Flash forward two months, and Anna's staying with me again for the school year.

As a matter of fact, she just got here yesterday.

And now she's just gotten home. From school.

"So how was your first day of high school?" I ask, placing two slices of frozen pizza in the microwave. I don't know what it is, but frozen meals have suddenly become staples in my life. Maybe now that it's just the two of us (or just me), I've lost the desire to actually cook.

"It…wasn't bad," Anna says, setting her backpack down on the floor.

Funny how the one thing I think is that that dumb dog would have been rushing to examine the bright pink new object invading the kitchen.

"Well, did you meet new people? Do you like your teachers?" I try not to sound like a nosy, overprotective parent. I genuinely care, but I don't want to come off as overwhelming.

"I kind of spent the day as Sophie and Claire's shadow," she admits. But before I can interrogate further, she says something that makes me stop in my tracks. Something that makes me forget anything that was going to come out of my mouth…

"And, um, about my teachers. I like them, but…I think you might like one of them in particular. My Polish teacher. Her name is Anna Summers."

….something that strikes me so hard I have to sink down into a chair and abandon the furiously beeping microwave that is now the metronome for my furiously pounding heart.

"What?" I ask.

But I heard her, loud and clear.

"Her name is Anna Summers," she repeats, "When she introduced herself, she said that at home she's called Annika, but that this is her home now. She has Swedish and Polish roots, and she talked about first coming here as part of a study abroad program in college."

"Oh my God," I breathe, not able to say anything else.

"And…I think there's something else you should know. Back to school night—you know where the parents go to meet the teachers and talk about classes and all that fun stuff? It's in two days."

And with that, she goes to the microwave and takes out the two slices of pizza. I hear the clanking of silverware and kitchen utensils as she digs around for the pizza cutter, and barely a moment later, she places my piece of pizza on the table in front of me. She gives me a small smile, tells me it's going to be all right, and then goes up to her room, leaving me to sit at the table in shock.

She's here.

Really here.

I can see her red hair, her eyes, her face, her freckles…

And I remember.

Everything.

We get at least a foot of snow, if not more.

And all I want to do is sleep, after getting the text that classes are cancelled; it's not my intention to get up at seven a.m. on a Friday if I don't have to.

But…before I can go back to sleep, there's a knock on my door. And I know it's not my roommate, because she's already left to go home for the weekend. Some of us are fortunate enough to not have classes on Fridays; I am unfortunately not one of those people.

I'm in nothing but my pajamas, but I don't really care at this point. It's a dorm hall; we've all seen each other at our worst. Mid-yawn and wondering why I'm even doing this, I open the door.

And my jaw falls to the ground.

She's standing there, dressed in a huge winter coat and boots and gloves and a hat and a scarf…and I'm in pajamas.

And I'm suddenly very, very, self-conscious about that.

But she's smiling like crazy, which makes me wonder if she's got another one of her insane ideas, and so I try to ignore the funny feeling I get about having her see me like this.

'Can I help you?' I ask, wondering how she even knows which room is mine. She doesn't live in my building.

'I was wondering…do you want to build a snowman?'

Well, I'm not expecting her to say that.

'I…uh…' I try to make my mouth work, but it doesn't quite function properly, '…sure.'

I don't exactly remember inviting her in, but she runs into my room anyway.

And I wonder how in the world I'm going to change, but settle for pulling a sweat shirt over my pajama top because she doesn't look like she's leaving until she's sure I'm right behind her.

'Don't you have a jacket?' she asks.

I think I do, but I don't know where it is at the moment, and I know that the longer I take, the more people will be awake on campus when we go on this snowman-building adventure.

But I feel bad for thinking like this.

She's excited.

And I'll admit it's contagious.

So I go out without a jacket, barely pulling on my boots before she drags me out the door, and onto the campus quad, where I find to my relief that no one is out and about.

But I shouldn't care.

I don't care.

About other people.

I care about her.

And so we build a snowman; disturb the perfect snow with our footprints.

She gives me her jacket.

She has chocolate.

And I love the way she laughs.

God, I am drowning.

Drowning in these memories.

It's the first time she's been to a mall.

Well, the first time she's been to a mall here, anyway.

When I ask her how different it can possibly be, she tells me she's never seen anything so large.

'It's three floors. Your dorm building has five,' I say, leaving out the fact that we are currently standing in only one of two connecting buildings of three floors each. It is, in fact, the largest mall in the city.

'But this place has stores and clothes and food and wow does it smell good!'

She acts like such a child, and it should really annoy me. But it doesn't, and I laugh, 'That's because we're passing the food court.'

'I want a sandwich,' she says immediately, but she doesn't know where to look first.

'I think you should try a cheesesteak.'

I'm not sure why I recommend it. They're not my favorite, personally. But, it's kind of like a sandwich, right? Just…classic American.

'A what?'

I only smile, 'Come on.'

She follows me towards the line of choice, and we wait there for a few minutes before I order one for me, and one for her.

'Here,' she says, and tries to hand me her money.

'It's on me,' I say.

'But—'

I cut her off, 'I'm not letting you pay for something you don't even know you'll like.'

She rolls her eyes, knowing she can't argue with that, 'Fine.'

Food in hand, we make our way to find a table, and the only one that we can see is one that is, rather unfortunately, located next to a large group of teenage boys. But we sit down anyway, across from one another, and start to eat.

The look of pure delight on her face when she takes a bite of that cheesesteak is…adorable.

God, it's adorable.

'This is amazing!' she exclaims.

I smile, 'I'm glad you like it.'

While we eat, she tells me a lot about her family.

Her home.

Poland.

I can't exactly help but notice the boys next to us staring when she talks.

She doesn't.

I listen to more of her stories.

She tells me that she's from a really small town.

She grew up on a farm.

She has a Fjord horse, and I'm not exactly certain what this means—if that's his name or his breed—but I don't ask because I can't get a word in edgewise.

I don't mind, though.

Because I think I could listen to her talk all day.

And then suddenly she's explaining something, rushed; excited. And she's trying to talk with her words and her arms and her hands all at the same time, and I feel one of those hands connect slightly with my face.

This earns a laugh from the group of boys.

'Oh, I'm sorry!' she exclaims, 'Did I hurt you?'

'No,' I reassure her.

I don't think she could ever hurt me.

But…I'm not sure that I could reverse that statement and have it remain true.

'Good,' she says.

Then she gets up to throw out her trash, but she trips slightly—I don't even know what on—and almost goes down but catches herself with her hand on the table just in time.

By this point, those boys are howling with laughter.

And she knows.

They're laughing at her—her accent; her clumsiness.

I know she knows, by the way she has her head angled slightly downwards, and she twists the end of one of her braids around one of her fingers.

And she no longer wants to talk about her family.

Instead, she grabs her coat off of the back of her chair and says, 'Let's go. I think I saw a store with chocolate somewhere.'

And she offers me a small smile.

But it's not her usual one. It's forced.

And it's chocolate—she should be way more excited.

I should ask her what's wrong…

I know what's wrong.

I should strangle those boys.

I know that's wrong.

I should comfort her.

I don't.

The pizza is cold.

I can't touch it.

I'm drowning.

Blue dress.

Green dress.

Frat house party.

And red Solo cups; in her hands, not mine.

She never struck me as a drinker, but she never fails to surprise me.

I know I can't let myself drink around her.

Lord only knows what I would do or say without control.

I've lost track of how much she's had to drink, simply because I'm focused more on her than what's in her hands, but I don't think she's had a lot. I guess it doesn't quite matter, though, because she doesn't act much different than usual.

Talkative.

Loud.

Laughing.

I love it.

Her.

Suddenly, she puts her drink down, and says, 'Come dance with me.'

I stare at her incredulously, 'You know I'm not going to do that. Not in front of everyone.'

I'm too socially awkward.

Her voice gets softer, 'Would you dance with me if we were alone?'

Would I?

'Maybe.'

And before I know what's happening, she's dragging me past all of the other people, out the door, and then there we are, standing on the tiny, meager excuse for a driveway that has cars lined up both at the end of it, and all the way down the block.

We are alone.

And everything is quiet except for the music that floats from the open windows of the house. It's not music that I would really want to dance to; not music that I know how to dance to.

Because it's a bit too loud for me.

But…we seem to be doing our own thing. And I feel almost possessed, because I don't dance. But here I am, dancing in the middle of a driveway.

Actually dancing.

And I take her hand and I spin her around and her hair does this thing where it flies out around her and it's beautiful.

She's beautiful.

And when she's facing me again, she refuses to let go of my hand.

I can't ignore the fact that I like it; the feeling of her hand in my own. I look down at our interlaced fingers, and then back up to her eyes, which are staring into mine.

Then her eyes shift quickly to the ground.

A pause.

'Is it what you want?'

I know she's talking about him. And I notice that whenever she brings it up, she can't say his name.

Maybe that makes it seem less harsh; less real.

I am silent for a few seconds before saying, 'I don't know.'

She looks me in the eye, 'Is it what you want?'

No.

'I don't know.'

'Do you like him?'

Yes…and no.

'Maybe.'

'Do you love him?'

Well…no.

At least, definitely not the way I love…

Her.

'Maybe.'

It's the only word I'm going to say, and it's frustrating her.

I know it.

And it's frustrating me, too.

She looks to the sky, and I follow her gaze.

And seconds later—a shooting star.

God, how cliché.

But I can't wish.

Because I know what I want is impossible, and so I just watch as her blue eyes fill with awe at the sight. And the way they look, up against the sky…they are the moon, wide and bright, and her freckles are the stars, with a million different constellations traced across her nose.

'The sky's awake,' she whispers, and she smiles.

And I am awake.

So very alive.

And I've never felt this way before.

But it's wrong.

It's wrong, and I can't do this to her.

But her face is so close to mine; the moon and the stars.

And her lips…

She catches me staring. And she says it, 'Kiss me.'

It kills me.

'I can't.'

'You can.'

'I can't. I can't hurt them,' my parents, 'I can't hurt him,' Hans, 'And…I can't hurt you.'

I can't hurt her.

And I know that I will if I let this go further.

Because I can't be with her.

'You can,' she repeats.

I just told her I don't want to hurt her and she's still telling me I can?

No.

'My life is one hell of a screwed up mess, and I will not have you caught up in it,' I tell her.

I want her to see that I'm only trying to protect her.

It's not working.

'Is that really what you want?'

No.

I am quiet for a moment.

But then I say it.

'No.'

And it feels odd, because I've actually admitted the truth.

'So does that mean you can kiss me?' she asks.

'No,' I say.

Because that would be wrong.

'Does that mean…Can I kiss you?'

Her words linger in the air, and I let them sink in.

That would be…

Wrong.

But, not as wrong—right?

Right.

Wait, right?

Like, right as in that statement was right, or right as in it's okay?

Can it be right?

I think too much.

So I ask the question instead, 'Can you?'

'I guess the proper English would be 'may I'.'

That wasn't where I had been going with that question…but suddenly I can't seem to remember where I am going with it at all. Because I am lost in her eyes, and her hands have released my own and are now around my neck. And I like that.

She's waiting.

And I don't know.

I can't.

But…she can.

She can.

It's still not right.

But it's not as wrong.

I answer her question with no more than a whisper, 'Yes.'

And when she closes the distance between us, it feels so right that I don't even understand how it can be wrong at all.

The house is cold.

So cold.

I am drowning.

It's December tenth.

Nine fifty eight a.m. on the dot.

My eyes haven't left my computer screen. And they won't.

Not until that plane icon in front of me tells me it's landed safely at its destination; a city in Poland.

And I'm so unbearably mad at myself.

Because I should have been there.

She wanted me there—to be with her before she left.

But I'm here, in my dorm room, instead.

And I feel horrible, because all I wanted was to protect her.

That was all I ever wanted.

But I'm a monster.

A freaking monster, letting her in like that, and then shoving her away.

That's how I thought I was going to protect her.

But God, I was so wrong.

So terribly wrong, and now she's gone and I can't do it over again.

It's killing me, because I feel like I've abandoned her.

And I'm no longer sure if my actions are more sufficient in protecting her…

Or me.

Because I thought it would hurt her more if I had been there.

But I was just twisting it all around.

To make it seem right for me to run from it.

From her.

And I am a monster.

Because she wanted me there.

She wanted me there.

And I wasn't there.

I am cold.

I am freezing.

I am drowning.

And I cry—I cry for hours.

Until I fall asleep; a darkness in which I can see her face, but I am too scared to move closer.

A/n: So first, I was listening to the song 'From Where You Are' by Lifehouse, and I realized that it sort of described Elsa's life (in this fic, anyway) and this entire story really perfectly. And that kind of made me really, really happy. So you all should go listen to it :)

Second, I'm sure they sell cheesesteaks somewhere in Poland, but for the purposes of this story, Anna's never had one before and hasn't heard of them before. I've never been to Poland, so I wouldn't know how popular they are there.

Third…ugh such angst! That was half the reason I decided to include the previous chapter—I knew that this one was going to just be complete angst in the present day. Elsa is now just one emotionally conflicting wreck. But I particularly loved bringing the memories together, as a piece of almost every chapter so far is present in this one.

And on the bright side, now we know where Anna is!

As far as Summers being a surname in Poland or Sweden, I'm not exactly sure. It never really occurred to me…I kind of just went with it :p But if I had to guess I'd say probably not? But if it is I'd be willing to bet that it's not very common.

Thanks for reading!