I can remember two instances in my life when I cried. The first was the day I found out my mother was not ever going to come home. I remember sitting on the couch next to my father, clutching desperately to her favorite jacket and crying until my eyes ran dry. I was six.

The second time comes into play later on in this story.

If I had been the crying type, I would most definitely have been sitting on the library floor, weeping a river. But I was not. Crying was for babies and stupid girls who insult me so badly and get me so riled up that I lose my temper, causing objects to fly through the air and scare off the only person that I ever even considered calling a friend.

Oh no, I did not cry, but don't think for a moment I wasn't effected.

After Bowen left I considered going after him, but thought better of it. What would I say? 'Surprise! I can make things fly at people when I'm mad. Still want to be my friend?' I don't think so. Better just to let him go and forget that I ever even talked to him. Except that was easier said than done.

Eventually, after staring at the book that had flown across the room for what was probably the good portion of ten minutes, I decided to leave the library, not to look for Bowen but to return home. I was not going to get anything else accomplished that day. Besides, I had already done what I had set out to do. I proved that the incident the day before was not a fluke.

But honestly, what did it matter? The person I, for some strange reason, wanted to share it with would probably never talk to me again.

Or so I thought.

My whole walk home I sulked and pouted and, I admit, it was not my finest hour. So wrapped up as I was in my silent brooding I failed to notice someone sitting on the bench outside my home as I approached. I stopped short when I noticed him, a tense feeling settling in the pit of my stomach.

"I thought you had to get back," I snipped.

"I had to come here. I…" he broke off and looked around, a nervous expression on his face. "We should go inside."

I nodded and opened the door, holding it for him behind me. I sat on the couch but almost immediately stood back up, wound too tightly to be able to sit still for any amount of time. Bowen closed the door behind him and fastened the lock. I saw his shoulders tense right before he turned toward me.

"So…" I said and then bit down hard on my lip, aggravated at myself. I just wanted to prompt him to speak. Why did it sound so bitter and angry?

"So…" he repeated, and then grimaced at me. "Does anyone else know?"

"No."

"Good." He breathed a very obvious sigh of relief. "Let's make sure we keep it that way."

Inexplicably, his words chafed. "You want me to hide what I am?"

"Yes, Lana," he sounded annoyed. "If it means keeping you from getting killed, I most certainly want you to hide what you are."

I scoffed. Surely he was overreacting.

"Come on," he said gently, stepping towards me and taking my hands in his. I let him, because at that moment it felt nice to be connected to someone else, like I wouldn't have to face whatever was coming alone. Until he continued his sentence.

"You know what happened to your mother." I felt like I had been doused with a tub of ice cold water. I barely heard his next words. "Why do you think it would be any different for you?"

"My mother died in a shuttle accident," I managed to choke out.

A barrage of emotions passed through his eyes. I was able to read some of them before he schooled himself: Shock. Pity. Regret.

"Oh no," he breathed. "You don't…"

My stomach clenched in a knot and I pulled my hands back. "What don't I know, Bowen?" My voice rose in volume and pitch. "What happened to my mother?"

He sunk down onto the couch and hung his head, pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers.

"Answer me!" I shouted, looming over him. He looked up at me and if my heart hadn't been pounding and I wasn't about to vomit up my breakfast, I might have been moved by the sadness I saw in his eyes. I willed him to answer, both wanting to hear and dreading what he had to say.

"The Empire took her." He stood and ran his hands down my arms in what I guess was his poor attempt at comfort, taking my hands in his once again. "She wasn't even a Jedi anymore," he blurted quickly, as if the speed at which he told me would make any of it better. "She left the order when she met your father. But they hunted her down anyway."

Through everything that pesky traitor Hope reared its ugly head.

"If they took her, then she could still be alive?"

Bowen actually blanched. "No. They… wanted to set an example." He gripped my hands tighter. "Oh, Lana, I am so, so sorry…"

I pulled away from him. "How is it you know all this?" I heard the accusation in my tone. Why should he know these intimate details of my life when I did not?

He took a deep, shaky breath. "My father was on duty when the Empire sent the holo. I heard him and my mom talking about it that night. It's why we left the city. They didn't want me to grow up where I could be exposed to these things."

"Well, how lucky for you," I spat bitterly.

"Lana…" he reached out towards me but I stepped away from him. With a pained expression he continued, "I am so sorry to tell you this, but I just…" He came towards me again and gripped my arms tightly. "You can't tell anyone what happened in the library. Nobody can know you can do that."

I didn't move; I couldn't move. Until finally all I wanted was him out of my house, out of my life. I pulled my arms out of his grasp.

"Leave."

He frowned. "What?"

"Leave," I repeated, more forcefully.

"Lana… I didn't…" he held his hands out to me and I smacked them away.

"I said leave. Get out."

"Please," he begged. "Just let me…"

"You've done enough!" I shouted, putting my hands against his chest and shoving him roughly towards the door. "Now get out!"

I walked around him and unlocked and opened the door.

"Lana," he pleaded.

"Don't." I snarled. "Just get out and don't come back." I clenched my teeth. "How dare you. How dare you show up here and worm your way into my life just so you can what? Hurt me more than I've already been hurt?" The words flowed unbidden, loosed by the agonizing pain I felt clenching at my chest.

"No, of course…"

"I hate you!" I shouted, pushing him through the door. "I hate you and I wish I'd never met you."

As I tried to slam the door in his face, he reached out and held on to it, preventing it from closing.

"Be that as it may, Lana, I am still your friend, and I will keep your secret."

With that he let go of the door, and I pushed it closed and sagged against it, feeling as though my whole world was crashing down around me.