L (Guest): Many, many thanks.

Yesni83: Haha. Well, I am certainly most appreciative of that.

PailyIsLove (Guest): I shall keep writing it, and so I shall thank you, too.

ponderhouse: And I always LOVE seeing your name pop up in the comments. Many thanks, dear friend.

Plamin24: It's not "right now", but is this soon enough? Lol.

dotylink64: I am certainly most appreciative. Many, many thanks.

Author's Note: I apologize for not having much to say in response to all of you, but I am always so grateful for those of you who read and review.

Disclaimer: I do not own Pretty Little Liars or any of the show's characters.

"Three remain, but only two can survive," Paige dramatically announces as we march ourselves to the doctor's office. "One of us must be killed so that the others may maintain Alpha status." I nudge her, because it's the only rational reaction to the not-so-sweet nothings that often fall from my roommate's mouth.

And then we're surrounded by white walls, an unforgiving yellow light beaming down. It feels like an interrogation, as do many of my encounters with the head counselor. What's happened, though? What happened to keeping my head down? What happened to skating through six months without any trouble?

I'll tell you what. The dumbass brunette to my left is what happened.

"It was my fault," I quickly offer without thinking, just as we settle into our respective leather chairs. "I insisted that we sneak out and go to the wedding. Paige was totally against the entire idea."

My roommate begins snickering to herself. "Side bar," she says to Dr. Evans, holding a finger up and leaning in towards me. "That's terribly punk rock of you, but I can't allow you to do this, Emily."

"And why not?" I whisper. "You did. I'm simply returning the favor."

She grins. "Because I'm far too diplomatic, woman. Now giving me a fighting chance or I'll explode." Paige leans up and returns her attention to the woman sitting just a desk away. "It was my fault. I insisted that we sneak out and go to the wedding. Fields was totally against the entire idea."

I nudge her as hard as possible. She grins again, extending yet another finger, and announcing once more, "Side bar."

"You can't keep side-barring," I point out as we lean in towards each other again.

"Has anyone ever told you that you're, like, the world's biggest buzz kill?"

"This is quite possibly the worst time for cracking jokes."

"Hmm," she mutters, breath foul as it trickles across our miniscule expanse. "Then do you think that if we sit still enough, Doc Lady won't be able to see us?"

I grunt. "Not exactly what I had in mind, either."

There's a brief moment of silence before Dr. Evans readjusts in her chair. "Ladies?" Suddenly, a knock at the door breaks our side bar.

Three stocky orderlies stand in the doorway. Each man is dressed in white, eyes riddled with sleep. One even seems as though he's just crawled from bed. Hair tussled, shoes sloppily thrown on. Paige's eyes scan them from head to toe, a grin of amusement forming at the sight. Her head cranes to the side as she deadpans, "Three guys? I've had much weirder nights, I suppose." She giggles at Dr. Evans before finishing with, "But seriously, Tabby, you're giving us way too much credit."

"Paige, please," I plead, nerves now completely shot. The situation has taken a drastic turn towards serious with the most recent intrusion, and the past seven hours have not adequately prepared me for confrontation. "If you ever find yourself in a sticky situation, keep those pretty eyes peeled…" Shelly's words are now as loud as ever.

Damn it, Shelly.

But Paige is sympathetic, if only for the moment. For she hums, "Fine, fine, fine." A balled fist and protruding thumb follow. "Loser takes the rap." The male nurses step aside when my roommate explains that the office lighting makes it an unsuitable environment for thumb wrestling. Dr. Evans waves a hand throughout the air, obviously annoyed but permitting the exit.

And this is how we find ourselves fresh from a wedding, standing in a dimly lit hallway, thumb wrestling to see who will receive the brunt of this evening's punishment. It's all terribly confusing, really, but I keep my eyes peeled, intent on losing. Something that shouldn't be too difficult a task if our last bout was any indication.

"By the way, do you remember where I put those practice tests?" Paige asks when our fingers begin dancing around the other's. "You know, for studying?"

"Sure," I absently say, focusing on her thumb. The thumb that suddenly falls lax underneath mine, pinning itself down. The thumb that doesn't give me a moment to think clearly. The thumb that's connected to the hand of the girl that winks at me before shrugging. I know this shrug. It's the very expression that often precedes trouble. It's my "Brace for impact" cue.

As sure as I stand in the hallway, Paige turns and begins a dead sprint through the corridor. The two nurses that previously stood guard outside of the doctor's office follow. They can't catch her, though. Her legs stride out too far. Her wily spirit has finally been put to good use, fueling all internal systems that push her further and faster farther.

"Umm," I mumble, looking to Dr. Evans. "I think this means that I won?"

They eventually caught up with Paige, and I could only tell by the maniacal howling that sounded from somewhere around the corner. She didn't go down without a fight, either, because I didn't see any of the three orderlies after she took off.

The downside to it all—I didn't see Paige, either.

"How long will they keep her down there?" I ask at breakfast the next morning. I'm referring to the downstairs area that no one ever brings up in conversation. The place that people go and often return looking frazzled, just as Calley did.

"You do realize that you've asked me this same question at least seven times, and it's only been twelve hours?" BHB grunts, tending to a bowl of cereal.

"Then answer it an eighth," I regretfully snap. And he does, in the same fashion as every other time. "A week, most likely. Two, at worst."

I try maintaining my composure. Even as the days drone on. Her absence is everywhere. I feel it in the most mundane of activities. Areas in which her jokes would liven up any situation. Our room. Meals. Paige is nowhere and everywhere all at once.

Evidently, our night out was the absolute worst, or simply the straw that broke this camel's back, because it's a solid three weeks before BHB announces that Paige will be joining us around this time tomorrow. My reaction must reek of excitement, for he quickly mumbles, "Don't get your hopes up, Emily. Things will most definitely be different. She'll be different."

"But it's Paige that we're talking about," I quickly insist. BHB's expression unsettles me enough to know better, though. Like he knows something that I don't. And so the nerve-wrecking silence brings me to ask, "What's it like, then? Being down there?" I'm desperate for explanation. A hint as to what she's been going through.

"You're barking up the wrong tree, girl," BHB playfully admonishes. "My happy ass has kept itself in check since day one. Most of us have, actually. And to be completely honest, your best bet lies with the only person who could possibly give you an accurate description."

My eyes both apprehensively and instinctively follow his across the cafeteria, to a table where Calley sits. He's right, of course. Aside from any of the counselors, she's probably the only patient I've heard of going downstairs. She's also the person I'd most prefer to avoid at the moment. And then again, desperation leads people into the darkest of places, and it's a safe enough bet to say that one Emily Fields currently epitomizes desperation.

So I stand, leave my tray with BHB, and wander over to the slew of unfamiliar faces.

She immediately laughs upon my approach. Shakes her head. Points a finger in the opposite direction. "No way," she says. "Not a fucking chance."

"Just a quick conversation," I plead. "That's all."

"I said, 'no'."

I bite my lip so harshly that it undoubtedly turns white. Take a couple of sharp breaths. In through the nose, out of the mouth. I even consider walking away, but stubbornly keep my feet firmly planted. "I'm sorry for what I did," I eventually admit in a single breath. "It was selfish, cowardly, and a total dick move. I don't want your forgiveness, I just want to talk. Please."

The end must really do it, for something in her entire demeanor changes, and a raise of her eyebrows sends all other party members in various directions. It's just me and her at this point, so I take a seat across the table. A couple of awkward moments pass before she finally says, "On with it."

How to word this question without returning to the most obvious point? Lightly phrase it, perhaps? This method works to no avail. For the most part, I'm caught between a dumbed down strings of "uhm"s and "well"s. She grows agitated rather quickly, eventually interrupting my rambling with, "This is about Paige. This is about where Paige is. This is about where you're not."

The abruptness of her tone catches me off guard. She's one thousand percent correct, of course, but her being right isn't what I was expecting. "Not necessarily," I offer.

She scoffs. "Well, you certainly didn't come begging to chat about the weather. So cut the bullshit and get real, or go somewhere else."

Right. Real. No bullshit. I can certainly do that. "Maybe it is about Paige, then." Okay, so maybe I can't.

Calley laughs this time. She then drops a spoon into her bowl, folds both hands atop the white table, and cocks her head at me. "What? Need help picking out colors for the wedding?"

"Huh?" I say. "No, that's not—I mean, we're not—"

"Not joined at the hip twenty-four-seven?" she interjects. "Not shoved up each other's asses? Tell me, Emily, what are you not?"

Ground control to Major Tom—this has been a terrible fucking idea. I have made a grave mistake, seeking her input. A horrendous judgment call. So I decide to call all bets off and get up to leave, assuring myself that just about anyone else could prove more helpful. But Calley merely begins laughing once more at my frustration. And just as she begins, she ceases, a stony expression spreading across her features. "It's absolute hell," she then offers, which lowers my ass right back to the circular seat. "I wouldn't wish it upon anyone. Not even assholes like you and Paige."

"On a scale of one to ten?" I ask, because my third grader brain can think of no better means of comparison.

She chuckles again, but there's pain behind it. "It's worse than prison," she explains. "Even if you're incarcerated for, like, fifty years, at least there are people to talk to." And in the same manner that she was able to read my emotions, I can physically see the anguish replace each and every one of hers. "Hang around in your own head for long enough, or stare into a mirror for just one second too long, and you'll understand what I'm talking about."

"Paige can handle herself," I defend for whatever reason, ignoring her last statement. "In fact, she prefers her own company."

"That's cute," she grunts.

"It's the truth."

Calley throws her head back, shaking it all the while. "Yeah, okay. The truth is the truth until it ceases being so." Though her rationale sounds like what you might find in the diary of a drunk Confucius, the words are substantial. And I allow them to linger in my head for a moment before she coughs, bringing me to. "You're a fairly decent swimmer, right? Used to winning medals an all of that other shit?"

"And all of that other shit," I agree with but a hint of sarcasm.

A finger tap, tap, taps away at her chin. "Is there pressure? You know, to constantly perform well?"

"Something like that." Which is the truest statement I can provide. Especially since I'm still halfway convinced that the pressure is what brought me to the very self-destructive ways that landed me here in the first place.

Calley understands. She must, for she gives a nod of approval before saying, "So, if you were to hoist someone up on a pedestal—say, Paige—it'd be an awfully dumb idea to believe them to be incapable of falling."

"But I'm not—"

"If you're trying to run with another story, then the dumb puppy dog look on your face isn't helping," she interrupts. I blink a few times, wagging my head as if to shake the look free. She cracks a smile, then asking, "You're really struggling with this, huh? Like, it's impossible for you to wrap your head around this."

I groan. "I can't tell if I actually care enough to worry about her, or if it this feeling's just heartburn."

We both share a laugh over this, which feels relatively decent, considering that the past couple of weeks have rendered me incapable of feeling so hearty. Nothing's nearly as joyous if Paige isn't around to call stupid. If that even makes sense. The entire deal's a bit draining, truthfully. Like experiencing joy in the midst of my roommate's anguish is more of a betrayal than anything.

Thankfully, Calley allows the brief moment. Which I capitalize on, giggling to myself so much that it undoubtedly seems excessive. The lapse eventually settles in. The calm after the storm, which doesn't really serve as calmness at all, but a silence that engulfs you as you soak in the aftermath.

First comes destruction. Then grief. Then acceptance.

I'd say that I'm currently venturing on the middle ground.

Calley must sense this. She has to. She's experienced it from the first-person view. And my assumptions are further proven correct by what next falls from her mouth, for it serves as both insightful and empathetic.

"Back home, we have dogs. Loads of the bastards that run rampant all over the place. And it probably seems irrelevant now, but I learned a rather valuable lesson at a rather young age," she explains. "When you leave, those creatures go absolutely bat shit crazy. Bark their little mouths off until the door shuts. Which is to be expected on anyone's part, but it's not an accurate portrayal of their love. Nobody likes to be abandoned. The sadness of being left behind doesn't necessarily mean that you give a shit."

I nod in understanding.

She finishes with, "But when you come home and they piss all over the floor in excitement, now that means something."

"So you're saying that if I pee all over the floor when she comes back, it means that I actually care?" I ask.

This time, she chuckles. The hearty kind. One that only two people on the relatively same playing field can share. "Be an awfully nice touch, wouldn't it? Unfortunately, no, I do not suggest popping a squat on the floor." The lunch bell rings, and everyone begins gathering their belongs. Calley simply stares off into a far corner of the cafeteria for a solid minute before meeting my eyes one last time. "I'm saying that when you do see her—regardless of how distraught or distant she may initially seem—you'll know if what you're feeling is real or not."

Paige joins us the next morning. Yeah, she seems distraught. Yeah, she seems distant. But something isn't right, and nestles into my gut. She's cold. Colder than she ever was. A body without a spirit. A spirit without a soul.

And it isn't the way that she barely eats or blinks. It isn't the zombie-like nature of her actions or the absence of any words. What unsettles me the most is how devoid of life her eyes are. Like a switch that's been flipped, the light that once filled Paige's eyes no longer exists.

I can't help but feel responsible for this.

Eventually, the courage to speak surfaces. It comes forth when we're dropping off our trays. "You look as though you've seen a ghost," I casually say.

"And feel as though I've been hit by a train," she absently returns, simultaneously swallowing as she struggles in trying to crack a smile.

Unnerved. That's how I feel. Punched in the stomach and on the verge of puking. Yet, despite all physically discrepancies, I still manage to ask, "Seriously, though, are you all right?"

Her expression doesn't register any initial acknowledgement. Not until I cautiously bump into her arm. "Just need to keep busy," she mumbles.

And keep busy, she does. Or at least tries doing. Pouring herself rather fervently into assisting with the final preparations for the admissions test I'll be taking in a manner of days. A test that I haven't been studying for at all. Could you blame me, though? I mean, how does anything productive happen with this kind of worry? These sleepless nights? This hollow emptiness of spirit that shows no signs of returning in the near future?

I tip-toe around the most obvious questions. Try avoiding them altogether. Just ask, Emily. She'll probably want to talk more than anything. I'm too sheepish for even that kind of sincerity. Too skittish to ask a simple, "Are you really as okay as you say you are?"

Is this even possible, though? Because the further Paige retracts into herself, the more overwhelming my guilt becomes. I've brought this upon her. I had the chance to save her from this outcome, and I didn't. I did do what I could, but it wasn't enough.

"I bombed it," I tell Paige a couple of days later, shortly after taking the Stanford athletic admissions test. "None of the answers ended in 'dumbass', so I most likely got all of them wrong."

She doesn't laugh. Not like I hoped she would. She does smile, which has to be a good sign, right?

Wrong. Evidently, smiling is no clear indication of a person's state. For each and every day, Paige repeatedly hums, "Just have to keep busy." The question is of no importance. You could ask, "Great weather, yeah?" and she would robotically drone in answer, "Just have to keep busy."

I've begun keeping one side of my bed open, should she consider joining, as she might have once done. No such thing occurs. Instead, Paige presses on, continuing in a cycle of busy, busy, busy, crash. I'm really beginning to miss her, though I don't dare say it aloud.

Is it possible to lose something that you never had? Something that you never thought twice about forgetting until you could no longer remember? Is it possible to grieve over the loss of a person who constantly wanders about in your midst? Who lies in the bed across from yours?

Paige still isn't speaking, which means that I'm forced into having very one-sided conversations. Mostly with myself. So frequently, in fact, that it seems as though I'm trapped inside of my own head. Left alone with nothing more than my own demented thoughts.

Is this what Paige feels like?

She crawled into my bed last night. It was the dead of morning when the bed sheet was first lifted, and despite my overall grogginess, I was more alert than ever. Aware enough to realize that when she kissed me, it was nothing like at the wedding. There was no electricity. No fueling force greater than the two of us combined.

Shamefully so, I didn't nothing to thwart her efforts. I was too busy sorting through the odd mix sorrow and joy that engulfed me. "Paige is back," I convinced myself. That theory was quickly dispelled when she peeled her shirt off and pulled me on top. At that point, I was too afraid of the unwanted emotions that stopping might bring. So I went with the motions.

We were terribly detached from each other. We epitomized "no feelings". Her touch was ice cold. Movements frantic. "Hey," I once cooed when her hands froze over. "Would you rather we just talk?"

"Not really," she almost snapped.

It was over before it ever started. Per her pleading, I moved faster. Harder. As deep as possible. "You're not hurting me enough," should've been a clear enough sign. I should've known better than to proceed. Should've rolled over and asked what was wrong. I should have done quite a few things, but I didn't.

It wasn't long before she piqued out, going over the edge caught between moaning and crying.

This morning, Paige is curled up in a ball nearest the bed's edge. Noiselessly, her body slowly drifting up and down with the steady breaths of sleep. I crawl from underneath the covers and venture into our bathroom. In the mirror, sleep deprivation is most obvious. It plagues my features. An air of restlessness and discomfort creeps along my face. Bags. Dark circles. The whole nine yards.

I take various conversations from the past three weeks and allow them to dominate my thoughts. Allow them to drown out the other notions that swirl about with unforgiving verve.

Granted, Calley was speaking metaphorically about looking at your reflection. But I'm currently taking the more literal approach, and if I must say, this practice is equally relentless. Because the truth stares back at me, and I'm too much of a coward to meet its gaze.

Quite frankly, I can't help but hate myself for it.

But I continue waiting. Stare long and hard at my own reflection. Peer at the dulled outline of a girl that so harshly contrasts the transparent glass. Eventually, it begins staring back, too, and a swell of guilt and shame begin infiltrating my chest. My throat catches. A knot forms, wound tight and feeling like a cotton lump. Threatening to unhinge me at any moment. I don't dare swallow.

Was Calley right? Is it possible that my own selfish means of escape had been the peak of Paige's wellness?

In this moment, my world comes crashing down. Everything that I once knew fails to be. I'm suddenly haunted by the abrupt realization of my own demons. The ones easily defeated by mere abstinence. Ones that compare nothing to Paige's. A simple conclusion burrows itself into the deepest crooks of my mind.

Paige has been fighting on my behalf all along. So long, in fact, that she's ultimately begun losing the war that wages on within herself.

It's a petrifying notion. Most terrifying, though, is the fact that, despite everything else, she's still here. Still lying in my bed. Still at my side, if only in body. She's finally reached the state of normalcy I once longed for.

Calley asked if I was struggling. I avoided directly answering. But now, as I stand just shy of a darkened room, patiently waiting for Paige to break free of the slump that currently afflicts her, honesty is all but avoidable. There isn't room enough for both my cowardice and inner turmoil. So, yes, I am struggling. I'm struggling because three weeks ago, Paige and I were dancing and she was drunk and she kissed me and I couldn't help but enjoy it. I'm struggling because three weeks ago, her wild antics annoyed me. Because I would've given anything for her to simmer down.

Maybe she was right. Maybe I am no better than your common German Shepherd. Maybe I am fearful of being abandoned.

Maybe I was too afraid to admit that I do care. Because that's what this is, is it not? Missing the person that lies next to you? Hating yourself for simple decisions that held far more impact than you could've ever imagined? Regretting the choices you did and did not make?

I care enough to see that she's breaking. To see that she's vanishing right before my eyes. This shame must account for something. After all, pain is inevitable, sure, but it's always for good reason. So something deeper must be prompting the current ache I feel for my roommate.

So, to finally answer your question, Calley—yeah, I am struggling. And yeah, I do possess an odd sense of longing whenever I'm nearest Paige. For who she was. For who she no longer is. And maybe it's not the common definition of caring. Maybe it counts for absolutely nothing. But if there is one thing that matters, it's this:

Paige has disappeared, and I'd give just about anything to have her back.