I Feel So

by Brat-Child3

I hugged myself and let out a sob: longing for the comfort of his smile, his touch. I was so sick. So sick and tired of being angry. In one clear moment, I realized how hopeless it had all been, and I asked myself: Now what?

13. If I Could

Authors Note: I don't want Kyle to suck Cartman's balls, goddammit.

Anyway… XD Thanks so much for the reviews! I didn't have the chance to reply individually again. I hope that's alright, I was working hardcore to get this chapter done. All I can say once again is trust me. Heh… I hope very much that you guys wont stop reading in the middle of the chapter. So here's all I ask: at least read this chapter all the way through… and THEN decide if you're done with it. Kay? Heh…

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Chapter 13- If I could

So maybe I shouldn't have screamed at him. Maybe I just made everything a whole lot worse. Maybe I've officially gone insane and it's about time to lock me up in the mental ward, in a straight jacket, like they did when I was eight because I saw cheerful pieces of singing Christmas poo.

After collecting my emotions, I push myself up to my knees and brush the snow and tears from my face. What just happened here? Stan didn't want me to go with him. He told me to shut up, I verbally exploded all over him like a piñata bursting at the submission of Cartman with a baseball bat, and then he literally threw me out into the snow. From his new Mustang. Which he can now legally drive.

Nothing about this night is normal.

If it was, I wouldn't have hurt him so badly. I know my words must have cut him deep; even deeper than his snappy command had cut me. That was a stupid thing for me to do; yelling that stuff at someone who may be harboring suicidal thoughts. Someone who's my best friend. Or at least, someone who used to be my best friend. Maybe I fucked myself out of that, too.

But, strangely, I'm not sorry I did it. Part of me thinks he needed it; knows that he did. Someone was bound to set him straight sooner or later. Better to hear it from me than think I'd been less than honest with him. Better to snap the fuck out of it than live in a mind fog of wishes forever.

Only I'm not so sure he will snap out of it. In fact, there's an impending sense of doom telling me I may have taken a bad situation and given him plenty of ammo to make it worse. What if he really lost it? What if he did something really stupid? There was still only one thing I knew was true, beyond a shadow of a doubt; and that was that I absolutely, positively could not live without Stan.

"Kyle? Is that you?"

I tip my head back, feeling snowflakes brush against my cheeks, and spot the silhouette of Wendy standing in the glow of her open front door.

"My God, Kyle! Are you trying to turn yourself into a Popsicle?!" She bustles to my side and grabs my arm to help me up. I accept the gesture, but use most of my own strength to lift myself anyway. "What are you doing out here?"

I blink away from her and down the road where Stan had disappeared, terrified, because at first I really did think he'd come back. But he's gone. Where the fuck did he go?

"Kyle, are you okay?"

I look back into her eyes, deep and soulful and blue, almost as amazing as Stan's used to be. The snow is clinging to her hair and eyelashes, making her look even more delicate somehow; more beautiful than normal.

My nose wrinkles in distaste, because I hate her. I hate her because Stan loves her so much, and for no other reason. How fucked up is that? I would never wish to be Wendy, but I wish with everything I am that I possessed whatever she had that charmed him so much.

Her hand is still pressed warmly against my arm, I realize, and move it as causally as possible away from her touch. I don't want to hurt her feelings, but we can't have any of that going on.

"I was just… taking a walk." I tell her.

Her eyes register confusion. "In the dark? On the ground? In the snow?" She separates each segment with emphasis and an equal amount of skepticism.

"Yes." I conjure up a fake smile, then sigh and look down at my shoes. "I don't want to talk about it."

She doesn't press me, and I'm incredibly thankful for that.

"Come inside out of the snow. We have a fire going." She folds her arms across her chest to ward off the chill and trudges back up the driveway.

With no ride home and freezing my nuts off, following her really is the smartest solution right now. I look down the road one more time, just in case, then trace her path through the snow.

Inside the house, she leads me past the staircase and into a small family room with no TV and a fireplace crackling in one corner. Her parents are lounging in recliner chairs, both reading separate books of the same novel.

"Kyle needs to warm up." Wendy announces the moment we walk in.

They both look up at us; her mom giving me a warm smile, and her dad eyeing me carefully. I stand awkwardly by the entryway.

"Come on." Wendy grabs my hand and leads me toward the fire.

"You're that boys' friend." Her dad suddenly recognizes me.

"His name is Stan, Dad." Wendy corrects, for what I imagine must be the billionth time, if her irritated tone is any indication.

"That's Sheila's son," The mother tells her husband, then directs her attention to me. "I'm with your mom on the PTA. Brilliant woman. She talks about you and little Ike all the time."

Great, I think miserably, and wonder what kind of humiliating stories she knows about me.

"Um, Mom, Dad?" Wendy cuts in, officially saving me for the second time tonight. "Can we have a little privacy, please?"

"Privacy?" Her dad grunts, skimming the pages of his book. "What do you need privacy for?"

Wendy's eyebrows furrow. "We're not going to have a conversation with you and mom as an audience, Dad. Jesus."

"I don't see why not." He reasons.

"Alright, fine." She concedes, grabbing my hand and tugging me back toward the main living room. "Then I guess we'll just be going up to my room and-"

"Hold on just a minute, little lady." Her dad scrambles to his feet, letting the book in his lap thump onto the cream colored carpet.

Wendy drops my hand and turns to face him, crossing her arms. "We had an agreement. I'm allowed to have boys over as long as we stay downstairs, and you wouldn't watch over me like a hawk."

"I said you could have some privacy with that one boy that this kid plays with all the time." He waves his hand at me.

"Stan." She seethes, drawing out the name venomously.

"Right." He grunts. "Stan. I didn't say you could be alone with every Tom, Dick, and Harry."

"This isn't Tom, Dick, or Harry, Dad. This is Kyle. And what, you think I'm gonna go be a whore with every guy from school that comes over?" Wendy swipes her hand at me in a questioning gesture. "Maybe Kyle's gay, Dad! Did you ever think of that?"

I was staying out of it, but her words make be reel back. "…Wait, what?"

Wendy looks to her other parental figure for help. "Mom?"

Mrs. Testaburger laughs to herself as she puts her book aside and uncurls herself from the chair. "Come on, dear, it's time for your show to come on anyway." She pats her husbands shoulder on the way past. "She's old enough to have friends over without being babysat."

He chokes for an argument and comes up empty-handed. "Your mom and I will be in the next room," He finally concludes. "No funny business."

I watch him disappear into the next room, my eyebrow raised. If only he knew his daughters' virtue was as safe with me as if she were with a girlfriend. Maybe even safer than that. His suspicion is almost funny; but I feel brittle, like I'll splinter into shards if I laugh.

"Don't let him make you feel bad," Wendy says, giving up her defiant stance only after she's sure he fully evacuated. "He treated Stan the exact same way. It was really embarrassing for the both of us."

Selfishly, I'm glad her father is an overbearing ass. I know now it wasn't an exaggeration when Stan had complained they never got to spend any time alone together, which means they never spent a lot of time touching one another.

"It's okay," I assure her, and I'm surprised by how broken it sounds; how haunted, just like Stan. "I'd probably be ferociously protective over someone I loved that much, too."

A warm smile crawls up her face. Shit. Whatever I just said must have been the right answer in accordance with the point system graph of the Girls guide book to what every guy should say. I don't know if such book actually exists, but I do know most girls keep a mental score board of points for the guys they like, and I'm scared I just accidentally won a bonus round.

"Come sit over here," She indicates the hearth. " I'll be right back. Get warm."

I comply to her wishes as she walks out, shuttering when the heat engulfs my skin. In the quiet of her absence, the room in filled with a loud, obnoxious clicking sound, and I realize it's my teeth chattering from the cold as I start to defrost. I shiver more violently and scoot closer, holding my hands out to the flames and trying for once not to think about anything besides the heat warming me and the smell of the gingerbread scented candles burning on the mantel. But it only reminds me of the cookie that had started my friendship with Stan back in preschool; the one he was so willing to give me and then completely abandoned and destroyed when he was told he couldn't share with me.

… And it makes me wonder; am I still that important to him? I think I know the answer to that particular question, and the crushing pain in my chest is all I need to believe that ignorance truly is bliss. I stare into the burning logs, letting its power evaporate the forming tears before they can fall.

"Here you go." Wendy's holding a mug full of hot chocolate in my face. I hadn't even noticed her return and sit beside me.

I take the mug instinctively, but give her an apologetic look as she takes a sip of her own. "Um…"

"Don't worry," She laughs. "I haven't forgotten. Everything in this house is sugar free, remember?"

"Oh, that's right. Your mom."

"Right." She agrees. "That should warm you up pretty quick, but you can put this on when the fire starts getting too hot on your skin." She produces a light blue hoodie that she must have brought back in with her. "It's-"

"Stan's." I finish with her, recognizing it immediately.

Her eyes snap up to mine. "…yeah." She nods. "He left it here when… I haven't… haven't had the chance to give it back yet."

I set my drink aside and pull it on, feeling instantly warmer inside as his scent envelopes me. Wendy's staring contemplatively into her drink.

"…Do you miss him at all?" I find myself asking, then wonder where it came from. I hadn't even been consciously thinking it.

"Yeah," She admits right away. "I do. He was an amazing boyfriend."

The words tear me between envy and curiosity. But in the end, it's the curiosity that wins me over. I skim my index finger over the ledge of the mug, trying to seem as indifferent as possible. "What… makes you say that?"

She glances up, guilt darkening her face. "Well…" She studies me a moment, pondering whether or not it was a good idea to tell me. I try not to look intimidating or too curious, and somehow win her over. She sighs and lets her shoulders sag.

"All the little things, you know? Like… how he'd always give me that smile when he took my hand. Or how he'd give me his jacket if I was cold, or hold open doors for me. Very old-fashioned. Very… affectionate, and I didn't even have to ask him to be. When you're with him, he makes you feel special. He makes sure you know that you mean something to him." She looks up at me; gives an embarrassed laugh. "You don't know what I mean."

"Yeah, I… do." I admit softly.

Not about the old-fashioned, romantic, boyfriend side; but the affectionate, openly caring side, I knew exactly what she meant. And that smile… I could see it so clearly, even now, like its been painted on the back of my eyelids, and I think that maybe it's what I miss the most. I wonder if maybe it's what she misses the most, or if maybe it's simply the romance. After all, she doesn't love him; she never did. Not that way.

"… So that's why you slept with him," My stare is fixated on the fire again, unblinking. "even though you didn't love him. You were romanced."

"What?" She looks up and I meet her gaze. Shadows dance across her face.

"It makes a lot of sense. It'd be difficult not to be seduced by someone with so much… allure." I give her a smile and quiet laugh. "I mean, my first time was with someone who didn't even have that, it was just-"

"I never slept with Stan."

My interrupted words get caught in my throat, and we blink at each other, both equally perplexed. "Huh?"

"Where would you get an idea like that?" She questions.

I make a strangled, exasperated noise. "From Stan!"

"He told you we… had sex?"

"Yes!" I don't know why I'm shouting. Maybe because I'm shocked. Maybe because if they didn't have sex, it means Stan lied to me; something I never thought he'd do. Something that for some reason is worse to me than if they actually did have sex in the first place. After all, what kind of hypocrite was I? I'd had sex, too, and it wasn't even with someone I was romantically involved with. Hell, it wasn't even someone I moderately liked. I had no right to be upset about that. Even though I still was, I could at least understand; I didn't blame him. But if he was lying to me, how could I believe in anything he says again? Anything he has said before?

I look down, eyebrows drawn together, my face screwed up in utter disbelief. I try to swallow this possibility, try to digest it; but it just won't go down. Maybe Wendy's the liar. I know Stan better than that. He wouldn't lie, couldn't; his conscience is like mine and simply won't allow that.

"If you've never done anything, why would he tell me that?" I challenge, daring her to call him a liar again.

"I never said we didn't do anything," She answers, shaking hair out of her face. "I said I never slept with him. What we did could be considered 'heavy petting', but that's all. I wouldn't have let it go any further than that, but I didn't have a choice because he's the one who pulled the plug before it went too far."

My head is reeling, frantically searching for a clearing in the confusion, but the equation just doesn't seem to fit a formula. Wendy can read it on my face.

"Maybe that's what he meant. To some people, any kind of sex is sex, whether or not it's just touching." She educates me.

Again, I wrack my brain, trying to remember precisely what had been said. But that night was such a blur for me.

"He said…" I start, pausing only to recall it better. "I was worried because… he… you were staying the night with him. I thought I could talk him out of… that. And then he told me it was too late. So I… I punched him."

She's staring at me like I'm crazy, and I know she wants to ask me why in the hell I'd do something like that, but again she holds her tongue. She's too polite to be nosey.

"Stan doesn't lie, Kyle." She tells me this as if I wasn't aware. "Sometimes he's so honest it's kind of harsh. It sounds to me like you simply misinterpreted what he was telling you. Actually, it sounds like you never even gave him the chance to finish."

I'm not really sure how to reply to that, so I don't. This is something I know I'm going to ask him about later; if he ever talks to me again, that is.

The sound of the fire pops and crackles beside us, and the warmth feels good. My teeth aren't chattering anymore.

"Kyle?" She asks after a long stretch of silence.

I look up and notice she's closer; too close, probably, for what a normal platonic pair of friends should be. I instinctively lean back. "What?"

"Do you think Stan could ever forgive me?" She surprises me with her question.

"I don't think he was ever mad at you in the first place." I'm disturbed by the look in her eyes. I wish she wasn't attracted to me. I wish she'd just stop.

"Well," She continues, scooting closer still. This time, I actually notice her do it and know that it's intentional. "Do you think me and him could ever be friends?"

This is a question that makes me think; because I honestly can't answer. I feel like I don't know him anymore, and our reactions to one another tonight make me think that maybe I don't even know myself.

"I don't know, Wendy." I shake my head. "The Stan I used to know… I'd say… I'd say yes. If he could get over his romantic feelings, there isn't any reason why he wouldn't want to stay a part of your life."

"But you'll never forgive me," She looks down sadly. "for hurting Stan the way I have. Will you?"

I sigh deeply, troubled by this, because I know that any answer I give has the potential of sounding like an invitation. I have to choose my words carefully and that's something I never do. "You did what you had to do, Wendy. It kills me to see him that way but… I don't know. I think it'd kill me more to see him with someone who wasn't in it with their whole heart. He deserves better and you know that. You did the only thing you could, so there really isn't anything to forgive."

She's smiling at me again; a closed mouth sort of smile that's soft and affectionate and tells me I've just dug myself into a deeper hole. The problem is that I'm not entirely sure how to climb out of it without kicking her in the face as I go.

"Thanks," she whispers, then finishes off the rest of her drink and sets the cup aside before making a simple observation. "I make you nervous. Why?"

"Why?"

"Yes." She repeats. "Why?"

Because you're looking at me like you're about to pounce and I have absolutely no idea what you might be capable of, I think. Because you might jump on top of me any second if I say one more thing that makes you smile. Because girls are dangerous, and I'm probably the only guy my age who doesn't want to get dangerous with a girl.

But I say none of this, because I am a complete pussy.

"I… really like you, Kyle." She takes my hand, and I let her. I'm not sure why. "But I'm realistic; you're Stan's best friend."

I glance at her fingers against my skin and then shoot a fearful glance in the direction her father had disappeared earlier.

"He's asleep by now." Her eyes are serious. "I promise."

"Wendy-"

"Be honest with me," She has my hand turned upward, cradled in hers while her fingertips caress my palm. "and pretend for a moment that Stan doesn't exist."

Okay. I would shoot myself. Thee end.

"Or better yet," she counteracts, shifting her position closer. Her knee bumps mine and rests there. "just pretend that me and him were never involved romantically. Pretend he never liked me at all."

Only in my dreams…

"…Okay." I swallow.

"Do you think you would?"

"Would what?"

Her fingers come to a stop after dancing up my wrist, and she encases my hand with both of hers. "Would you like me?"

Again I find myself contemplating her question; truly wondering, trying to decide what the answer closest to the truth is.

Wendy is a lot like Stan in the sense that most of the time she's easy going, honest, and cares about people and animals. She makes me feel comfortable and she's easy to talk to. She's also incredibly smart and shares some advanced placement classes with me, and she loves to laugh. Aside from all that, she's one out of only a handful of girls I found attractive enough to ogle, though I hadn't done so since Junior high; partly out of respect for Stan, but mostly because I was too busy ogling him to notice his girl anyway.

For the first time in my life, I'm looking at Wendy Testaburger and seeing her for who she really is. And I realize she isn't just the person Stan cares about more than me. She's Wendy; that's all. A completely different unity from Stan altogether.

A small puff of a laugh escapes me, and I smile. "If it wasn't for Stan," I answer gently. "I think I could like you as much as you like me."

I could; If the universe were flipped upside down and I wasn't madly in love with my best friend. If it wasn't for Stan. If I weren't me.

But I don't tell her any of that, either. She doesn't need to know… that I don't long for that alternate universe. I could want her, but I don't; and I don't wish I did, either.

She's smiling at me again, shyly this time; her eyes dancing behind a fringe of dark lashes. "Then… could we maybe try something?"

I'm leaning back again, only this time she's leaning forward, inches from my face. I'm not breathing. "Depends on what it is."

She lets go of my hand in exchange for touching my cheek. Her hand is softer than Stan's, and way more dainty. It also smells like rose petals. "I want to know what it'd be like if you kissed me."

I'm too stiff to move. Kind of like when you're so terrified everything freezes, even your voice, so you can't scream for help. "…Kiss… you?"

She nods, moving herself up onto her knees. "I've thought about it… so many times I lost count after thirty."

"Wend-"

"And, in the end, every time I kissed Stan I couldn't… it was you I was kissing. In my head…"

"Wen-"

Her fingers press against my lips. "I know nothing will come of it. I know, Kyle. I'm not asking for more. I just want to know what it would be like… what it would really be like… if I didn't have to pretend. If it was really you. Just once. That's all."

She's crawling toward me, coming closer, scooting across the wide, brick hearth, one knee on each side of my left thigh until she's so close her leg is nearly pressed against my crotch. My heart is hammering against my ribs, but I still can't move. Her hands slide up each side of my collarbone and grip the cerulean material. Her eyes close; so do mine.

Part of me wants to kiss her. Not because I feel any sort of magnetism, but to prove a point to myself; that I could like kissing a girl. Any girl. If I could move on, if I could want someone besides Stan, even if it's not as much, maybe it would be easier. I will never have this with Stan, no matter how badly I want it. So maybe this would change my mind.

But then I almost laugh, and I also almost cry at the same time; Because I already know I won't like it, that it won't change my mind, that as long as I live and breathe, I will never want anyone but Stan.

"Wendy," I whisper against her lips, which are almost touching mine. Almost, but not quite. My hands are on her shoulders, but only to restrain her, only to keep her away from me. And I don't want to kiss her; not even a little part of me, not even to see what it would be like.

She pulls back slightly, enough to look me in the eye. She already looks heartbroken, so I give her a smile; the gentlest one I have, because I do like her. As a person. As my friend. As absolutely nothing more.

"I can't do this." I'm whispering still, and I don't even mean to. That's just how it comes out. "Not even once, not to Stan. I… love him way too much, Wendy. I couldn't hurt him that way. I wouldn't ever betray him."

There's a feeling of intense between us that lasts a few moments longer, lingering as we stare at one another. Seconds tick by and neither one of us moves, until finally she releases me with a sigh and sits back on her heels. "I understand."

I frown. "I'm sorry, Wendy."

"No," she shakes her head, looks at me with an ironic sort of laugh. "I really do understand, Kyle. And it's okay. I'm not mad."

She lets out another quivery breath and shoots me an amused smile. I feel bad that being close to me had such an effect on her when it did nothing at all to me; but I can't help but smile back, and even share a laugh with her.

"Guess I got a little carried away. Sorry." She grins. Even though I know she won't try it again, at least not anytime soon, she doesn't look sorry at all. I laugh again at her devilishness.

We talk for a few more minutes, small talk mostly about school, until the awkwardness dissipates around us and it feels like none of it ever happened.

"So what's the real reason you're over here?" She asks when I follow her to the kitchen and deposit our mugs into the sink.

I look down, my smile fading as that familiar feeling of desperateness wavers over me. My mind conjures up an image of Stan; not my Stan, but this thing he's become, and I have to grit my teeth against the agony that washes through me.

"Kyle?" She touches my arm, and when I look up I see nothing but concern in her eyes. "What-"

"I'm okay," I promise, giving a careful smile. There's probably a lot I could tell her, but I'm afraid if I start talking it will all start tumbling out, and I don't want to get into all of that. Not now. Not tonight. I push the image back for now, tuck it away in that secret part of my mind reserved for him.

"Actually," I tell her. "Actually, there is something I wanted to tell you. But you've got to promise you'll take me seriously."

She looks hesitant. "…Okay."

I sigh and again fight a tiny laugh. "When you've had time to… get over things…" I look up from the floor again. "Don't laugh, okay?"

"I'm not laughing." She insists, now looking even more curious.

"I think you should give Cartman a chance." I rush this out on one breath.

Her expression is torn between horrification and bewilderment of the wildest kind. "Eric Cartman?"

"That's the one." I confirm.

She looks like a sugar-loving little kid who just took a huge bite of broccoli. "…Why?" She asks, shaking her head as if she can't even make sense of the words.

"Because he's the most selfish bastard in the whole universe." I answer truthfully. "…And he honestly cares about you."

The confusion is starting to take control of her, and soon the disgust is nearly gone. "I don't understand."

"Me either," I confess. "But, I… think that if someone like him can care about someone else that much, then the feelings must be incredibly special. And maybe… something good could come out of his feelings for you. Maybe if you gave him a chance and helped him let it grow, it could sort of… cure his hatred." She blinks at me, and I smile yet again. "There's a good guy under there somewhere, Wendy, and every good guy deserves a chance."

She blinks again. "Kyle, you're …crazy." But I think she's taking my words to heart.

We sneak through the living room, where her dad is snoring away just as she'd promised, and to the front door.

"Are you sure you don't want a ride? My mom will drive you." She asks on the porch.

"No. I kind of need the walk to clear my head. It's not that far." I reply. "Besides, I'm nice and warm now, thanks to you."

Another smile. I'm starting to get used to it now. "No problem."

"See you at school." I turn and get only a few steps away before she calls my name again. I pause and turn my head to gaze back at her.

"Who… was your first time with, anyway?" She asks, recalling our earlier conversation.

My face automatically scrunches up in distaste. "Trust me, that's something you'd really rather not know."

---

I get maybe two houses away from Wendy before I hear a car engine start up across the street. I expect it to drive past, but instead it catches up and then coasts beside me. I cast it a glance and come to a stop, recognizing the silver Mustang.

Stan leans over to push open the passenger door, then sits back upright and continues to stare out the windshield. The offer means I've been forgiven for going off on him, and if I get into the car, it means I've forgiven him, too.

I slide into the seat without a word and pull the door closed. He waits this time until he hears my seatbelt click, then taps the gas pedal gently. He drives the speed limit and takes the corners smoothly. The ride back is silent, but warm. He has the heater going now.

He cuts the engine in front of my house, but he doesn't move. I think that maybe he's still mad at me, but then I notice the way his hands are gripping the steering wheel, the way his arms are shaking, and I realize he seems to be struggling with some inner conflict.

"Stan?" I reach my hand out, but before I can even touch him, he throws himself into my arms.

I blink once, thrown off for a moment by this unexpected reaction. The warmth of his body starts seeping into mine, and with his face buried in the crook of my shoulder, I can feel hot tears sliding down my neck. I snake my arms around his back and pull him closer to me.

"Stan." I breathe as I feel my own tears spill slowly over my eyelids.

It feels good to hold him. It's as if this is exactly where I belong; in his arms, him in mine. Two halves of one complete whole. And even though I'll never have more, it's all I could ever ask for, it's all I need for the rest of my life. Just Stan, in whatever condition. My best friend. My everything. As long as I have that I know I'm gonna be okay.

I run out of tears long before he does. But it's good; he's got weeks worth of misery built up. So I don't let go, and I don't speak. I just hold him; for a long time, forever, until he finally pulls away.

His eyes are blank again, and he won't look at me.

"Come on." I take his hand and drag him inside with me, direct him to my room, and then call his parents to let them know he's alright and wont be coming home. Luckily my own family is easily avoidable; Ike in his room playing video games, and Mom and Dad in their room either already asleep or doing things I don't want to think about.

When I get up to my room, the door is slightly ajar. I push it open to reveal Stan waiting cross-legged among the sheets on one side of my bed. He's got the blanket turned down on my side and The Catcher in the Rye waiting on my pillow.

He wants me to read to him.

The image tugs at my heart, sending a warm wholeness through my body. Stan waiting up for me in bed… if I could have that every night… if I could look forward to that at the end of each day… if I could…

I'm frozen in the doorway, my throat swollen with the sensation to cry, blinking back the tears. I wish I could freeze this moment; hold on to it. I wish I could feel this way forever.

But I can't.

I roll my eyes upward and blink a few times, getting rid of the emotion, then close the door behind me. I take the toe of my shoe to the heal of the other to pull them off and kick them under my bed. Stan sinks back against the pillows as I get in my side of the bed and prop the book open on my knees. We don't exchange any words. I just begin to read.

I get through two chapters before I glance to see if he's fallen asleep- and my heart freezes.

He's propped up on his elbow, cheek resting in his palm, and all I see are two big, deep crystal blue eyes staring right at me.

Not through me, not past me, not beside me; at me. Directly into my eyes. And they aren't empty, and they aren't sad. They're just watching me; intently, admiringly… almost curiously.

My heart swells inside my chest, become almost too big for my ribcage to contain.

"H-hi," I croak out, because it's all I can manage to say.

"Hi." He speaks back. And it's quiet and gentle and the sweetest sound I could ever hope to hear.

He doesn't smile, but his expression is pleasant, and his lips curl the teensiest bit upward. Then he rubs his messy hair and lets his arm collapse beneath him and the side of his head hit the pillow.

He's looking at the book again, and so I pry my eyes away and read again until he's asleep.

But my brain doesn't absorb a single word of it.

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To be continued…

-BratChild3