Disclaimer: i don't own Power Rangers so please don't sue. I mean even without this disclaimer this fic is barely power rangers esque enoguh to bother suing over.

A/N i'm not entirely sure where thsi came from, although i guess watching the complete first season of mmpr might have helped. It's kind of Random.

Summary: Angela reflects on a lost love from her teenage years.

The rain was pouring down heavily that day, just the way it was supposed to when someone died.
True, he hadn't actually died that day but it was the day she found out about it, so it was close enough. As she stood staring out the window she wondered what the weather had been like the day he had actually died: whether it had been raining then too. She supposed she shouldn't care, that it didn't matter whether it had be torrents of rain or blinding sunlight but it seemed to, even though she couldn't decide which she would prefer. It should have rained; she decided firmly, the world itself should have felt his loss, but then he would have preferred the sun. He'd have hated to think the world so glum a place; he'd have hated anyone to be mourning. Then again, that was him all over wasn't it: always a smile on his face and a spring in his step?

Suddenly she felt ashamed of herself: who was she to say what he was like; she hadn't seen him in years. Why hadn't she seen him in years? Sure he'd moved away but she could have called him, or written to him. Hell if she'd been determined enough she could have caught a plane and gone to visit him. Then again he didn't call or write either and they didn't spend that much time together when he was still around. She loved him though, and she thought that he knew that. She'd never told him, in fact she'd never told anyone, and most people seemed to think she didn't even like him. They were in love: there was just always something, she never knew what it was that kept them apart: an invisible barrier that made her turn away. He understood though, that that was just the way she was; that's why he never gave up trying. At least that's what she told herself.

She glanced at the newspaper again: the funeral was tomorrow. She probably couldn't afford to take the time off work but she would. At least that way he would know for sure that she'd cared, no matter where he was now.

She sat on her own at the church, at the back and watched the other mourners arrive: some she recognised and some she didn't. She saw his family cast her a quick glance of surprise and move sadly on. She saw his friends do the same as they made their way further towards him. Then there was the slight commotion when people who shouldn't have known him all turned up, the slipped into the seats next to her. His friends nodded to them in recognition but no one else did, she caught a glimpse of one and she knew who they were and she knew they were there. In that instant, in one glimpse of a famous face, she knew why it had never worked out and why there'd always been something between them and she knew it was all her fault. It was all her. He wasn't playing her game and recognising the subtle dance she thought they were doing, he was just running off to save the world. She smiled sadly to herself about the love she thought she'd had and the realisation that there was never anything there. At least that's what she told herself. It made her wonder though, wonder why she came and stared sadly at his grave so often and why she cried herself to sleep every night. It made her wonder why she had to know if it had rained.