He hasn't called. He hasn't gotten online. He hasn't stopped by with 'Beaches' and Rocky Road.

I'm going to go insane.

And even more than this longing for Michael is the pure anger searing inside me. Who am I so upset with? Who is the cause of my clenched fists and gritted teeth? My hot tears and upset stomach?

That Mia Thermopolis idiot.

Yeah, you know the one. Always dreaming. Always screwing up. And NEVER getting what she wants.

Michael is so right for me, though! He has to be the One. Who else makes me laugh like that? Who else kisses me like he never wants to let go?

Come to think of it, there is one other person that fits the bill—but that's over. Done with. I gave him up in the quest for Michael and just when I was starting to get a firm grip he went and skedaddled off again!

Not that I dumped Leaves so Michael and I could make out and I could get my heart broken. No, sir. I thought I was being a good friend. I thought I was HELPING OUT.

Obviously, Michael doesn't feel the same way.

The phone rang and I jumped up excitedly, knocking it off the hook in my scramble to answer.

"Hey, dollface."

MICHAELLLLLLLL!

"Um, hi?"

"Whatcha doin'?"

Oh, so we're just going to forget about the fact that he's been shunning me for the past two days!

"Oh, nothing." Right.

"Wanna bring a movie over with your cute self so I don't have to do this paper any more?"

"Sure!" I squeaked. God, I hate myself. Have I always been this weak? I mean, was there ever a time when Michael couldn't manipulate me without breaking a sweat?

Not that he means to hurt my feelings. He's just being Michael. And I'm prostrating myself at Michael's feet and letting him walk over me.

Something has to change. I seriously can't spend another day as Michael's bitch…I mean, pregnant dog. (Keep it clean for the kids).

- -

Michael gave no sign of affection when he opened his dorm door later that evening. Just a "Hey, girl, I love your skirt."

I stood in the door for a moment, waiting for him to invite me in or crack some joke about Bush, but he just stood there, looking solemn.

"Whassamatter?" I asked, starting to panic just a bit.

"We need to talk," said Michael, attempting to stuff his hands into the pockets of his rather tight jeans.

"We do," I agreed.

"See, the thing is—" Michael stopped, arching a plucked brow. "What do you want to talk about?"

I took a deep breath and plunged in. "You haven't been talking to me. At least not about the stuff that we need to talk about. Like, why are we kissing all the time, huh? How is it that we can swap spit practically every day but you can't make time in your busy schedule to just give me an inkling about how you feel about me? I hate that I'm the only one trying. I'm the only one who seems to care about more than Sex and the City and French-kissing. Are we ever even going to go to France, Michael? And if we did, would it be so you could perv on guys while I'm left to throw croissants to the birds alone? I'm not asking for a lot…just to be a person to you again. Is that so much?"

His peat-bog brown eyes were bulging out of his head by then, and wordlessly, he opened the door the rest of the way to reveal a blurry figure.

I wiped the tears out of my eyes and saw him. No, not Michael.

LEAVES.

"What's going on here?" I choked out, trying to regain an ounce of composure.

"Um," said Michael, shuffling his feet. "Leaves stopped by. To talk with you, Mia. He—"

I didn't want to hear another word. He tricked me into coming over here so he could shove me off on some other guy!

It was then I realized that I'd been wrong all along. I've spent so much time pining after one or the other, but you know what! BOTH of them are losers, and totally not worth my time.

Not that I consider myself above them or anything…but why is it that I only get hurt? That I am the only one who EVER gets hurt?

Something's wrong with this picture. It's time to straighten the frame. And no, I'm not talking about Michael. He so obviously doesn't want me. Just my "hot body." Or rather, my comfort.

What kind of gay boy uses making out with his best girlfriend as an outlet for his pain?

OMIGOD. What if it hurts him to play tonsil hockey with me? This is Michael's version of slitting his wrists.

Don't I feel special?

"Don't go, Mia!" said Leaves, finally making a move towards me.

But I was already flying out the door.

- -

So remember how God hates me? Yeah, that continued on into the night, when I woke up to see Michael sliding under my comforter. "Hey," he said, resting his head only inches away from mine.

But I so wasn't swayed by his full lips or shiny curls.

I blinked the sleep out of my eyes as Michael started to talk. "I didn't mean to make you cry today," he whispered. "Leaves called and I thought it would make you happy. I was just trying to help."

"Well, don't," I heard myself snapping.

His forehead creased and he reached out a hand to stroke my hair. "Mia…" he murmured.

Yeah, I was not about to get into this again. Instead my hand shot up and whacked his away, eliciting a cry of pain from Michael.

"What was that for!"

"Get out," I hissed, gripping the sheets to my body as I pulled away from him.

"I'm only—"

"Save it. Just leave."

"We're frien—"

"I hate you," I said, loud and clear, just so everyone (well, me and Michael) knew where we stood right then.

His eyes filled and he choked out a little sob, dashing to the window and scrambling out before I could even contemplate what I'd just said.