anon (Guest): I'm so grateful to hear that. It is very possible to hate and love someone at the same time, and I can be nothing more than flattered that you'd bestow that upon me. Lol.

Plamin24: I'll do my best to fix it, but sometimes, things aren't nearly that simple. Many, many thanks, as always.

Yesni83: Many, many thanks. And I'll most certainly see what I can do in regards to fixing the mess.

ponderhouse: Wow. Where to begin? I'm a sucker for canon moments, and always do my best to incorporate them (in proper context or not). As for the rest of it all, I'm truly humbled that you'd make such kind comments. And as always, I most grateful to have readers like yourself around.

Frexijesse: I'm not so good at delivering hope, lol, but will do my best. And as always, I'm thankful for your support.

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

Author's Note: Sorry for yet another wait. I could kick my own ass for allowing this to get out of hand.

Summer

I haven't told her. Not yet.

Instead, this past month has been one of enjoying what little free time still exists before the real world kicks into overdrive. Paige and I have made it a point to do anything and everything, though we've equally managed to do nothing all the same.

Tonight, we find ourselves at your typical post-high school party. Aria, Spencer, and Hanna are here too, but they don't seem to be reveling in the absurdity as much as Paige is. Like the Energizer bunny, she bounces from group to group, cup in hand, mingling with anyone willing to discuss whatever odd topic she pulls fresh from her ass.

I'll occasionally catch her glancing my way, smiling to herself. But that only lasts as long as the brunette conjures up her next wild idea. Right now, it just so happens to mean disappearing for a handful of minutes, only to return wearing much less than she was before. A white button down, sunglasses, boxers, and a pair of socks, to be exact.

She glides across the wooden floor. As the music picks up, those same feet lead Paige onto a table that sits in the room's center. Everyone humors her, cheering as the performance goes on. I feel my face grow red with embarrassment, only to be suppressed with a toothy grin flashing down from just overhead.

Thankfully, the horsing around ends when she backs away from a circle of people, fiddling with the black sunglasses. Paige is almost breathless in reaching me, which does nothing to stop the hands that settle in on my lower back. Or the upper body that dips mine toward the ground. Or the lips that both gently and firmly press against mine.

Everyone cheers at that, too.

"Thought you weren't drinking," I casually point out once both feet meet the ground.

"I'm not," she whispers matter-of-factly into my ear. "I've just always wanted to do that."

We both then share a chuckle, hand in hand, before catching a glimpse of a pair of onlookers. Two girls, both from my third period science class, scowl at us. One mutters into the other's ear before grins creep across their faces. Paige's hand tenses in my own, squeezing the life from my fingers. "WHATDOYAWANT?" she eventually settles for, arms now extended wide.

When neither verbally responds, but instead reinstate equal looks of disgust, my skimpily-clothed counterpart leans over. "Get me my gun, Emily," she whispers in an official tone.

"You don't have a gun, Paige," I return.

Her hands once again extend, palms angled towards the sky as she calls out, "MAJOR FUCKING DESIGN FLAW, GUY." I believe this to be the end of her tyranny, but a glimmer in brown eyes says otherwise. "On to Plan B then, I suppose," Paige says, dashing off into another room.

I trail closely behind, almost rear-ending her in an abrupt stop. The party's host, a study partner of Spencer's, immediately acknowledges our pair. "Where's the sugar?" Paige asks.

"What do you need it for?" he quickly challenges, sipping from a red plastic cup.

"Fields and I are going to lick it off of each other," she deadpans. "Now where's the sugar?"

A finger points to a jar on the nearest countertop, to which Paige begins dumping handfuls of white, granular material into a cup. "What are you doing?" I ask when the first cup is filled to its brim, another being pulled free.

"Delivering justice," Paige absently explains, focused on the task at hand. And after the process has reached its end, she turns with full hands, grins, and places an innocent kiss to my forehead. "No one laughs at my lady's expense. You hold still, and I'll be right back."

Instead of explaining that the girls could've been giggling for a multitude of other reasons, many of which did not include me, I allow Paige her dramatic exit. And it's probably just as well, because the moment of down time allots me an opportunity of truly taking in our surroundings. It permits my eyes to gear in on a couch across the room. Being temporarily unhindered by an erratic Paige sees to it that I recognize the face of a boy I once crossed paths with. A boy who also once wore the Piney Groves scrubs.

He must recognize me too, for he tenses in my approach. "You're, uhh—"

"Holding up so well?" the guy immediately offers, brandishing his cup and laughing. The painful, self-realized kind. "Yeah, the real world's a bit different than where we come from."

"I'll say," I halfheartedly joke. Kind of difficult, though, to be joyous or merry when a face—the face—of your past struggles in returning the same verve. Or when its attached body wavers from side to side, clearly intoxicated to the point of no return. "You still keep in touch with the doctor?"

He nods. "Talk to the old bat about once every week."

"And everyone there's still—"

"Fucked beyond compare?" he again interjects. "Buying into that 'Emerging triumphant and built anew' crock?"

I sigh, recalling the phrase that often stared back from its perch on the foyer wall. That mocked those of us who passed underneath. "Something like that."

We both sit and stand around, awkwardly looking on to the scene in which we're both so evidently removed. Separated. Us, the ones whisked away to "summer camps" or "boarding schools" or simply on "pre-lengthened vacations", versus them. Never before have I felt so annexed from the mass. From a group that once had its own Emily-shaped space.

My internal rambling is interrupted by a burp. I believe it to be Paige, only to see the guy laughing at his own expulsion. "That was such bullshit they fed us, wouldn't you say?" he offers, gesticulating wildly. "Because nothing changes. You convince yourself for a little while, play the part and attend their meetings, but everything eventually returns to as it was before." He burps again.

Quite frankly, I hadn't given that rationale much thought before. Paying that lifestyle any mind would've been useless. But he says the words with such conviction, such devout belief, that I have no other choice but to entertain the idea. Sure, we played by their rules. We lived as quiet mice, collecting our food when the bell was rung. But I had Paige. I had a personal liaison into a life beyond the confines.

But everything eventually returns to as it was before. We're here, where we undoubtedly shouldn't be. Indulging in the very practices that landed many of the patients in Piney Groves to begin with. And now, I can't help but think of where Paige and I started out. Our "before". Coldness and disliking. Harsh words and even harsher motives.

But everything eventually returns to as it was before.

Have we doomed ourselves?

He said that nothing changes, but in actuality, everything has. And so far, we haven't handled it very well.

Thankfully, Paige barrels in through the front door before I begin trying to unmask Einstein's Theory of Relativity. She's breathless and red in the face, grinning from across the way. Seconds later, she leans in over my shoulder and asks, "Is he dead?"

Passed out, I internally answer. Not dead, but capable of sleeping through Christ's coming to this earth.

The fucker has made me ask questions that, without answer, will ensure that I wind up in a padded room.

So, with an equal mix of not thinking and far too much of the stuff, I take hold of her hand and march up the closest set of stairs. We land in a bathroom, where I firmly pull the door to. A smirk creeps along Paige's face as she begins unbuttoning the topmost clasp of her white shirt. "Formally requesting permission to sex you up, Miss Fields," she absently says, struggling to toy with the buttons somewhere around her midsection.

I almost choke on air. "In the bathroom?"

An eyebrow instantly raises, pursed lips curving together. Then, in poetic fashion, Paige takes a hallowed breath before reciting, "On a bus or in a rush. On a plane, on a train, in the snow, or in the rain. So long as I'm with you, my dear, I believe it's all the same." She grins from ear to ear. "Why else would you have brought me up here, anyway?"

I have to disregard how utterly adorable she is, standing in as the bastard lovechild of Dr. Seuss and Emily Dickens. But there is a much larger issue at hand. A mission that needs undertaking. Hearts that need breaking. So, in an effort to make this as painless as possible, I begin by saying, "Firstly, I don't even want to know what you just did to those girls."

"I was simply defending your honor," she calmly replies, winking. "And secondly?"

Funny, how in a split second, I've managed to lose all nerve. "Right. Secondly. Right." I'm tripping over each word, and Paige's face contorts in a way of understanding. She, too, knows the feeling of trying to convey difficult emotions with a simple arrangement of letters. That sometimes, the English language—or any language, for that matter—could properly express the things we feel. The things that are most difficult to fully accept within ourselves, let alone relay them on to another human being.

A human being that you wish to protect until the end of your days.

"I need to ask you a question," I eventually settle for. "A question that need be answered truthfully."

"Always, my dear."

A deep breath later, and I'm saying, "What are we doing here, Paige? Like, I get that we're dating. And I know that I love you more than I've ever loved anyone else." From minutes earlier, the odd conversation urges me forward. "But if the slightest fraction of change is going to mess everything up, then I need to know that, too. Because you matter to me. God, you mean so much. And if feeling this right about things means that we're destined to fail when life goes awry, then I need to know."

Paige has been listening intently, eyes falling and rising like a heartbeat given life via my confession. She gnaws on her bottom lip, brows hunkering inward. Her serious face. Eventually, after a few grueling moments, she leans in close and whispers, "Has the CIA asked you to go on a super-duper top secret mission? Because I'll dye my hair, Emily Fields. I'll dye my hair and change my name and grow a mustache if it means following you to the ends of this earth."

The urge to smile cannot be suppressed. No, it hasn't been a blatant, "I'm not going to Stanford," but it's progress. And maybe there's a hint of optimism concerning the both of us, if what Paige says is truly heartfelt. "That was oddly satisfying," I point out.

Her face playfully twists. "Don't get mushy on me, Fields. Save that shit for the cockroaches and old people," she says. Then, with a kiss to my cheek and gentle squeeze of my upper arm, Paige coos, "Come on, let's go home."

Home only comes after rounding up the troops. After everyone files from the house, leaning up against the nearest person. Paige breaks away from the pack, throwing a middle finger to the snarky girls from before. No one learns of the outcome of her previous escapade until a car engine struggles in turning over. Until it put, put, puts into deadening silence. The culprit? A trail of sugary substance that trickles from the gas tank up the driveway.

Hanna insists that we stop for food along the way, and after battling the drive-thru operator over a misplaced burrito, Paige totes us onward to Spencer's house.

"Go ahead. Fork it over," she calls out after parking, one hand extended into the backseat. Three confused, drunken faces look ahead. And when no one budges an inch, Paige is forced to turn around in her seat. "No gas money, huh? Well, then I'm afraid someone's going to have to make out."

I nudge her. "Paige."

"Aren't you just a lump of coal in everyone's stocking?" she quickly challenges, laughing to herself all the while. The girls take this as their cue to leave, but not before my front seat counterpart rolls the window down, poking her head out. Directed to the stumbling brunette, she says, "The offer always stands for you, though, Spence. Just phone ahead of time. Captain may be weird about who crawls into bed with her, but he's practically impartial to me."

The only other sounds are that of Aria and Hanna giggling as Paige leans back in, taking hold of my hand, and flashing me a cheeky grin.

Last night was basically our summer in a nut shell. Parties; deep, playful conversation; sex. Lots and lots of sex. But I haven't been complaining for the past couple of months, and I'm certainly not doing so now. After all, if we're destined to be three thousand miles apart for the next four years, then we may as well go ahead and start accounting for the lost time.

And it would be a hell of a lot easier if Paige wasn't so intent on planning our grand getaway. Seriously, she's kicked into Stanford overdrive. It's all about the dorms, drapes, and beds. The "Why haven't you gotten your letter yet?" questions. I can usually shut her up by taking my shirt or bra off, but even that's becoming less effective by the day. Paige is simply too busy preparing for our future together.

Sometimes I muster the courage to tell her. More often than not, the bravery package is a coherent-speech-not-included one, and I trip over the words like a bumbling idiot.

Today, though? Today is the day. A few weeks shy of summer's end and school's beginning, this evening will be the most opportune. There are no plans set in stone. Nothing that could possibly serve as distraction. More importantly, there are virtually no available scapegoats that would permit my veering off course.

I'm strapping myself in for the ride, and praying that it doesn't go flying off of the rails.

My parents are out for the evening, and Paige is off at the grocery store, grabbing a select few items to cook for dinner. Well, she's supposed to be, up until the door flings open. Up until a brunette stands in my kitchen, arms empty, scratching her temple. Confusion splayed across her face. And just as I'm about to question the nature of our missing food, Paige hums, "We're going out tonight. Dinner and a movie."

"Why? Did something go wrong at the store?"

Her head falls to the side. "Yeah, uh," she begins, stopping short. "I got lost somewhere on aisle seven. Who knew there were so many types of bread?"

Bread. It's what I have to thank for Paige's and my first casual date. Actual date. We get ready alongside each other, occasionally stealing glances, but remaining relatively hands-off. You know, no touching of the "business", as Paige now refers to vaginas, but the "unintentional-but-maybe-a-little-on-purpose ass grab" is "totally acceptable."

"I mean, we're only human," she rambles on, toothbrush lodged between her back rows of teeth. "And it's natural, almost primal, for—"

I take hold of her chin, remove the protruding utensil, and kiss a mouth that tastes of fluoride. "I get it, Paige. Now take me out before I change my mind."

She nods, toothily grinning. I nod too, and head off to put the finishing touches on my makeup. Paige stops me just short of the door by calling out, "Oh, and Fields? That thing with the chin? Ten out of ten, would recommend that you definitely do it again."

When to tell her? After we eat? Before the movie? Tonight, as we're both settling into bed? No matter the time, this conversation must happen. And I can't shake the nervousness of it all, which is far more than I even felt in coming out to my parents. In shattering the worlds of those around me.

Shattering worlds. Lives built upon and around others. Yeah, I'd say that this qualifies as the same, if not twelve thousand times worse.

Paige leads me by the hand into an upscale Italian restaurant. She requests a corner booth, nestling in on the opposite side. The waiter lights a candle and offers wine. My counterpart merely giggles, ordering both pizza and root beer.

Two outstretched hands eventually engulf mine, drawing meticulous doodles in the contours of each palm. She clears her throat, painfully swallowing before speaking. "There's something I want to tell you. Something in regard to Stanford," is what falls forth, instantly sending my mind and nerves on a rampage. She knows. She knows about the letter and she knows how utterly fucked we are.

Or maybe not, considering the hopeful smile Paige flashes. "As you know, I've spent a lot of time hating myself for things beyond my control. For things that didn't bother in asking permission before ruining everything," she almost singsongs, briefly smiling again. A grin of relief. "But I've been giving the matter some serious thought. You know, concerning being so far from home and dealing with even more change, like you said. I'm not afraid of that stuff, though. Not anymore. And I'm only unafraid because you've made it that way."

She sounds sincere, and yet I find myself searching brown eyes for an ounce of reason. For affirmation that she, too, believes the words that fall from her mouth. In what little space cloudiness doesn't exist, apprehension is most prevalent. The fear is very much alive.

Why is she lying? Why now?

These two questions are probably what warrant my own. "And what would you do if I wasn't around?"

At this, Paige merely smiles. She then takes a sip from her glass before shrugging. "I probably wouldn't last very long."

Of the things I've learned about Paige, the fact that there are many ill-conceived notions in respect to her remains most prevalent. For instance, you expect her to make frequent out-of-line comments, as was illustrated at the party. You expect her to get you into sticky situations. You expect her to expend an arsenal of manipulative jargon in hopes of swindling free from said trouble.

You do not, however, expect all three to occur on a date night of her construction. A night she'd seemed to be thoroughly enjoying.

Regardless, my lack of expectation has no effect on the evening's outcome. Hours after dinner, Paige and I are still ushered into a theater parking lot. We're still urged to leave the premises. We're still asked to find another movie-viewing venue in the future.

Red-faced and grunting, Paige takes my hand and says, "Let's go slash the bastard's tires."

I resist. "I think we've had enough vandalism to last the next few months. How about frozen yogurt instead?"

"Don't ever say that word again."

"Yogurt?" I deadpan.

Paige cocks an eyebrow, once again sighing deeply. Angrily. Much like minutes earlier, shortly before an attendant asked that we keep quiet. "I'm going back in there," she says with finality. "I need to know what happens. We paid good money and those pricks—"

"Were doing their jobs," I interrupt. "Hate to break it to you, sweetheart, but you acted like an ass."

"I merely said the very thing that was on everyone's mind."

"You can't yell 'dick move' at the screen."

"And why not?"

"It's a kid's movie, Paige."

"He asked her to marry him, Emily," she breathes, a look of disgust spreading across her face. "He asked her to marry him and then he was going to let her die and then he tried to kill her sister."

And then we don't know, considering that Paige's plan of having us kicked out was well underway. But loving someone so dearly makes it easier to forgive such a shortcoming, even though Paige seems long past the point of getting over anything.

Like the two adults we are, though, we decide upon the only sensible thing to soothe the burn of animated betrayal. Which is why we end up in a department store, scouring the aisles for a few last-minute grabs before heading off to school. And why, you ask, would teenagers spend a Saturday evening doing such mundane, soul-sucking activities? Well, as Paige so gently puts it: "So, when the time comes, corporate America will not be able to fuck us over with inflated prices as homeboy did to homegirl. I mean, Christ, her sister had super powers. Lock the chick in your basement or something, but don't kill her."

"Let it go," I playfully hum, to which she punches my arm.

Our date night-turned-catastrophe-turned-decent evening proceeds relatively well, what with me deciding at random points to tell Paige about Stanford, only to shoot them down when she does something insanely quirky yet cute. I have to at some point, I think. How, though? How do you find the words that will single-handedly destroy someone's hopes for the future? How do you look someone in the eye, someone who's practically given up on everyone but you, and tell them it isn't happening? That their newly rediscovered childish belief has been for naught?

How?

The time is rapidly approaching. Four weeks serve as four walls that close in all around, threatening to squeeze the life from me. And I can't relay this on to Paige without admitting to its source. I can't uphold my end of our bargain, the open honesty clause, without revealing the most painful truth of all.

She said she wouldn't last very long without me.

She's put her trust into me.

She's committed to four years with me.

These thoughts haunt me well into the night. As Paige organizes a slew of dorm room furniture items. As she giggles while arranging the labeled pieces in such a way to make our initials spell "PEE."

I've heard that love is pain. I've heard that it'll rip your heart out, toss the still beating organ to the ground, and stomp on it repeatedly. But no one ever told me that being happy could hurt so fucking badly.

You'd probably call me a coward for what I do next. A self-preserving asshole who is unworthy of Paige McCullers's valiancy. Of her time or effort. And to anyone who's truly listening, just know that these judgments don't escape my own internal badgering.

Still, though, no harsh accusations, regardless of how true they hold, keep me from venturing downstairs. From trying to soothe the worry that constantly grows on my love's face. From digging the opened letter out of a deliberate hiding place. From moving back up to the bedroom, where Paige instantly perks up upon recognition.

Her eyes plead for the answer she already believes to be true. They reek of excitement. They're as full and lively as ever.

A lump forms in my throat as I unfold the sheet of paper.

The air becomes difficult to breathe as I blindly skim over the words.

And a single tear threatens to break free as I look to a girl I love so dearly one final time, smile, and respond with a gentle nod.

I wake to a mouth peppering hot kisses on the back of my neck. To a finger tracing the undersides of my breasts. An ugly groan accidentally escapes, to which a body climbs over my own. Paige's front flush against my side, her mouth settles in above my right eye. "You're up early."

"Didn't sleep," she says.

"And why not?"

"Too excited. You know, about that letter finally coming in. Fan-fucking-tastic, really."

I groan again. Paige's weight is too much for early mornings. Her disturbing perkiness must be swallowed with mouthfuls of coffee. "Can you go be excited on your side of the bed?"

"Too comfy," she returns, attempting to nuzzle in. When I playfully resist, she cranes her neck, steals a kiss, and says, "I'm up, I'm up."

In the kitchen, Mom and Dad romantically piddle around like a young couple. They dance about. Kiss. Cook together. It's a scene that unfolds pleasantly, but comes to a halt when Paige barges in between them, making gagging sounds.

"I see that everyone's awake," Dad grumbles.

"And trying to un-see the porno that was about to take place," Paige mumbles over a glass of orange juice. "Seriously, Cap, some of us eat at that table."

A sigh of discontent ripples as both parents exchange glances. We eat. We converse. We sit around like your typical slightly mismatched family. And this goes on and on, until out of practically nowhere, Paige clears her throat when everyone's busily tending to their dishes. She takes a deep breath, voice catching. "I know that I give you guys a hard time, but it's only because I'm extremely grateful for all of this," she murmurs. "We didn't have stuff like this at my house. And I'm really going to miss it when Emily and I are off at—"

Intentional or not, a cereal bowl drops from my hands, and glass meets tile with an ear-shattering eruption. For an instant, I catch Paige freeze into position. She looks paralyzed with wide-set eyes. Shut down. Then, in one fluid motion, the carnal stupor is broken. When she blinks twice and shakes her head, I command, "Paige. Broom."

And just as soon as a brown ponytail rounds the corner, I mutter to Mom, "She doesn't know yet."

"Emily."

"I get it. I really, really do."

That's the end of our exchange. Paige returns in seconds, and instead of sticking around to clean up yet another mess I've made, I head out the front door in nothing but pajamas and flip flops. Towards nowhere in particular, but anything to break free from the suffocation of home.

The grocery store is where I wind up. A subconscious means of losing myself in another mix. The aisles are long and intricate. Daunting, almost. It's the perfect place for forgetting one's self. Varieties of Oreos to soothe the mind. An array of colors on the laundry detergent bottles to use as distraction.

Somewhere along the way, I think of Paige. Her comment about aisle seven and the bread. A good, heartfelt laugh is most definitely in order, and envisioning her domestic battle for stronghold could do just the trick.

Even though the shelves are littered with canned items, rather than carbo-loaded goodness. It's stupid, being instantly bothered by such a pointless fact, but I proceed to stop a worker and ask for direction. She points to the back wall.

Amazing, how something so meaningless can trigger brash thought after brash thought after brash thought. Honestly, why could something so simple suddenly cause me so much panic? So she got the facts mixed up. Big deal. But Paige has been doing that a lot lately. Her keen eye for detail has faltered on more than one occasion. And when she spoke about Stanford? About not being afraid? Even I knew that it was bullshit, but still let it slide. Because the same fear showed tens of minutes ago, when a sharp sound triggered Paige's own anxiety factor.

Paige McCullers, the girl who once frequently berated me for being a liar, has joined the ranks of the dishonest.

Why? Why won't she be truthful? What is there to hide? Why won't she just let me all the way in?

As a result of being trapped inside my own head for far too long, everything comes crashing down at once, and for no reason in particular. Oxygen invades my chest cavity too quickly. The struggle to remain upright becomes very, very real. Overwhelmed and unable to cope, I dash off across the building, not stopping until the shelter of a bathroom stall serves as my dead end.

Bawling like an idiot is what I am. Hunkered over, face buried into both palms. Thinking, thinking, thinking. Who's the real liar, Emily? Who's the one that can't tell Paige she was rejected from the place that they were bound to start over at? Paige has been right to keep part of herself locked away. The fear. The trauma. The sheer petrified expression that even the slightest of miscues can bring about. This isn't about bread. This, right here, is you finally realizing what you've secretly known all along.

I'm clearly not the calming presence in Paige's life that she's been in mine. And without that key aspect, a deeper, lasting relationship is impossible. Instead, we're merely a lion and field mouse, playing house until hunger sets in. A ticking time bomb, more or less.

I need closure. I need guidance. I need just one glimmer of insight that will shed light on the looming darkness. Most importantly, I need to know that despite our differences, Paige and I will be okay. That regardless of physical location, we'll each be comfortable. With ourselves and whatever demons still exist. And if that means sending her as far away as physically possible, then so be it.

Tucked away in the remote bathroom stall, shaking and on the verge of an even more major breakdown, I call in hopes of reaching a voice of reason. Spencer picks up on the third ring. "What can I do you for?" she singsongs.

"I need your help."

A tense moment passes, but she asks, "Emily, what's wrong?"

"Everything," I quickly admit, choking back yet another sob. "And I know that you two haven't been the best of friends, but I need to ask a huge favor concerning Paige."

With an air of seriousness, Spencer says, "Anything at all."

Oh, man. Everything's become realer by the millisecond. This isn't how I envisioned our situation playing out. I expected to be strong and assured; not desolate and weeping in a public restroom. Being Paige and Emily means more than that.

Meant, at least.

Doesn't really matter at this point, though, considering that this is where we are now. Resorting to deception for whatever reasons. As protection for ourselves. Each other. To shield one another from the harsh realities that rain all around.

Yeah, that's it. We're just trying to keep the other from experiencing any more pain.

"Emily?" a voice rings out.

I come to, tears still streaming freely. Sniffles dominating my air usage. "Yeah, Spence. I'm here," I finally manage, vying for a sigh of relief. A beacon of hope. Anything to alleviate the sadness that's returned. An emotion I'd believed to be buried, only to feel it creep back in with the utmost resilience.

She needs to go, Emily. Despite all she's said, Paige needs freedom from the ghosts that live in Rosewood. If you can give her that, then maybe her mind will be put at ease. Maybe she'll find the day in which opening up is a light undertaking. And when that day comes, maybe, just maybe, you'll be the person she calls.

"I need a favor," I repeat.

"So you've said."

She needs to go. Through a deep, struggled breath, the moment comes. The words dribble from my lips, taking on new life. "In a couple of weeks, Paige and I will be headed to the airport, preparing to leave for school," I somehow muster the energy to say. "And no matter what does or doesn't happen, or what she says, I need you to make sure she gets on that plane."