NOTE

If you have been sending messages to my e-mail, I'm totally not getting them because that e-mail is six-thousand years old and no longer works. If you want to chat, e-mail me at my hotmail ID (AngLuvzYou) and I will be able to get back to you there! AND sorry for the wait ... busy life, ya know! Thanks for the reviews girls! Keep 'em coming cause that encourages me soooo much! And already today, someone has pointed a little mistake out that totally changes the meaning of a sentence! THANK YOU!

Love, A

Monica sat in her room alone late that night, re-reading the novel that she had finished earlier that afternoon, for no other reason than that she had nothing better to do and couldn't sleep. Her mind was full to the brim with thoughts from the day, or previous day, as the clock had just turned 12 a.m. She was exhausted, not so much physically, but mentally, much like she usually was after completing a tough days' assignment, and she thought she knew why. She found that her mind kept wandering away from her and fixing upon Andrew and the time they had spent together. It was much the same as every other day that they were together and extraordinarily different at the same time.

She wanted to know what that feeling had been, that flutter in her heart from the woods, and that she'd felt again in her room, and then Andrew's. She wanted someone to come in her room this instant and explain to her, in detail, everything about it and why she had felt it. This thought consumed her so much that for a moment, she half expected someone to come bursting through her door. But, of course, she knew that nobody was going to come to her with a big book of answers, and she felt foolish of herself to believe so. She decided then that she would try to read again, instead or dwelling on the feeling and what it could or could not possibly mean to her.

She picked up the novel again, flipped to a random page, and began reading in the middle of a paragraph. The words seemed to jump up at her from the page. The main character of the story, the girl with auburn hair, was writing in a journal about the blonde haired prince that she had spent the day with in secret. She wrote about everything they had done and seen from the moment they had met early in the morning until they arrived back at her shabby peasant house and he had kissed her goodnight. She put the journal away then, and prepared for bed. As she went to turn off the lights, however, the young girl decided as an afterthought to add one more thing to the small, leather bound book. She wrote,

I know that what we are doing is wrong, at least according to the law. He's a prince, and I'm just a peasant girl. I hate sneaking around, but we would be in so much trouble if anyone ever found out. I don't know what to do. Today, when he touched my hand, I felt something strange, like a jolt to my heart. I never felt that before today. I think I might be falling for him. I've been trying so hard not to, but lately, it seems like there is some greater power in control, and I have no choice in the matter. What will happen if I fall in love? I try not to think about it, but somehow it always creeps into the back of my mind. It frightens me terribly to think of losing him, but I can see no other way. We're not allowed to love each other.

Monica finished reading the girl's entry, and for a moment, found that she could not breathe. She was not stupid and she hadn't missed the irony that screamed at her from the novel's old pages. The blonde haired prince, and the auburn haired girl … that could be a coincidence as easily as anything, but … the way she described her feelings and … her fear? The hairs on Monica's neck stood on end as she thought of the probability of sharing the hair color of a fictional character, who also seemed to share the same strange "jolt" of a feeling for someone with the same hair color as the person she was feeling it for … and then she had an instant, horrific headache.

I must be out of my mind, she thought miserably, tossing the worn out book to the floor. She shook her head, trying to rid her mind of the intruding thoughts, and decided abruptly that sleep was out of the question and coffee was in. She climbed out of bed and shoved her feet into a pair of slippers, opened her door quietly and headed down the stairs. She hadn't quite arrived in the kitchen when she smelled the aroma of coffee that she loved so much, and wondered if she was so tired that she was imagining smells now, as well as heart connections to fairy tales. Upon entering, however, she saw that she was not imagining the smell at all.

There, holding a cup of coffee, stood Andrew. Monica's eye's narrowed and in her surprise, the only thing she could think of to say was,

"You don't like coffee …" He grinned and nodded towards the stove, where a kettle was rapidly boiling milk, and a pouch of instant hot chocolate lay beside it.

"This," he said, sliding the mug of coffee across the counter to her, "is for you … three creams and one sugar." She took a sip, letting the velvety, bittersweet taste that she loved so much calm her agitated nerves. It was perfect.

"How did you know that I was coming down to get coffee?" She asked him, not exactly surprised, but still intrigued with the fact that he had seemed to read her thoughts yet again.

"I didn't know," he said, "but I saw your light on when I passed by your room. I couldn't sleep and I thought a hot drink would help. I was going to bring you that on my way back up." He nodded towards her cup of coffee, which was now nearly empty. She nodded her understanding, and watched him as he fixed his cup of hot chocolate, wondering what the heck was going on inside her head.

Andrew was also struggling with thoughts from the day's events, though he hid it from Monica a lot better than she was hiding it from him. He always knew when there was something up with her, as much as she tried to hide it from him and pretend that everything was dandy.

"Hey," he said softly, "I know something's bothering you, and before you try to convince me otherwise …" for she had opened her mouth to argue, "I think we should talk." He didn't give her time to consider his request, he just walked away, out of the kitchen and towards the back door of the cabin. There was a patio swing out there, and it was a right lovely place to sit and have a chat. Monica sighed heavily, and seeing that she obviously had no choice in the matter, she refilled her cup of coffee and followed him outside.

The air was cool, but not too cold to sit outside and enjoy the sights and sounds of the mountains at night. The stars were unusually bright, as they often were the night after a storm, and as Monica sat down beside Andrew in the creaking swing, she fixed her eyes upon them in an effort to prolong the silence, for she knew what was coming. It wasn't that she didn't enjoy talking to Andrew, on most occasions she did very much, it was just … she didn't even know what to think about it, let alone be able to explain it to him when he asked her, which she expected him to do very soon. She pulled her eyes away from the beautiful stars and took a breath before turning to him, wishing more than anything that she could just leave him here, and go back to her room, where she could be alone with her thoughts and try to fix them up for herself. It he hadn't noticed that she was upset before, he would surely be able to tell now and she found herself resenting that, and him, slightly.

It wasn't that something was just "bothering" her … no, it was much more that that, and Andrew wished that she was comfortable with talking to him about it, that she would confide in him like normal. She had said on numerous occasions that his presence in her life made the days easier and more enjoyable for her, especially when he was there when she needed to talk to someone, let her feelings out … well he was here now, wasn't he? Why could she not 'let her feelings out' now, when he could tell that it was gnawing at her insides? Normally, she could pour her heart out to him and she knew that he would listen and not judge her, no matter what she said. So why on earth was she finding it so difficult to tell him what was on her mind?

Because it was about him. It was far more difficult to talk to someone about something that concerns them than it is to talk about someone else, Monica concluded mentally. Trying to figure out what to say to him and how to say it, and trying to think of an excuse not to say anything at all at the same time, was making her headache pound worse than before. She tried to understand why she was hesitant to talk to him, to tell him everything, and the only thing that she could come up with was that she was afraid. Not of him, but of what she knew she should tell him. She wanted it to be easy, and she wanted to be able to just come out with it, but that slight fear was holding her back.

Andrew was waiting for her to talk first, and he knew that she would if he was patient and gave her enough time to gather her thoughts. That's how it always worked, and he, especially now, at this time of the night, was in no hurry and had no desire to rush her. He knew that if he started in on her first, that it would intimidate her and she wouldn't want to talk to him at all. He had played this game enough times to know the rules by heart. He was perfectly willing to sit and wait. He leaned backwards and gently nudged the old swing into motion.

The slight rocking of the swing, and the creaking of the hinges on which it hung brought Monica out of her daze. All of the sudden, she felt a wave of confidence, and she thought she had found a way to ease into the conversation. There was something about the slow, repetitive movements of the swing that soothed her. She took a deep, cleansing breath and decided that it was now or never.

"Andrew?" She asked, not really knowing what the question would be to follow, but she thought that speaking at all was a great start. He turned to look at her, and his lips turned up in a smile. He knew that she would do it eventually.

"Yeah?" He replied, keeping his eyes in steady contact with hers, and he was glad that she didn't look away.

"Have you ever …" she began, not sure how to phrase her question without giving everything away, " um, ever thought about what it would be like to be human? I mean … completely?" Andrew smiled and then averted his eyes. He had thought about it, and she had asked him this question before. He didn't know if she had forgotten his answer, simply forgotten that they'd had the conversation at all, or was just trying to extend the time before she really had to talk, but he answered her like it was the first time anyway.

"Yeah, I have. Almost every day, actually," he said, "there's always something that makes me think about it." Monica nodded in agreement.

"Me too," she said unnecessarily, and then, quite suddenly, she asked, "Do you remember when we first met, all those years ago?" Andrew nodded, his smile turning to a smirk.

"Yes and no," he replied, "the details are a little foggy, but I remember the day in general." He looked at her slyly then and added with a laugh, "and you made it clear that you didn't like me very much. I remember that quite vividly." Her smile, if nothing else, was worth that trip down memory lane.

"But then we were friends after that," she said, the blush that had risen to her cheeks fading, "friends …" Andrew wasn't quite sure what she meant by that last comment, but he chose to ignore it, and say instead,

"Not just plain old friends though … best friends forever, remember?" He grabbed her hand then, and squeezed it, throwing her a smile too.

"Andrew, if we were humans," Monica began, "and we knew each other, do you think we would still be 'best friends forever'?"

For the first time in a long time, for reasons unknown to him, he found himself caught completely off-guard. It wasn't so much the question that did it. The question itself was not so odd; it was a rather normal question. He had just opened his mouth to answer "yes," but closed it abruptly when he realized that if he were to say yes, it would be a lie. He cleared his throat and looked her straight in the eyes and said,

"No."

It was not the answer that she had expected at all, and it wasn't the answer that she'd hoped for. She tried not to show it, but she was hurt, and it was all she could do to keep the tears away. She looked down at her hand and realized that Andrew was still holding it. She looked away from him, but left her fingers entwined with his.

"Hey, I didn't mean –" he began, but she interrupted him, in a voice that bordered on bitter,

"You don't have to say anything," she said, "you don't have to tell me why …" But he ignored her, and said in a voice so soft that it was almost a whisper,

"Mon, I said 'no' and I meant it. If we were humans … no, I don't think we would be friends," he paused and took a breath, and he was slightly nervous, because he was sure that what he was about to say would cross some line, somewhere. "I think we would be … so much more than just friends. I can't imagine it any other way. …"

There it was again, that overwhelming sensation that kept her from drawing a breath of air properly. Her mind felt like jello as she tried to come up with an appropriate response, but she realized that she couldn't possibly say anything back to that. She wanted him to keep talking though, so she asked him another question, her voice faltering slightly,

"H-how do you figure that?" He considered her for a moment, even though he knew the answer already. This was definitely not the conversation that he had been expecting to have tonight, though he knew that this topic, or something similar, was destined to come up at some point or another, and he guessed that now was as good a time as any.

"Well, I guess because I already love you," he said, sensing that he was about to cross another line with his words, "in the only way that I'm allowed. I know that if I were capable of feeling the love that humans do, that I would love you then too." There was a slight pause.

"I never knew you felt that way," Monica said, feeling as if she might cry from the simple honesty that had come from his heart. "But … you're right. We're not allowed to feel any other way. So why-" and she caught herself before she said it, but she knew she had already said the key word, and it didn't matter. Andrew looked at her in such a way that all but forced her to continue her thought. She sighed, mentally cursing herself for letting it slip,

"So why …" she started hesitantly, looking away, "am I having feelings for you that I might have if I loved … if I were in love with you?" There. She said it. It was out. And he hadn't laughed at her. She wondered what kind of a response he would come up with to her insane question, and she waited to hear that she was, of course, imagining things, and that she was, most definitely, not in love. But he didn't say anything for a few moments, just held her hand a little tighter. So many pieces of the puzzle seemed to suddenly fall into place.

"I …" Andrew began, at a loss for words for the first time that night, "I don't really have an answer I guess … only that I think I know what you mean. I never would have thought that it was possible, but if both of us …" and he trailed off, unable to form the words in his mind. He had been afraid to tell her the very thing that she had just confessed to him, and he was so impressed with her courage that he felt like he had to say something. He squeezed her hand gently to get her to look at him and said gently,

"That took guts, Princess … what you said." She was looking at him, but her eyes were glazed over and non-seeing.

"No, it's just … true," she said, shaking her head, still trying to comprehend what he had just said. He had definitely just said 'both of us' … which meant that he was feeling the same way, and also didn't understand how, why or … how. "But we can't …" she said, her eyes coming into focus to rest on him, "w-we … we're n-not allowed … are we?" He shrugged his shoulders in response, never having felt so unsure of anything in his life.

Were they really not allowed? Nobody had ever said that it was not allowed, it was just … an unspoken rule. Or was it? Why had no one questioned it before? And why all the sudden were they questioning?

That thought alone was enough to send Andrew's mind reeling, but all of them combined was almost overwhelming, and he thought that his head might explode from his need to be alone with his thoughts, to process them properly. He had the feeling that the conversation had gone as far it was going to go tonight anyway.

He stood from the swing and extended a hand to Monica, who accepted it and stood up herself. They didn't speak as they stepped back inside, and they were both quiet until they reached her closed bedroom door. When she turned to face him, there were tears shining in her eyes for what felt like the hundredth time that day. "Thank you …"

"For what?"

"For … everything. For being you and … for making me tell you." She said, her voice thick with emotion, and he was already shaking his head.

"I didn't make you … I let you. And I'm so glad I did, you have no idea." He pushed on her door and it opened with a low creak, just wide enough for her to slip through. "Goodnight, Princess …"

He pulled her close and kissed her forehead lightly, before turning towards his own room. Monica stood at her door and watched him walk, confused beyond belief, and she hoped that now she would be able to sleep, and be able to deal with all that was on her mind. She hesitated one more second before closing her door, and was glad that she did, for if she had shut it one instant earlier, she would have missed the whispered 'I love you' floating down the hall from Andrew's room.

Oh I'm having good fun, and sleepless nights with this! I hope you all enjoy reading it as much as I do writing it!

Love, A