Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. Passenger owns "Let Her Go (Acoustic)."

Well you see her when you fall asleep

But never to touch and never to keep

Cause you loved her too much and you dived too deep

September 28, 1969

Dallas stared off into the darkness, his mind clouded with too many thoughts to count. The smoke from his cigarette billowed around his head, before flowing away in the gentle breeze. It was cool out, but the blond hardly noticed it, his body internally numb. It was early in the morning, probably a little after three or so, he wasn't so sure, but he hadn't gotten a wink of sleep. He was unable to remove Ella from his thoughts, unable to stop what she had said to him only hours before from repeating in his head . . . and he thought he might snap.

Because I truly loved you, Dallas. I still do.

No, she didn't love him, he told himself . . . and she never had. She only loved the idea of him, and the fucking emotional attachment she had weaved herself into while being with him. Ella was afraid of her past, or coming back to it, because there was a part of her that still clung to it, still lived in it. Dallas was able to see that clear as day. Oh, she might have changed, might have matured, but deep down, she hadn't moved on passed her former life in Tulsa, and she hadn't been able to let him go, either . . . and he knew exactly why. Dallas himself had personal links to Ella's life both before and after the loss of her parents, and when everything seemed to go down the tubes for her, he was the person that she clung to. He had been her first for practically everything, and the Summer that they were together brought her to her highest and her lowest—all of it encompassing him.

It wasn't love. It was past absorption.

In Dallas, Ella saw every part of who she was before she took off for New York, and when she looked at him presently, she was probably living the fantasy of it. And having never reconciled with it, running into him again after two and a half years had resurfaced every single fucking one of her feelings again, bringing her back into a time and place that no longer existed. If Dallas had to guess, which he didn't, he would say that Ella was confused. Besides, how could she honestly love him? Maybe she cared for him, and just maybe it was more than what she should, but love? He was pretty sure that she had never loved him, but she had been infatuated with him; the idea of him lured her in, and he knew that . . . hell, he had always known it. He was everything that she was not, and her heart burned with a passion to feel the freedom that he so easily offered . . . because he lived by his own rules and his own freedom, a life that Ella never experienced . . . until New York.

But even then, she hadn't been able to truly feel free, because she was holding onto her past, the very thing that she had been trying to escape from for over two years.

He knew what he had to do, and it was long overdo.

Dallas never planned on staying in Tulsa for too long anyway, and with October right around the corner, he knew that he had overstayed his welcome. This wasn't exactly what he had planned for, but if taking the easy fucking way out meant getting away from Ella, then so be it. She had to make amends with herself and her life, and he wasn't going to be a roadblock for her. He had his own life to work on and do something with . . . whatever in the fuck that was. He didn't know right then, and truthfully, he didn't really care. For the past couple of years, Dallas had let the road take him wherever, lived day by day, and did his own thing . . . never getting too attached or staying anywhere for too long. It was easier that way for him, always had been . . . and he wanted it back.

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he knew that walking away would probably break Ella's heart all the more, but he had never promised her anything, never responded to her. Since she had opened her mouth to him, spilling her most inner truth, he had been feeling off, had gained the itch to get the fuck out of Tulsa before it was too late, and so, as the hours drifted forward, he decided to leave. In the deeper crevices of his mind, he cared for Ella, he really did . . . she meant something to him, so he wasn't about to entertain her with a lie, or continue on with the little charade they were doing only to crush her spirits later on down the road. It was better to do it now while it was still easy enough to do so . . . before he could regret it.

He had to let her go.

He had never meant to stay in the first place. In the beginning—back in May—he had only come back because he needed a new vehicle, and it had taken him a few months to get one. But he had it, had it for a good few weeks, so there really wasn't a reason for him to stay any longer. Joe, Buck's cousin, would understand—Dallas was only doing him a mediocre favor of sorts, and he had never told him that he was sticking around for the long term. And Buck . . . well, that was something different—he hadn't really expected Dallas to stay all that long . . . and he had Ella anyway to help him out, until Shar was fully paid off, which would probably take her only a few more weeks to do. In the meantime, Buck could find someone else to help him out with shit—he always did. Even though they were buddies and rodeo partners, Dallas knew that he was replaceable . . . always had been.

Well, it looked like he hadn't held up his end of the deal after all. It was a shitty thing to do, he knew, but he had done worse in the past, and he honestly wasn't about to let some measly deal that he'd made with Ella keep him in Tulsa.

Finishing his cigarette, Dallas tossed the butt away, before heading back inside of the house. It was a Sunday, which meant that Joe would be arriving around six or so. He made his way to the back bedroom and pulled out his stash of money, which was in a small case behind the vent. Now, Dallas wasn't one to wait around and have his friends run his errands for him, so he figured he would leave a note for Joe, pack up what little shit he owned, and beat it out of there with only one stop in mind before he hit the high road. He scribbled a note for both Joe and Buck, leaving some cash on the table under the coaster along with it.

He would be long gone before Joe found it.

It had been nice to sleep in later on a Sunday . . . not that eight was all that late to Ella. Still, she had been forced out of the comfort of bed by the sound of the phone ringing. She wondered who on God's green Earth would be calling at eight in the morning on a Sunday, and a groan escaped her mouth as she ushered out to the kitchen to answer the phone, the cradle nearly slipping out of her hand as she pulled it off of the base.

"Hello?"

"Ella?"

The young woman made a face, surprised to hear Darry Curtis's voice responding to her. Her heart had nearly stopped as she considered that something might be wrong, and her thoughts immediately drifted to Soda, or Ponyboy . . . or hell, even Two-Bit's mother, and she inwardly braced herself for whatever news that the oldest Curtis sibling might relay to her. Ella had never been all that close to Darry, never really spoke to him, so she knew that there was something amiss for him to be calling Jan's house so early in the morning . . .

She nodded, even though he couldn't see her. "Yes."

"Ella, it's Darrel Curtis," he said, voice firm. "I'm sorry to call this early . . . especially on a Sunday, but Pony left the number to . . . Jan's with our list of contacts, so . . ." He cleared his throat, and Ella placed a hand on the wall to steady herself, expecting to hear that something bad had happened. "I just need to know if you've heard from Dallas recently . . . I know y'all were working together . . ."

If her heart had stopped before, it began to beat rapidly in her chest. Oh, no, she thought, thinking that maybe Dallas had went out and got himself into trouble . . . or worse. She had only been with him the night before, and he had dropped her off pretty late . . . real late, actually. It had been nearly morning when he dropped her off, and even though she had been awfully tired, she was able to tell that there was something off with him. Perhaps it was because she had revealed her feelings to him, or because he wasn't sure how to properly respond to her, because he hadn't, not vocally at least. Ella was trying to remember everything, but she was still in the process of waking up, her mind fighting against worry and drowsiness. She and Dallas had been talking, she told him that . . . she loved him . . .

Good Lord.

She had told him that she loved him, he had kissed her . . . and then . . . and then she had slept with him . . . and even though there was a part of her that wanted to believe that it hadn't happened, she knew that it had, and her words had been the encouragement that they both needed. Still, she knew that something was off with him . . . it was in the way he had kissed her, the way he had touched her . . . and later on when they parted ways, she remembered seeing a certain look in his eyes, one she had never seen before. And it scared her.

She swallowed the forming lump in her throat, trying to clear her head. "I was with him last night," she admitted. "We went on a date." She bit her lip. "Is something wrong?"

On the other end of the line, Darry pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes closing for a moment before opening again, the letter on the table staring back at him, an envelope containing money placed beside it with his name scribbled on the front of it. They were both from Dallas, the letter not saying much, only expressing a brief form of gratitude for letting him stay there for a good portion of the Summer, as well as a few other things . . .

He had known for a while that this day would come . . . it was just a matter of when.

"He took off some time between last night and this morning," he eventually answered. "I wasn't sure if he might have mentioned anything to you about it, but he left me a letter."

Ella nearly dropped the phone, her lips parting as though she were about to say something, only no words came out . . . or they were simply unable to. Every nerve in her body seemed to come to life, and suddenly, she was very acutely aware of everything around her. She wanted to tell herself that this was just a dream, to wake up . . . that none of it was real . . . but she knew better. Dallas was gone, he had taken off just like he had told her he was going to do, but this time, he had taken the other piece of her heart with him . . . and she wasn't sure she would make it through . . .

With innate clarity, Ella realized that it was her fault—she shouldn't have told him how she truly felt the way that she had, because Dallas wouldn't be able to accept it. She should have known better, but she had dived too deep, not considering the consequences. Her feelings would make him feel like a caged up animal, suffocating to death without the feeling of freedom that he so desperately needed to survive.

What an idiot she had been. He had loved her and left her, and there was no one to blame but her own self for her own stupidity.

She took a breath, and choked back a sob. "No, he didn't mention anything to me," she replied, and covered her mouth to conceal her agony.

Dear Soda,

I'm awfully glad to hear that things are going well for you. Working in mechanics must feel a lot like being back home at the DX, huh? College has been going well, I suppose, though I can't say that I've missed being here as much as I thought I would. I bet Darry is happy to have some peace and quiet around the house again. I'm counting down the days until Winter break—a little over two months to go now. Sometimes, I feel like these classes I'm taking are almost too easy, which is nice, but it makes everything feel like it's going real slow, if you know what I mean. I hope both you and Steve will be able to come home for Christmas. That would be a real nice surprise for everyone, and it would give Darry a good excuse to try and bake Mom's famous apple pie again. I won't lie, I've missed home cooked meals, especially Darry's cooking. The diners around here don't treat me nearly as kind. Anyway, I bet you're real busy! I know Steve said that he goes from the crack of dawn until nearly dark, so I won't keep you. I'm glad you are doing better, Soda. I miss you a lot, and I can't wait to see you again.

Your Brother,

Ponyboy Curtis

The middle Curtis brother smiled as he read Ponyboy's letter again. When he had responded to him two weeks ago, he had told him that he was doing good, adjusting to a new location again, and that things were going well, especially now that he and Steve were working together, like old times. At that time, though, Soda hadn't been exactly truthful about how he was feeling, and he had exaggerated a few things, hoping that it would ease his kid brother's worries about him. He knew that both Ponyboy and Darry frequently worried about him and what he was doing, and honestly, he couldn't blame them; he remembered how he felt when Ponyboy took off with Johnny Cade a few years back, and had been "missing" for nearly a week—hell, he had been so upset, so concerned, that he barely had gotten any sleep in the course of two weeks.

But that was a shared trait in their family, he supposed—they were all worriers.

Still, two weeks ago he had told Ponyboy that he was doing well, which was somewhat of a lie, but now he could truthfully say that he was doing much better. He was getting acclimated to his new job, he was falling into a regular routine, he was working with Steve again, and he had a new girl by his side, one who he was really starting to like, too. In the back of his mind and in the depths of his heart, he still thought about Mary, hoped that she was making out alright for herself. He knew that he had hurt her something awful, and he still felt guilty for it, but he hoped for her sake that she had been able to move on with her life, and even though it was a crappy thing to think, he hoped that she would be able to forget about him, like he was trying to do with her. If anything, he really wished the best for her, and he wanted her to be happy . . . even if it was without him—she deserved that.

But Lori—even though he had only met her a few days back—was putting him in better spirits. Well, that, and the fact that she seemed to understand him in a way that he didn't think was possible. He hadn't opened up to her, but they had spoken for a good while after they had left the bar the night before . . . and they had ended up talking and talking . . . and well, one thing led to another . . . and it had been one helluva good night. Lori was a little older than him at twenty-four, and she somehow knew what to say to him, never pushed him for anything, and she was a real good listener. Plus, she was on the outside of anyone else that he knew, which made things easier for him—he felt less judged while talking to her, and that was something he appreciated. It wasn't that he thought his brothers or friends would be cynical toward him or anything like that, but it felt easier to open up to Lori . . . because she had zero ties or connections to his family, close friends, or any part of his background, and something about being with her felt refreshing, like a new start—and it was easier to forget everything else.

He was pulled from his thoughts as Steve entered the room, his eyes immediately falling on him, his brows drawing together as a concerned expression formed on his face. Soda wanted to roll his eyes sometimes, he really did. He wasn't blind to Steve's constant looks of worry—he knew him better than practically anyone, and he could see that he was still troubled, or conflicted, about how to approach him . . . almost like he was walking on eggshells.

"Hey, man," he greeted, tossing Ponyboy's letter on the table. "Cafeteria have anything good for dinner, or should we head out for somethin'?"

Steve closed the door, his shoulders seeming to drop a little, and Soda immediately felt that something was up. He hadn't exactly seen a lot of Steve that day, but that was because he had patrol duty that afternoon after their five mile run, a job the both of them despised. Oh, it was easy enough, but it was boring as all hell, and Soda had never been one to be able to stay still longer than a few minutes . . . so he probably hated it more than Steve did. But still, he was able to tell that something was up with his friend, and he assumed that, perhaps, something might have gone down while he wasn't around . . . or maybe Steve simply wanted to talk. Either way, Soda's curiosity only amplified when Steve didn't answer him, and instead moved further into the room to take a seat on his bunk, which was directly across from his.

There was a good minute or so of silence before Steve spoke, the upper half of body leaning forward, arms resting on his thighs, hands held together loosely. He looked as though there was something on his mind, probably had been for a while now judging by the look of him. Usually, Steve was direct, never one to drag things out or beat around the bush . . . so if something this bad was bugging him, Soda was surprised he hadn't relayed anything about it beforehand.

"I need to talk with you, Soda."

The younger man's expression smoothed over, and he moved closer to the edge of the bunk, almost seeming to mirror his friend's posture. "Sure, man . . ." His forehead creased as he stared at him, a concerned look in his brown eyes. "What's on your mind?"

The way he appeared, the way he sounded, was so casual to Steve that he really wanted to back out of what he was going to say, or ask, rather. But the fact that Soda might be using had been haunting Steve since the day he had found out. Never before had Steve found a problem talking to Soda about anything that crossed his mind, even if it was about them or their friendship, but this was . . . this was something completely different, and even though it was bothering him to the point where he could hardly look his buddy in the eyes . . . he wondered what would happen if Soda got caught. And what about his brothers back home . . . especially Darry, God forbid.

Steve ran his hand through his hair, an almost irritable sigh falling from his lips. "A few days ago, I . . . found something in your bag," he said, voice low but measured. He looked back at Soda, who went about as still as a statue—he knew. "It wasn't on purpose . . ." Steve continued, wishing that this was any other blasted conversation, instead of this particular one. He hadn't wanted to mention it, never wanted to bring it up—and he most certainly never intended on doing it this way, not since Soda had been so . . . upbeat. "I was lookin' for a pen, so I could write to Evie . . . and I—" He slouched forward more, fingers twiddling ever so little. "Soda, are you . . . using?"

There . . . he had asked, it was out in the open in the only delicate way that Steve could conjure up, but across from him, Soda went tense, his eyes shifting, a stony look to his overall countenance. Before either of them could even process what was happening, Soda jumped up and grabbed his bag, ripping it open in one fluid motion as he dug around the inside, the case of tablets landing next to Steve on the mattress a few seconds later.

"You talkin' about those?" he asked, harsh like, a bitterness to his voice that Steve hardly ever heard coming from him. "Yeah, that's right," he went on, nostrils flaring, anger laced in every word that passed through his lips. "So what, Steve? You gonna turn me in or somethin'?"

Steve's jaw clenched as he tried to keep his temper at bay. That was the thing with him and Soda, as it always had been—he had the temper, and Soda could go from laughing to being pissed off in less than a few seconds, a common trait between both boys that bore the same flare. But now Soda's anger was different, more measured and more wild, aggressive, uncontrolled when provoked, and that's why Steve compared it to poking a bear. This wasn't Soda, though . . . this was something else, and Steve, even though he wanted to keep things on the downlow to avoid a dispute, felt his own rage surfacing at the innate accusation.

"Turn you in?" he bit out, moving to his feet. "Who the fuck do you think I am? A fucking snitch?" He made a sound like a grunt, his hands balling into fists at his side. "I just wanted you to talk to me, you know . . . I'm worried about you—"

And then Soda blew up before his eyes, a look of sheer vexation and disgust overtaking his entire face, the calm diminished entirely. "Jesus Christ!" he shouted, fist hitting the table. "I'm so sick and tired of everyone breathin' down my neck! Dammit, can't you just leave me the fuck alone?" His voice was getting louder every second, and Steve could clearly see every emotion he had attempted to conceal for the past several months finally coming to a head—he was going to explode. "That's all I ever hear from anyone anymore—from Darry, from Ponyboy, from Mary, from the damn looks y'all keep giving me when you think I ain't lookin' . . . and I don't need it from you!" He took a step closer to Steve, coming barely within an inch of him, his breathing hard. "I'm tellin' you now, man . . . get off my back."

Steve stood his ground, though, despite the animalistic look in Soda's eyes, despite the very promising threat beneath the menace that was laced through his words. Very rarely did Soda and Steve ever have a fight, but none of them had ever been like this . . . and even though he hadn't moved, Steve actually felt scared . . . and not for himself, but for what anger . . . what rage actually lurked inside of his childhood best friend . . . or what had made him become what he was right then.

There were only two motions of movement that followed, because Steve only meant to reach out and touch his arm as Soda turned away, because he wanted to say something to him, but only two letters of his name barely made it through his lips as his hand came in contact with his arm . . . because Soda had jerked back around and punched him square in the mouth, sending him backward on the bunk, his head hitting the wall behind him . . .

Soda merely stood there as Steve lifted a hand to his face, his skin staining red with blood as it poured from his mouth, their eyes locking together, silence engulfing the entire room.

Ella felt . . . numb.

She had gone to Buck's earlier that day to see if it was true, to see if Dallas was really gone. It wasn't that she had any reason at all to doubt what Darry Curtis had told her, but she had to see it for herself, or else she would never believe it. Buck had been there, told her that his cousin, Joe, had found a note in the kitchen at his house—where Dallas was staying—around seven o'clock that morning, and that he hadn't seen or heard from him otherwise. She even drove up to Joe's house to look around after he had left . . . but like everyone had told her . . . there wasn't a trace of Dallas ever being there. The truck was gone as well as his belongings . . . and Ella felt her heart sink into her gut as thoughts of the previous night consumed her mind.

After that, she went up the trail back at the ranch where she and Dallas went for their date, if one could even call it that now, and merely sat there. She wasn't even sure how long she had, but she watched the sky change, the sun poke behind the clouds . . . and then, before she knew it . . . it began to get dark. In her mind, she knew that Dallas most likely wouldn't be back . . . that he had no intentions of returning any time soon, and that knowledge was enough to make her leave . . .

Ella got into her car and drove . . . no particular destination in mind.

What a damn fool she had been. What a fool.

It was dark out when she finally stopped driving, and when she came back to her senses, she realized where in the almighty universe she had ended up. A moment later, she was out of the car, her body half-slouched as she walked a few feet ahead . . .

She wasn't even sure why she had ended up where she had, and part of her felt stupid. She wasn't even sure how to get a hold of him . . . if she should just walk in . . . or try and call . . . or what. Ella wasn't a dumb girl, but right then, everything felt like a blur to her, her mind fuzzy and disoriented, and she hadn't exactly eaten anything all day . . .

Glancing up at the building, she wondered what in the hell time it even was, her eyes glassy as she brought a hand up to rub her eyes. All she could think about was Dallas, what she had told him, and she wondered if it even meant anything. Had she scared him off? Glory, she wondered why she had even bothered to open her mouth in the first place . . . But it was too late to do anything about it now. The damage was done, Dallas was gone, and Ella had no idea where he was going, or when she would see him again . . . or . . . anything.

"Ella?"

The voice sounded as surprised as she felt, and she figured that some form of luck had been on her side that night, because when she turned to see Ponyboy standing there, a bag of takeout food in his hand, a concerned expression in his eyes as he stopped to look at her, Ella felt her own eyes beginning to water, all of her emotions finally spilling over in those few seconds.

Her heart clenched inside of her chest. "Ponyboy," she said, a sob bubbling in her throat. Glory, but she hadn't even seen him walking up. How long he was there, she didn't know, and she didn't care, either, because she could barely focus on anything right then. His bag of food was placed on the hood of the vehicle, and then he was embracing her a second later as she cried, face pressed against his shoulder, her fingers latching onto the back of his shirt. "I'm sorry," she choked out. "I didn't—"

"It's okay, Ella," Ponyboy said, cutting her off as he lowered his voice. "It's okay."

He already knew why she was there, having spoken to Darry earlier that morning on the phone. What he didn't expect, however, was to have her actually show up . . . but he wasn't mad, or upset, that she had. In fact, he had planned to call her when he got in, see if she was okay and all that, because he knew that she would be hurt . . . not to mention devastated. He knew her feelings for Dallas Winston ran deep, deeper than what any of them honestly knew, and he understood—he had known for a good, long time.

Her sobs were muffled by his shirt, and he leaned his head gently against hers, his arms tightening just a little around her frame.

Only know you've been high when you're feeling low

Only hate the road when you're missing home

Only know you love her when you let her go

And you let her go

Thank you for reading! :3