AN: I know, I said I was planning on flashbacks, but I have to work with whatever comes to my mind, so this one takes place after the dinner-date-disaster in "Love Hurts". Oh, and I know it's pretty short. Sorry about that. Hope you enjoy anyway!
Disclaimer: Surprisingly, House still doesn't belong to me. Hard to believe, isn't it? Lyrics aren't mine either, they are from Hinder's song "Running in the Rain".
I know your heart's been shattered
But there's someone worth the wait
There's so much more that matters
And I know you'll be alright
Just try to love the little things in life again
Like running in the rain.
The evening ended in silence. The thoughts that kept running through her head were enough for a month of conversation though. She knew he was wrong. Of course he was. "You don't love, you need." That was no better than her stupid Freudian theories. But she didn't know what to say, how to explain it to him in a way he'd understand. At that moment, she could see that he'd never believe that she really and truly loved him. She could see it and it broke her heart.
Two hours later, she was running. Not running away, not this time. She was running through the streets of Princeton. It was dark outside. It was probably dangerous for a woman. It was at least stupid. It was raining. She didn't care. She hardly noticed.
Pacing her apartment had not worked. Using her treadmill had not worked. She was not ready for drinking yet. So she was running through the streets of Princeton. The air was cold but she kept taking deep, monotonous breaths. Her hair style was ruined, her hair falling down her back in wet strands. Her clothes were damp. She felt water on her cheeks, but she wasn't entirely sure if she was crying. Allison didn't really care about that anyway. Right now, she was only focused on counting her steps. Seventy-three, seventy-four, seventy-five, seventy-six. Maybe she shouldn't have pushed him. Eighty, eighty-one, eighty-two, eighty-three. When would she finally grow up? Eighty-seven, eighty-eight, eighty-nine, ninety. Why couldn't she just be satisfied with whatever he was willing to give? Ninety-five, ninety-six, ninety-seven, ninety-eight. They could've had a good time. Just like at the Monster Trucks, she was positive about that. If she had only shut up. Hundred and one, hundred and two, hundred and four, hundred and five, hundred and six. Freudian theories. Really. How pathetic was that? Hundred and seven, hundred and seven, hundred and seven. She suddenly stopped dead in the middle of the street. She'd lost count. Damnit.