Okay, so Spencer's voice is waaaay off. But eh, it's fanfiction.

Part 2: Spencer

There is no safety in the loft.

Everything is tied to her. Her favorite foods remain in the fridge, even though they've ceased being "food" by this point and more closely resemble a science experiment. Her scent clings defiantly to the couch; a mix of the floral bouquet of her favorite perfume and the fruity soapiness of her shampoo. I can almost see her stretched out bonelessly against the lumpy throw pillows. Watching TV. Smiling at me. Inviting me without words to curl beside her...to form a cocoon of bodies from which I'd never want to emerge. Even in the midst of a sweltering July heat wave, I can't remember ever feeling so cold..

Or alone.

I'd assumed she'd always be with me. And with Carly as the epicenter of my universe, there were always *someone*...be it Freddie, Sam, or Gibby orbiting around her, like particles in an eternal cosmic dance around the nucleus. But not anymore. Without her, there's only silence. I try to fill it with the sound of the television, but it's so much deeper than that. There's no longer any color in my life. And without color, there can be no art.

So I don't sculpt.

I've got a job now. Marissa had an attorney friend in search of a paralegal, and apparently, I was a decent enough for the job. I wear black and gray suits, and step into a world of absolutes. Facts. Things are, or they aren't. Guilt or innocence.

She loves me, or she doesn't.

When she first moved to Italy, we talked at least once a day. In the late hours, we filled the silence and thousands of miles between us with assurances of love. Nothing would change. Although I couldn't have the physical contact my arms screamed for, she promised to come back to me and we'd have our forever. But time passed, and it wasn't long before I only heard from her every few days. Then once a week.

Now I only hear from her on the rare occasions that Dad calls to check up on me.

She doesn't really talk to me anymore. Sure, we exchange words, but no longer about anything real. Her school. My job. God, I wanted her to rage at me when she found out that I was working, and her tacit acceptance felt like betrayal. And, of course, there was Justin.

They'd gone to prom together, but I could see from the photos that Dad emailed me that it was so much more than that.

She's happy. Her eyes are practically alight as she looks into the camera. Before, I'd thought that look was reserved only for me. But not anymore.

Carly spent the night with him.

She never confirmed it with words, of course, but her silence practically screamed it.

That's something we've never done. I know we both thought about it. Wanted to, even, but it was a line I would not allow myself to cross with her. When she turned eighteen and had time to reflect on our relationship, I wouldn't turn her away. But as much as I loved her, I would not allow her to give me her virginity. The fraction of my psyche that berated me for allowing our relationship to continue knew that she would regret having sex with me. And so we never did.

It's been five months now.

Five months of holding a pillow and pretending it's the woman I love. Five months of crying myself to sleep because it's too cold in bed without her arms around me. Five months of remembering every precious moment I got to spend with her...the way her skin felt... the way her hair smelled...the sound of her heart beat. And replaying those memories over and over again to keep myself sane on those endless lonely nights because being without her is just too much to bear.

Carly.

My Carly.

Come back to me.