Again, I don't own it. It's just something to amuse me when it hits me. Leave me lotsa reviews, because I'm a whore like that. :D

"Music."

"Definitely. Um... movies. Like, the really good ones. The ones that make you think."

"Oh, and then like, revolutionize the way movies are made? So everyone starts copying them, and then they get so played out it's just trash?"

"Exactly! Case and point, Matrix, fighting style. Everyone tries to do that slow mo wire-fu shit, even if it's like, a movie about...okay, like, soccer."

I laughed, whacking Craig on the arm with my napkin, then said around a mouthful of pizza, "Snow."

"Umm...spaghetti."

I paused, staring at him for a moment. "Spaghetti..."

"Yeah."

We were in the living room, playing this game we had adopted...it didn't have a name, but we spent hours sitting around just naming little insignificant things made life enjoyable.

"Okay, your choice of what makes life worth living is spaghetti?" I asked, eyebrows raised.

"Especially cold spaghetti the morning after it's made, " he nodded.

"Okay, just clarifying," I said with a shrug.

It came about one night after work, when we were driving home from the mall, and I was thanking Craig profusely for being my ride to and from.

"No big," he said, "I love driving. It's one of those things, you know?"

"Define 'one of those things'," I said.

"You know. It's like...thereputic. It's one of those things that makes you just appreciate and love life. One of those things were you're totally pissed, raging, and it calms you down, it makes you serene."

I had peered out the window, watching the scenery pass.

"Like thunderstorms."

"Yeah!" he had agreed, nodding his head. "I love storms."

From there on, it was sort of a ritual between us. Whenever we were bored or couldn't think of anything to do, we'd quietly fall into naming things we called precious.

Sometimes it was profound, talking about God or nirvana. Sometimes it was christmas lights. But spaghetti?

I don't get guys.

Sitting on the coffee table in front of us was a half-devoured pizza, and a two liter of Sprite. I hated Sprite, but it was Craig's favorite.

Another of our rituals.

It had been two weeks since I got my job, and with the rent payed, I could afford to splurge every now and then on, get this, food. Craig had started spending more time at my apartment, and we alternated paying for take out, or fast food. Sometimes, when we were feeling particularly productive, we'd even make a foray into cooking real food. Most times we just had to fork over cash and compromise on soda and toppings.

Tonight it was pepperoni and Sprite.

It was always about compromise... except in one case.

Our unspoken rule, in effect at all times, was never ask about them. Ashley and Sean. We never even talked about them.

Tonight, Craig not only bent the rule, he snapped it right in two.

"Ash and I broke up," he said, about ten minutes after his spaghetti fondness admittance.

I shot him a look, curious, but as always my goody-two-shoes-rule-following-self.

"I guess it was a mutual decision," he said. "You know, brought to mind by her."

"I thought you two were doing good," I asked, setting my half eaten slice of pizza on the table and taking a swig of Sprite. "Ew."

He smiled a little despite the topic of conversation, shrugged. "I thought so, too. I guess... I dunno, it was a trial thing. Temporary, to see if we could work it out. Mostly we could. I just don't think things were the same between us. I don't think they ever could be. I mean, hey, I fucked up, I realize that, and she's forgiven me and all, but... when you do that, cheat? It just sorta...well, like I said, I fucked it up."

I nodded. "Are you okay with it?"

"You mean am I gonna kill myself over it?" he asked, smirking. "No. I'm not thrilled, but I pretty much saw it coming. She never let me kiss her, never really wanted to hold hands or anything. You can tell when things are different, and why."

I nodded. "Yeah."

"Anyway," he said, shrugging, "I just thought I'd say it. So you didn't hear it around school and get offended. Rules are meant to be broken, right?"

"Right, I guess," I shrugged, playing indifference.

I didn't mind that he'd broken the rule. It was the sort of thing you had to tell your friends. It just left this space open, like "okay, now it's your turn". Like it was expected of me to talk about Sean now. And the one thing I liked about keeping company with him, was that he never gave me that look anyone else gave me. The pity look. Poor girl's disturbed boyfriend up and left her. None of those 'what happened' questions.

Dammit.

Why do boys always ruin things?

"At least she talks to you," I smiled sarcastically, picking up my plate and heading to the kitchen.

"Whoa," Craig said, abandoning his plate and following me. "Hey, hey, I didn't even mean it like that."

"I know," I said, offering an apologetic face. "I don't even know why I said that. I try to save the drama queen act for Paige. I'm sorry... I just... felt like I had to say something. Only...there's nothing to say."

He frowned. "He hasn't called?"

Still feeling like I was acting childish, I shrugged, threw away my plate. "He never calls."

"That's rough," he said. "I mean, he should at least call to say hi, ask you how you're doing. Didn't he even care that you might lose the apartment?"

He sounded angry, but he didn't know my home situation, didn't know how big of a deal it was for me to lose it. Sean did. That made it hurt even more.

"Guess not," I shrugged, turning away and swallowing hard to bite back tears.

Heading to the living room, I collected the pizza box and Craig's abandoned plate. "Don't worry about it, anyway. Whatever."

"I guess," he said, sounding unsure. "I still think it's a bastard thing to do."

I half smiled. "Thanks. It is, isn't it?"

Oh, great. Yeah.

Here I am, agreeing that he's a bastard for not checking up on me like my drunk-ass mother should, when he's staying with his parents to try to recover from a trauma like that? Right, I'm not selfish, I'm a great person, I'm...such a fucking crybaby. Who am I to think any kind of bad thoughts on him, when he's going through something like that?

I SUCK.

"Um, can you wash those two glasses?" I asked, clearing my throat. "I'm gonna go to the bathroom."

He rolled his eyes. "I need a full report."

"Shut up," I said, swatting at his arm as I passed.

Inside the bathroom I shut the door and leaned against it briefly, breathing hard, blinking rapidly. I slid the lock in place and headed for the medicine cabinet.

I was trying to be silent, disclose normal bathroom sounds, for fear of him being suspicious. I didn't even know if he knew, but suddenly I was so paranoid. Suddenly I was rifling through the cabinet, past the deodorant, behind the band-aids, there it was, a blade. Old, and not too sharp, probably left over from one of Sean's razors, I'm not really sure how it got there. All that was important at that moment, was that it was.

Looking at the door, as if the lock wasn't enough to keep me safe, I slid up my shirt sleeve, and looked.

The skin was covered in light lines, faint scars, healing. One line was darker, more bold, new, from when he had left. But since then, nothing.

Almost pure.

Fingers somehow steady while the rest of me shook, I placed the tip to my skin.

Part of me screamed not to.

Part of me lost.

Closed my eyes. Pressed down. Drug.

Nothing.

Dull pain, but nothing.

I opened my eyes, looked.

A white scratch mark, nothing else.

Not hard enough, maybe. It was old, dull.

I tried again, eyes open, focusing, the need so great now, that I was clenching my jaw

Nothing.

I drew my arm back a few inches, and lashed out, slashing at my arm, my mind screaming at me 'bleed, bleed!'.

I was scared, but it worked.

A gash opened up on my arm, not too deep, not too long, but enough that my body gave me the release, and I stopped panicking. Relaxed.

Felt...okay.

Breathing heavily, I grabbed toilet paper to hold against the cut. As an afterthought, I wrapped some more around the blade, and buried it deep in the bottom of the trash can.

Paranoia.

Once I was sure the bleeding had stopped, I tossed the paper in the toilet, flushed. Washed my hands.

"Finally," Craig said from the sink as I stepped out. "What is it with girls and spending a million hours in the bathroom?"

I tried to laugh; it was a lame attempt, but it seemed to fool him.

That was all that mattered.