[A/N: Thanks for all your reviews, especially those few that actually give me insight to my writing and ways to improve even the smallest things. It's all so very awesome. And just so you know, these next few chapters are going to be somewhat sappy. I guess it doesn't help that what I'm trying to write about calls for sappiness. I apologize to any of you, in advance, if this is what you most definitely detest. Thanks for sticking with this story, though! (And yes, I realize, there is no real purpose of this story. Well, at least not yet. But anyways, I'm in a writing mood, so you guys should expect a super-chapter extravaganza when I next update! Whee!)
Oh, and by the way, Renee is merely Mia's roommate. I'm not quite sure if she'll make another appearance, but she's a minor, minor character.]

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Michael's POV

"So." I couldn't bring myself to say any more.

Mia tilted her head up, glancing at me as she casually sipped a chilled cappuccino, and I felt a sudden pang of guilt reverberate through my system. 'I wasn't good enough for her in the first place,' I thought miserably. 'I left her in the best days of her life. I left her so that I could fulfill my own dreams… and I didn't bother to come back.'

I uncomfortably cleared my throat. "So… how's life been treating you?"

She ignored my question and fiddled around with a stunning ring on her finger. Studded with miniscule diamonds. White gold. A luminous shine to it. The works. Beyond the works.

A ring.

I felt my world spin out of control. I had come so far, so incredibly far, waiting so long, this could not be right. "Are you… are you engaged?" I felt myself choking up. Or worse, are you… married?

She shook her head, letting out a nervous laugh. "No. He's not ready yet."

As simple as that. But who's 'he'?

We sat at the corner table, the mood much too awkward, for what seemed like an eternity. Mia stared at her fingers, her nails, and I counted the grooves on the table. Traced them with my fingers. Time passed. Nothing happened.

I couldn't hold it in any longer. "I really mean it, Mia, when I ask how life has been for you," I said, my teeth practically clenched.

She sadly peered up at me and the look on her face made me turn away.

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Mia's POV

I had always been waiting for this moment. In all seriousness, a part of me had always been waiting for the time when I'd get to see Michael Moscovitz again. And now, now that my wish had been finally granted, I wanted to have nothing to do with it.

"How's life been treating you?" he had asked several times.

You wouldn't know, Michael, you wouldn't know.

I had been counting the days. Literally counting. Painstakingly and purposefully marking the days down on my Greenpeace "Save the Whales" calendar with a red pen – a cheap, red, plastic ballpoint pen. Before he had left, Michael had told me the exact day when he'd be free to live life as he wished again. It was in the contract. It was in stone. Regardless of anything that may have happened, he would be released from this four-year job on that exact day. May 28th. Nothing could make it different. The special day, the day that I had been awaiting, and that he must've been counting down to as well, was what kept me going. I was beyond ready to see his face, to hear his voice, and to smile in his presence once more.
We had known from the start that this relationship of ours was meant to last. It was a cheesy sentiment, yes, but everything was beyond perfect. The real test of time, now, would be Michael's job. That was the way to look at it, we learned to realize, and his job no longer became a pointless barrier. Just an obstacle destined to make us stronger.
Michael had decided from the start that he would call me the minute his contract was over. "I'll call first," he had said. "Expect the phone call. May 28th. You'll know it's from me."
It sounded wonderful, but I had had my doubts. "What if," I smirked, raising my eyebrows jokingly, "what if you forget to call? I mean, you are a guy, after all."
He pretended to look horrified. "Mia!" He had tackled me onto the couch and tickled me in my weakest spots. "Of course, I'll call. Calling you the day I get out will mean that I remember. That I still love you to death. And believe me, I won't forget. You'll see, you'll see." He paused for a second, while I tried to recover from the laughter spurts that were nearly suffocating me. I watched as he thought about something, not seriously at all, and then grinned. "Fine, then. Just so that you won't be able to yell at me if I happen to be busy that day. Give me a grace period. One extra day. Just in case. I'll call you before May 30th begins, I promise. I absolutely promise."
It was a done deal.

"I really mean it, Mia, when I ask how life has been for you," Michael's voice was much too strained. I glanced up; I was forced to glance up.

"It's been all right." I was hesitant, careful to pick and choose what I wanted to say. "I'm temporarily on break from my royal duties. I have a couple more years in New York, and then I'm probably gone for good."

I knew that wasn't what he wanted to hear. He seemed distraught over the ring on my finger, the ring that Conor had bought me on our two-year anniversary. Not a wedding ring. Not an engagement ring. Merely a beautiful present. Just a "promise" for things to come. Good things to come.

Michael wanted to know about these other things. But my mouth would be shut for the time being.

My alarm clock was my worst enemy that morning. I had gone to sleep late the previous night, while hanging out with my college friends, and the harsh beeping noise was the last thing I had wanted to hear. I had forced myself out of bed, only to realize it was a Saturday morning, and I had been fully ready to snuggle back underneath my covers, when I had glanced over at the calendar on the wall.
May 28th.
I had bolted right back up, wildly searching for my cell phone. When I found it inside the back pocket of the jeans I had worn the other day, I flipped it open, hastily checking for messages. None yet, but I smiled, knowing that in less 24 hours, I would hear his voice again.
But the day had slowly passed, the minutes agonizingly ticking by, and my cell phone had only rang once. A call from my mother. Checking to see when I'd come back to New York over the summer. Not Michael. Not his deep, creamy, voice and the happiness he brought with him.
I went to bed that night, slightly nervous, but sure that he would call the next day. He was a guy, after all, I recalled, and he would need the grace period that he had so jokingly created.

I shut my eyes and took a deep breath.

"And you?" I asked. "How's life with you?"

Michael looked up from the table, probing my face with his dark eyes. I read the message that radiated from his face, and the bitter look told all: do you really want to know? He was being stubborn, hard to work with, in an attempt to put me through the frustration he had most likely experienced a few minutes ago. Silent revenge, Michael Moscovitz style.

Do you really want to know?

As much as I hated to admit it, I did. But I sat still, and waited.

Waited patiently. Like I had done so many times before.

He hadn't called on May 29th. He hadn't called on May 30th. And May 31st was just the same. He didn't call June 1st, he didn't call June 2nd, he didn't call June 3rd, he didn't call June 4th.
"Calling you the day I get out will mean that I remember. That I still love you to death." His words, ancient little words from four years ago, suddenly filled my mind and I bit my lip every time those few phrases invaded my thoughts. He hadn't called. So what did that mean? I almost didn't want to know the answer.
I finally decided to call him myself, after over a week of waiting. When I apprehensively dialed the number, put the phone to my ear, and sucked in my breath, knowing that I would finally talk to him (a confrontation, yes, but it would still be Michael, nonetheless), the response I got was not what I had expected.
I never got to talk to him. His number was no longer in service. He had changed his cell phone number. He had forgotten. He had forgotten me. He didn't love me to death anymore.

"What's there to say?" Michael's voice was empty, yet cheery in a fake sort of way. "Things have changed. I've been through a lot. I have a new job?" The last part sounded too unsure, too much like a question. A second thought that had been thrown on at the last moment.

"Really," I sighed, and launched an attempt to continue with the small talk. Small talk to someone I had had so many serious and important conversations with in the past. It was frustrating. "What do you do?"

His eyes never stopped searching my face. He was trying to test me. If it was up to him, he would never be the first to crumble. "I work with an investigation company downtown. The private eye guys list out what they need to find, and I take my computer knowledge and try to salvage results."

"Oh."

Michael took a deep breath, unsure of whether or not to change the subject. "You're still wearing – still wearing…"

I instinctively fingered the chain on my neck. "Yeah. I guess I am." I watched as the look on his face softened, but I bit my lip and bitterly added, "But it might be because I have nothing else to wear." His face twisted back to its former uncomfortable position and the atmosphere grew chilly once more.

"I missed you, Mia."

I looked up at him, straight into his eyes. I didn't know what to say to that. I would have, a few years ago, but not anymore. "Things have changed, Michael," I whispered, echoing his very words.

All my attempts to find Michael were to no avail. Lilly had left for barren Africa and the Drs. Moscovitz had moved out of their old apartment, and I had somehow never been informed of their new contact numbers. And Michael, himself, never called.
A week or two later, some lousy reporter from some lousy magazine had apparently gained access to my cell phone number. I only took comfort from the fact that it was not Grandmère that had snitched; she could thankfully never remember the last four digits in order. This reporter, however, knew my number quite well and called me day and night, begging to snatch an interview with me and pave her way to fame and fortune. I definitely refused. Yet she kept calling, and the thoughts of extended publicity made me turn green.
I hesitated before deciding to change my cell phone number. What if… what if… what if he would try and call? 'No, he won't,' I stubbornly decided. 'Michael had a long time. And he left no way for me to contact him. That's probably the last I've ever heard from him.' My stubbornness had slowly drifted to longing, but I knew what I had to do.
That was the way to close everything up. That was the way for me to ignore everything that had happened in the past. It was, without a doubt, over, and the tears I shed that night, I vowed, were the last I would ever shed for Michael Moscovitz.

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