've never done, and she's all the things I want to do. I can barely think back to the days when I thought of her as some floating airhead with no real problems but boredom and an excess of time on her hands. I can't remember when her every word raised bile in my throat, from the saccharine sweetness of it all. I can't remember what if felt like to not want to kiss her, to not want to touch her. I can't remember what it felt like to be unafraid of her.

A dog breaks out into raucous barking, the sound echoing off the high walls of the buildings surrounding me, impossible to trace. There's an answer from a few streets away, a high yipping noise. It jolts me back into reality, into me, and I realise my feet have led me in the wrong direction. They've led me away from my block, towards Carly's, and it's with a pang of regret that I turn them the right way. It was instinct that led me to her. Ever since we first became friends, she was the one I told everything to. Every little piece of news, every victory, every defeat. I showed her the first candybar I ever stole, presented it to her like some shining prize. She took it with a conspiratorial smile, glancing around like she expected to be arrested as an accomplice or something. The first Pearpod I stole was met with a scowl and drawn in eyebrows. I returned it. I never told her that.

I want to tell her this. This huge thing that's just bloomed in me.

I love her.

I love Cat, and someone should know. Cat should know, but it shouldn't be over the phone. It shouldn't be in a text. It should be something special, not something blurted and hurried, like the rest of our relationship. It should be something breathed into her skin, something sunk into her bones. I want her to hear it every time she looks at me. I want her to remember the first time I said it, and maybe it'll feel like this. The first time I felt it. Maybe it'll feel like the first time she touched me, the first time her fingers trembled between my thighs.

I want to tell Carly, to present it as proudly as I did that candybar. I want Carly to squeal and hug me, a grin on her face. I want her to fuss over every little detail, to interrogate me over every look I ever exchanged with Cat. I want to relive every moment with Cat through Carly, through her excitement. I want to smooth over the scars of the past, laugh at all the times with Cat that hurt, that tore me apart when they happened. I want to make everything rose-coloured, but Carly's always been better at shades of pink than me. I want someone to know, and I want it to be Carly.

I want- My foot nudges a loose chunk of concrete, sending it skittering over the cracked pavement.

It doesn't matter what I want. If I called Carly right now, she wouldn't pick up. If I texted her our emergency code we made up when were thirteen, I'm not even sure she'd answer that. And if she did, it'd only be out of some sense of duty. She'd yell at me for dragging her out of her home for nothing, and things would only be worse.

I kick the pebble again, a metallic clang sounding as it bounces into a streetlight. What if the reason Carly's so mad at me is because she already knows? She knows me better than anyone else. Maybe she saw it coming that first day Cat skipped up to us, when I didn't strike her down. Maybe she was holding that knowledge in the night we studied, biting it back, keeping her lips tight to prevent it from leaking out. Maybe that's why I haven't tried to fix things with Carly yet. Because what if I can't? What if the reason she hates me is because I'm exactly what she thinks I am? What if she accuses me, and I can't say no? I can't say Cat is nothing, I can't say I don't... I can't say I don't love her. Not to Carly. Not anymore. Cat isn't something dirty, she isn't something I should have to hide. She's not something I ever wanted to hide. Even if it means losing Carly over, I'll tell her the truth, and hopes it's something else she's mad at me over. I'll even pray, even though I gave up doing that years ago, when Melanie never came back.

The elevator's working when I enter the lobby of my apartment building, creaking and groaning to a halt in front of me after I press the call button. It smells like stale smoke, and there's a small length of rubber tubing coiled in the corner, no doubt from some desperate neighbour of mine who couldn't wait to get home for their fix, but I step in with a smile regardless. This day that started off so poisonous, that started out so painful, has ended on a soft, sweet note. A note that's trilled Cat's name. Things with Carly are still fucked, and they might be fucked forever. But I have Cat. I have a place where the memory of her is safe, no matter what happens. I have a new home for my heart, and it has a roommate.

I open the door to the apartment with a deep breath. Expecting silence. Expecting screaming. Expecting laughing, swearing, low, angry whispers. What I'm not expecting is mom sitting on the sofa, eyes bleary but still focussed, locking on to me as soon as I enter the room. Her lip curls, a cigarette pinched between her fingers, the other hand setting down a sweating can of beer on the coffee table. She leans forward, with the exaggerated care of a drunk, fingers sliding forward a piece of paper that lays smoothed out on the chipped wooden surface of the table. A chunk of ash falls onto the paper from her trembling hand, obscuring a word.

Love.

It's the note Cat left in my room this morning.

A/N: Cliffhanger alert omg. What a tease I am, ending a chapter this way. What a scoundrel. What a rapscallion. What a butt.

Reviews are appreciated, especially ones that tell me what I am, exactly.