DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em, just like writing about 'em!

A/N: Thanks to Di-Pekka as usual!

I know that it's incredibly short, but I quite like it. 'Course, you might not...but y'know! By the way, in case anybody cares, I'm going to start work on Chapter 9 of I was the One that you Loved this weekend, so it should be up in a week or so...but no promises 'cause I've got SATS exams coming up (English type, not American) that I need to revise for... :-( Anyways, enjoy!

I seriously don't know why I'm doing this. I don't know why I chose to come here, nor why I'm coming to this parade...she'll be here, but I don't know why I want to see her. She was my first girlfriend, yeah, but that was back when we were in High School...and to be honest, hands up if you think that in 20 years time you'll still be in contact with your first girl/boyfriend?

Sure, you'll remember the first time you awkwardly lent over to kiss someone and ended up spilling hot chocolate all over them, and then banged lips with them, instead of the desired mouths melting together effect. But will you still be in touch with them. Know their number? IM name? E-mail address?

And even if, by some miracle, their e-mail address was still the same, what would you say to them (if you worked up the courage to e-mail them, that is)?

Hi! Remember me? I was your first boyfriend! Remember the time when we were in that café and I spilt hot chocolate all over you when I tried to kiss you?

Maybe not.

And what about the first person you had sex with? That'd be even worse...

Hi! Remember me? I was the one who had sex with you 20 years ago. Wanna meet up for a coffee some time?

Can you imagine that sitting in your Inbox? You'd be more likely to run a mile in the opposite direction than throw yourself at the other person. And if you did, you'd be labelled 'desperate'. Not much point then, is there?

So, to conclude, why the Hell am I here?

Why, to see Mia of course!

Uh, yeah. Like she'll remember you after all this time!

She might do. You were her first boyfriend.

We've just been through all that. Look to your up.

So why are you here, then?

Hello, I just said that. Again, look to your up.

So, why don't you just turn around and leave then? Why are you still waiting for her? What's inside you that makes you think she might recognise you?

Listen to me, talking to myself. I'm going crazy. Stark, raving bonkers. Off my trolley. Lost my marbles. The lights are on, but there's no-one at home. The wheel's going round, but the hamster's dead. All that jazz. Yup, that's me. CRAZY.

And when I broke up with her...it wasn't pretty. I accused her of cheating on me. She was, but not with whom I accused her. Someone totally different. But, I guess it was totally obvious. She's with him. Married to him, in fact. Two kids- Isabella and Charlotte.

So, even if she does recognise me...let's say I wouldn't be highest on her "People I really, really must meet up with some time" list.

Too late to turn around now. Too late- like it was too late all those years ago to turn back the clock, ask her to stay with me, tell her...tell her I loved her more than the usual high-school crush. I would have (still will, if anyone asked me to) married her. But it's too late to turn around now, to run off, to pretend this never happened, to get back to my hellish nine to five job in New York City instead of being here on "holiday" in Genovia, to MOVE ON WITH MY LIFE.

Because she's coming now; the Police motorbike escort is in front of her and...here comes her carriage...with him, Isabella and Charlotte. And I can't turn back, because I'm trapped where I am by a load of screaming teenage girls.

The people love her. She's sexy, a 'level-headed ruler' (The Genovian Times's words, not mine), an animal welfare campaigner, she has produced two heirs, with a third one on its way in eight months (Princess Amelia is delighted at prospect of third child with husband-- no, with the footman's child, you idiot-- but will it be a boy?), she is anything and everything anyone could want in a ruler.

EVERYBODY loves her. It sounds cheesy- the kind of corny, happily-ever-after Hollywood chick-flick material all teenage girls like- but it's true.

She's smiling and waving out of the carriage window, her light, summer dress cascading down her body like water down a waterfall, her oh-so-effortlessly-stylish hair looking like a halo around her head, her eyes shinning with happiness. He's there too, waving, smiling, and protectively holding the youngest child- Charlotte- on his lap. Isabella, the elder by two years at four, is standing by the window; Mia is holding her hand, and with the other hand she is waving, too. She looks so much like her mother, standing shyly there, and all I can think of is...she should be my child.

And then she sees me, looking uncomfortable among a load of people whom I don't know- never have done, never will. I am half-turned; I was going to try and slip away before she noticed me, but it hasn't worked.

She looks at me, and I look at her, and I try and tell her, with all the feeling in my heart poured into my eyes, that I love her.

And she keeps on waving and smiling to the people, but she's looking at me, and feeling me, I can tell, and then she opens her mouth and mouths my name.

Kenny.

And then I'm gone, pushing my way through the crowd, ignoring the cries of people whose feet I tread on, whose bodies I accidentally elbow.

I am gone, before I start to cry.

THE END

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