I watch as blonde hair trails out of the room and have to remind myself that it's Six, not One. Seeing her dyed blonde hair from the back almost always makes my heart jump, though I know deep down that it is not who I wish it were.
I stand up off the couch flipping hair out of my eyes and walk out of the room as well, making my way to my old bedroom upstairs. Once in my room, I shut the door and lock it out of habit. I sit on my bed, think of One, for no apparent reason, conjuring up an image of her.
She appears, leaning against the wall, smiling brightly the way I liked her best.
"What's up, Mog-boy? Long time, no see." One says with a cheeky grin. She seems so real, but I know she's not, and yet I allow myself the pleasure of her imaginary company.
"Things are… interesting." I decide.
"Oh?" says One, and I can hear her mischievous side seeping into her tone. "How so?"
I tell One all about my adventures and time so far with the Lorics and Malcolm Goode and his son. One provides rude but sometimes helpful commentary, but otherwise listens attentively like a good friend would.
"Sounds so cool," One says, "Wish I could be there."
I nonverbally agree with a nod and my hair falls in my eyes.
"Oh jeez, Adam," One sighs in slight amusement, "your hair is way too long and lanky."
"I know," I say with a small smile, "My father would hate it."
"Yeah, well he's dead now, so who cares?" One's voice drops as she adds, "No one cares about the dead."
I don't say anything aloud, just thoughts of my strong disagreement, which I know One can hear. We lapse into awkward silence.
Remembering something, I suddenly stand.
"What is it?" One asks in a surprisingly concerned voice.
"I just remembered… follow me."
I rush downstairs, pushing past an agitated Nine and a distressed Malcolm. I find what I want under the coffee table in the living room. I always thought it was a strange place to keep them, but hey, its whatever.
I rush outside where the sun has almost set, the sky a rosy pink.
"What are you doing?" One questions me with interest as I set up quickly.
Standing up and flushed slightly, I begin explaining. "My father used to think that nosey humans might get suspicious if no one in our housing complex put up lights at Christmas time, like almost all humans do. So we did to keep up the normal appearances. Well, my father wasn't very educated on human customs. See, he thought in addition to the lights, people set off fireworks on Christmas. I guess he was getting it confused with that one American holiday held in July."
"But it's no yet Christmas," One counters.
"It's close enough," I reply. We're again silent for a moment. "Hey, One?" I ask, searching her eyes, "Are you real? Am I just going mad?"
"I still like on in you, you know," One says.
The fireworks go off and, as if in a movie, set a backdrop for me staring at One like an idiot.
"You didn't—"
"I think its time for you to go, Adam." One steps close to me, holding a hand to my cheek.
"Go? Go w—"
She again cuts me off by saying, "I love you. I didn't get to tell you that before, and I wanted you to know."
Everything becomes jaded and the last thing I hear from One is, "Thanks for the fireworks," before everything goes black.
I wake up on the couch in the living room of my old home. I look around, daze and confused for a moment, and see a blonde head leaving the room.
I feel an ache in my chest, and though the words are on the tip of my tongue, I do not utter the four words I had wished to tell One.
I love you too.