A/N: Thanks so much for the reviews, guys! Really. I love reviews. They make me update faster.

I know everyone absolutely hates the beginning of stories with all the exposition, and trust me, it's not that fun to write, but I have to do it.

Disclaimer: I do not own Disney or any of these characters except the Wheatons. So far, at least.

I felt so nauseated. The blood was rushing to my head, and I couldn't stop it. How could my mother start over like this? How could she forget me, and adopt some other jerk's kids? Just because my dad had fled her life didn't mean that I had ran away too. I was right here. And she was now too blind in love with Phillip to see that.

The only thing I wanted in the entire world was to be in His arms. His. Him. He. Hunter. And his name never sounded so perfect as I whispered it to myself, trying to block the tears from flowing down my face. We didn't have enough time together. It wasn't fair. It didn't have to be like this. He could've fought. He could've fought for our love, for our lives.

When I realized.

Me.

I could have.

I could've fought for our love, our lives. Our blossoming love was sacred; it was everything I had wanted it to be, and I didn't stop it from being torn down. I let it happen. Just because I waiting around for him to rescue me, rescue my life and my love for him from being destroyed. And it was too late.

And just as I was thinking this, I felt a yank on my arm, and before I knew it, I was standing in the huge spanking-new kitchen, uncomfortably sandwiched in between my stepfather-to-be and soon-to-be Mrs. Wheaton. My throat went dry as the four Wheaton kids flumped down the stairs, lining up in age order in front of us, as if this were the Sound Of Music. I strangled down the snigger in my throat, which proved to be a challenge.

"James!" My mother exclaimed, engulfing a small angular boy into a hug. "Miss me?"

"Yeah! Did I tell you I finally got into that national math program?" he grinned excitedly.

I winced. I was the smart one. Not him.

"That's fantastic! Ella here is a smart cookie too!"

Ugh. Not with all the stupid juvenile nicknames. What a way to make an impression. But then again, she wasn't trying to make an impression. Actually, I don't think she was even making an impression. By the looks of it, these kids knew her. And they knew her well.

"Hey Maria, I didn't know you had a daughter!" A girl smiled genially. She had huge round blue eyes, so kind that I felt bad at feeling my sudden urge to kick her in the guts.

"Yes, yes, this is Gabriella," my mother put an arm around me while Preppy beamed, as if I were his own child. "She'll be a senior."

"So will Eric!" My mother's fiancé boasted proudly, gesturing to the tallest of the children. He had thick dark brown hair, and was well-built and muscular. His eyes were huge and gorgeous; I couldn't tell if they were green or blue, as it seemed to change depending on the light or angle. He gave me a true friendly smile; so inviting that I wanted to hug him for seeming like the only normal person so far. I smiled back, my eyes transfixed on his pearly and blindingly white teeth, which seemed identical to his father's. He was definitely hot, but not in the way that made my stomach flip. No. I wasn't ready for that. At least not yet, and maybe not in a long time.

"And my youngest, James," Phillip grinned pompously, motioning to the smallest Wheaton child. James was short, skinny, and scrawny; the typical stereotype of genuine geekiness. I couldn't help but feel sympathy for him, as he looked nerd square, and I was living evidence of its hardships. He was wearing a long-sleeved button-down, his shirt tucked in neatly and his tan pants pulled up high and kept there with a leather belt. His hair was the color of his father's; reddish gold, hold the gold. His eyes were different however, and I recognized them to be very similar to the other girl's eyes: big and burgeoning and blue. "He's got straight A's. He's the smart one, I tell you," Mr. Preppy grinned, his grin so gigantic and stupid-looking that just looking at it hurt. "And he's only in sixth grade! Imagine what he'll be when he's older."

I felt my throat close up as I stole a glance at my mother, grinning proudly at James as if he were her own child. How could she do this? I couldn't ask myself enough. How could she go off so easily? Forgetting about me?

I bit the inside of my cheeks, feeling so uneasy that I couldn't stop my eyes from darting around. The kitchen—it was so spotless and huge and new that it made my eyes burn. The family photos, with them wearing matching Tommy Hilfiger sweaters, hanging all over—so posed and practiced and positive and practically perfect that it made my stomach ache.

"And this—this is Victoria!" exclaimed Mr. Wheaton. He pointed at the brunette who mirrored James' eyes. Her baby blue eyes were round—bigger than her brother's—and they each seemed the size of the earth, taking up half her face. She blinked them innocently a few times, and instead of this habit pissing me off like it usually did, I was surprised as there was a warm manner about her that just made me smile.

"I'll be a freshman," she added, her tone timid but her voice light and sweet, spilling off her tongue and condensing the air with honey. I noticed her beautiful hair, which was long and flawless as it spread out across her shoulder and her back. It was straight, the light warm brown fitting her perfectly. She was sporting a lovely summer dress, sweet and innocent, which seemed to mirror her personality.

A cough and a pride-filled grin. "Elizabeth!"

My gaze traveled over to the last of the Wheaton clan, to a strawberry blonde whose nose, may I add, was stuck up in the air quite high. Her glinting eyes seemed like mere slits, and were an exotic snakeskin green. Freckles were everywhere. On her cheeks, on her forehead, on her throat, on her arms, on her fingers. Every place imaginable was speckled with tiny dots. Her long hair once again reflected her father's; reddish gold, but this time, hold the red. Her hair was sleek and straighter than her sister's. You could easily tell that Victoria's hair was naturally straight, while Elizabeth's was so artificially pole straight that it seemed like cheating. She was wearing a green polo that accented her eyes; a string of pearls adorned her neck and two other ones dotted her ear lobes, finished off by a threateningly high miniskirt and flip-flops. Her figure was convenient for the latest fashions, although she seemed rather short for her age. "Elizabeth'll be a sophomore. Right, honey?" Mr. Wheaton was trying too hard. I could see it as his eyes creased, as his wrinkly skin strained itself and tried to hold on tight to its mask. Elizabeth didn't show any emotion; she just grunted, "Hmph." So haughtily it was like a flashback to ninth grade in Boston with that bitch Hallie Meyers, a.k.a. Queen Bee.

I smiled, hard and forced, trying to be friendly and nice, even though I didn't want to. It wasn't me who wanted to move here. No. It was my mother who dropped the bomb on me. What did she expect? Did she expect me to accept the change and suddenly embrace the whole prospect as if we were the Brady Bunch or something? No. I wasn't going to be that girl. I wasn't going to be that girl who went along with everything without a fight, without getting what she wanted for once, because she was trying to be polite. I was going to be strong.

At least I wanted to be. But deep down inside me, I knew I had lost the battle I hadn't even started to fight. It was pointless, and I secretly knew it. It just made me feel better to think, to pretend, to imagine that I had a way out. But of course, real life comes knocking at your door and you know there's no loophole. There never is when you're playing the game of life. Why? Oh right. Because it's not a game. It's just nice to think that it is.

So I just stood there, so awkwardly and feeling so out of place that my forced, fake smile faltered into a grimace. One that I couldn't seem to shake off. One that was so plastered on, that I want to cry. Because it hurt. Because it hurt to have to fake everything. To pretend. I didn't want to pretend. I wanted to be happy. I wanted to be myself, a thing I hadn't been in a while. Pretending got me nowhere. It just got me into trouble. And unhappiness. I didn't know what was going on around me; what was happening.

I got a sick feeling in my stomach as I remembered the pretending I had put myself through to forget about how it was when my dad left. That I was perfect. That everyone loved me. That I was popular.

When no. It was nothing like that. And it barely me feel good.

And then He came. He. My savior. And He took me in His arms, carried me away to His world, where I was perfect. Where everyone did love me. Where I was popular. And it felt so goddamn amazing. To know, that somewhere, some place in this wretched world, that someone loved me. That someone loved me for who I was, even through my pathetic cries and pessimistic attitudes. Even through the trauma I went through.

He loved me.

But I was stupid.

And stupid can ruin everything.

It's just sad that I had to learn the hard way.

My bedroom is truthfully nice.

I would gush about it more, but then it'd seem like I'm actually appreciating the Wheatons for giving me one of the nicest rooms for my own.

I would say that it's ginormous; that it's already decorated perfectly, as if out of a catalog. I would ramble on excitedly about how everything is color schemed white or a light lavender blue, or how my closet is bigger than our entire apartment was in New York City. I would continue on about how I have my own balcony and gorgeous view. But I'm not going along with it. It's like admitting defeat. I may not be the strongest bow, but I'm not going to let someone snap my arrow either.

I sigh as I plop down onto the large four-poster bed, leaning my head one of its white posts.

I wish I could call Him. I wanted to call Him so desperately and tell Him everything, absolutely everything on my mind, like we used to. I wanted Him to whisper to me, His soft heavenly voice calming me. I wanted Him to lull me to sleep, and make me forget about everything.

When it hit me so inconveniently, like a slap in the face with no warning.

He had left me with no new number, no new address. Nothing. The only thing He had left me with was misery and loneliness.

"Gabriella?"

Knock. Knock.

The door was already open, but being the polite person he is, Eric knocked first. I had been there for four hours, and I already knew that Eric was my favorite Wheaton.

I swiveled around on my bed, giving my best smile to him, allowing him to enter my room. He closed the door softly as he came around and leaned on my dresser.

"I know we seem like some freak show, but not all of us are like that, you know. It's just the impression my dad makes on us."

"Yeah," I nodded, gulping. Eric just smiled at me, gleaming, like all of this is normal.

"You going to East High?"

"Yeah. Is it a…good school?" I felt like such a nerd asking, but I really wanted to know.

"The best." He grinned at me. "Not like anyone takes advantage of it, though."

I allowed myself to laugh, finding myself more at ease than I thought I would be. "Well, I guess I'll be the first and surprise the teachers."

"You would. Most people are more into sports. We're really competitive. You know, lotsa school spirit. I'm on the basketball team."

I almost stopped breathing at this.

"Most of my friends are too," he continued. I just nodded, dumbly like one of those Bobbleheads He used to have in His car.

Eric pauses.

It was quiet. Very, very quiet. The silence rang through my ears, and I readjusted my seat on my bed.

BANG!

I jumped, my heart jolting in surprise at the sudden noise. Eric was laughing, but not in the mocking way. He wasn't laughing at me; just at the noise.

"That's just James experimenting," he smirked, shaking his head as he tried to suppress his laughter. "My dad's not that…controlling. He just can't bring himself to."

"Yeah," I replied, smiling. Eric smiled back and continued to talk, trying to warm me up more. It seemed to work.

"My stepmother's not much better…or, I can't really call her my stepmother…I'm not really sure what she is…I just call her Charity," Eric drops down onto my matching white desk chair, reclining and making himself comfortable.

"Stepmother?" I asked, honestly curious. I didn't understand…Mr. Wheaton was divorced…right?

"No, well—" I knew this was hard for him. He stopped for a moment, glancing down at the floor as he though. I was quiet, as I knew he didn't open up often to people, but I was glad he was opening up to me. Maybe I would get to know him better. "Charity isn't my mother. She's Elizabeth's, Victoria's, and James'. My mother is really…well…" he sighed agitatedly, standing up. His face was as red as tomato sauce, and he aired out his shirt as if it were one hundred degrees in the room.

"You don't have to continue," I said quickly, my eyes fluttering up and down at the sight of him so uneasy. He began to pace the room.

"No," he said. "I want to tell you." He ran a hand through his hair, which made me think so much of how He used to do it, but I tried to shake it out of my head. "My dad had this relationship with this lady in Wichita. It lasted a year. Then…she had me. She left me with my dad…and yeah." He sat down finally, and when I looked at his face, I expected it to be bothered. But it wasn't. He looked perfectly fine with the facts that I found hurtful. "She didn't want me. But you know what? I don't blame her. I mean, who would want me?" he asked himself, laughing slightly, but I didn't find it funny at all. I pressed my lips together, unsure what to say. The atmosphere was awkward for a moment as Eric coughed, and rubbing his hands together before continuing. "Anyway…her name's Karen. She's pretty cool, actually. She lives in Concord now. You know, in New Hampshire. With her husband and two kids. She didn't forget me though. She sends me loads, and I mean shit loads of money, for my birthday every year. The cards aren't signed or anything, but…" he shrugged, clasping his hands together. "That's life."

I gulped, feeling very sorry for Eric. He had lived through this his whole life not even knowing his mother, and just getting money from her out of pity. He had pretended that his half-sibling's mother was really his, even when it wasn't. I suddenly saw him in a different light, admiring that he'd kept up so strong. He had gotten through a similar situation much better than I had.

"When did Charity and Phillip get a divorce?" I asked hesitantly, my voice slowly gaining more confidence in his presence.

"Right after James was born," Eric responded. His voice was in a low whisper, and he looked almost in a trance. I knew it was too hard for him to look me in the eye. "I think it must have been a month or so after…Actually, they were fighting about him…"

My heart jerked suddenly with this answer, and I couldn't help but feel deep sympathy for James. To know that I had caused my parents' divorce would kill me forever. My mother told me that I wasn't the cause for my father's leaving, but it always felt like I was. "That must be hard on him," I whispered, my voice quavering as my eyes welled up in tears. Eric looked the other way. I wasn't sure if it was hard for him to see people cry or because he wanted to give me privacy.

"They haven't told him," Eric tried to keep his voice light but it was miserably grim. "Thank God for it too."

I wiped my eyes, sniffling a little. I couldn't cry in front of him. That would be so embarrassing. I'd never be able to forgive myself.

It was silence.

Pure silence.

I knew we were both thinking. Just deeming, contemplating about our lives. And for a second, I didn't feel that suit of loneliness sticking to me. For just a second, I felt contented and welcoming of this company. I hadn't felt that in a long time. And this time, instead of feeling opposed to it, I liked it. And I let it surround me.

So I took a risk. I broke the intense silence.

I coughed into my fist before starting, my voice timid and slow. "My dad left me and my mom a year ago…it was tough…" I tried to say this without tears brimming my eyes, like Eric had so bravely shared with me, but I couldn't. I wasn't strong enough. "He said he didn't like how my mother's job required us to move around a lot…I don't think that was it. Or at least, all of it." I coughed into my fist again, shielding my eyes with my arm as I turned the other way. Thankfully, Eric was facing the other wall, his back to my back. "My mom won't tell me." It was quiet again.

"Maybe it's best if you don't know," Eric said quietly. "Maybe it'll only hurt you more."

I knew that was true. "I guess…"

It was really quiet again.

"You know, if you need anything…feel free to come by and ask. You know, I'm the next hall over so…" Eric stood up, stuffing his hands in his pockets and shrugging. His blue-green eyes glimmered under the rays of sunlight shining through the windows, and he ran a hand through his thick dark hair, inching towards the door.

"Yeah…I'll keep that in mind. Thanks," I replied, smiling a little.

"You're welcome. I'm going bowling with a few of my friends. You wanna come? You know, meet my gang?" Eric asked politely, almost sounding hopeful that I would come.

I shook my head. "Maybe another time…I'm not really up for it."

"Okay…well, I'll hold you to that."

I smiled again.

"Okay…have fun."

"Thanks. See you later." He exited my room and jogged down the steps of the house and out the door. I shut the bedroom door after him, sighing and collapsing onto my bed. I was so tired. So tired of this. So tired of having to move around like this. I was sick of it. Even though I knew this was the last time, it was still the same process.

And what else could I do?

There was so much; so much I wanted to say. I needed to tell someone, as soon as I could. It hurt; it hurt so much to bottle everything up inside. I could feel it cutting into my heart. It was like taking all the pieces of my life and swallowing them down, without breaking the bits apart first; without a filter. I couldn't do this anymore. I wasn't capable. I didn't want to. But I had to. Because there was nothing else I could do, no one to tell. How was I supposed to express myself in my constricted, suffocating life?

So without any other clue and a desperate longing for release, I curled up into a ball on my bed and cried my heart out.

A/N: Fine? Horrible? Terrific? Gross? Review? ;)

I absolutely postively definitely infinitely endlessly love constructive critisism. Think of it as your good deed of the day.