Clichés…a bunch of overused phrases. Love is this…love is that…

In my years, I have seen nothing less and nothing more of the so-called 'classic' verses, all of which are too doubtful even to be true.

Take my best friend, for instance, a perfect picture of someone hopelessly and unreasonably…in love.

While we were getting ready—a huge deal—for the party at my place, Serena jabbers hopelessly continously about her Brooklyn boy, whom she just had a date with this morning.

"You know what he said to me?" she asked while twirling in front of the mirror in her new dress. One doesn't have to pass Relationship 101 to know she's playing the old pay-attention-to-me-rhetorical-question. "He's too funny to be true."

Too funny to be true. You'd only use that phrase when you're either hopeless or desperate, and Serena was but a combination of both.

"How so, may I ask?" True, what else could a best friend say?

She gives a model signature Serena smile. "He asks, "How am I suppose to dress for a party where the lights are going to be off anyway?" Isn't that the funniest thing you—"

Oh, God. Please don't bore me with this…

Go ahead, by the way, if you have ever wanted to blame me for being hypocritical. You don't know what hits you in love.

"Then tell him to dress in whatever he usually does and see," I undress down to my comfortable bathrobe, simply sitting on the bed, watching her.

Serena sits down beside me. "Anything on your mind? You seemed pretty tense."

Anything on my mind? Too many to mention! Especially a certain appearance with C. Yes, I'm hosting this party. Yes, I'm definitely going.

And yes, I am so looking forward to the event.

Disco lights shining from every corner, the latest singles of contemporary music blare clamorously from the booming loudspeakers.

Add in a crowd of overdressed upper eastsiders and you've got Blair Waldorf's party.

And I thought this generous use of the Earth's energy was supposed to save the planet itself.

Rushing through the clump of dancing people, I notice the posterboy of boyfriend-dom, best friend Nate Archibald with his half-a-year girlfriend Vanessa Abrams having drinks and chit-chats at the bar.

What a sight.

If some people were actually capable of maintaining relationships, whatever went wrong with Blair and me? And this excruciating love-hate relationship we have?

What's wrong…with us?

Right behind them, thank God, there sits Blair, dressed in a ebony dress, playing with her martini absentmindedly.

"Hey, long time no see," I turn to her in greeting, settling down on a nearby stool to order my evening Scotch.

"Oh, hi, I'd rather wait a long time not to see you at all," she replies in a pretendous surprised tone, taking a sip from her drink.

I chuckle. "Playing with words today, are we, Waldorf?"

Blair turns again, giving me what seems like half a smile. "Well, when have we never?" Pause. "Thank you—" I start to smile back, when she waves her left hand no, "—from my dear mother, for coming, anyway. And don't forget the rules. Lights will be off in a second. See you then. If I ever will. Or if you can find me, that is."

We share no more words after her long monotonous speech, and, right the moment I decide order another drink, Blair clicks her fingers.

Blackout.

The entire house's gasps escalate to excited whispers and anxious footsteps. I reach for the stool where she was previously sitting and find it empty. Gone so fast, huh, girl?

There is nothing to do but to search. As it happens, Blair purposely has chosen the New York building I have never entered before. (Looks like I'm not the only bad seed in the family.)

I hurry up and down the stairs, checking rooms, calling names…then remember the unique smell of her perfume…

They say absence makes the heart grow fonder, but with him, absence almost always shatter my heart.

Waiting for him in Tuscany…waiting for him at the lawyer's…and waiting for him even now.

Second by second tick by, and yet, there's no visible sign of his shadow.

Where (the hell) is he?

Wait, wait. Where did that thought come from? I am not waiting for him to come. I am waiting for him not to come. Oh, thoughts, please do get back in your places.

No more fooling myself—

!!!

And probably no more waiting for this, for him to show up. If he doesn't…

Who cares? I'm not staying in this solidary confinement another minute.

11:59, beeps my mobile as I step into (what appears to be, in the dark) the building's grand foyer.

Before I can stop myself, the lights go on, everyone in the room blinking, startled as if woken up from a dazed spell.

An even more dazzling sight that stops me in my tracks is the spotlight the DJ has helpfully shone on a couple in the center of the dance floor, locked in the middle of a kiss and an embrace…the back of an all-too-familiar Upper East Sider…

Spotted: C and his French coquette. K-I-S-S-I-N-G. I thought the rules were set, B?

"New York's suddenly having showers today. Been raining like crazy since two. Be careful for those of you lurking outside without an umbrella! But that's what we call NYC-Blues, baby."

Oh, shut up, you stupid TV SCREEN.

Talk about all the ridiculous things love makes you do.

I'm out running through the streets, friggin' soaking wet. In the rain. Splashing on water puddles in my patent leather shoes.

But I don't even care.

Dirtying myself, right then, seems to be the least of my worries. Scrambling for something…someone…somewhere…anything, anything at all. To save me.

'Cause I fucked up. Big time.

Which has, a second ago, apparently happened without my acknowledgement.

There wasn't a high-pitched scream—like that time some girl in kindergarten stole her first Marc Jacobs tote—or an expected accusing tone.

No, Blair Waldorf left her own party in quiet footsteps. Sneaking away. From me. From everyone she knows. And the humilation chasing after her. Especially from…

I perked up at the sound of her high heels against the floor, detaching myself mid-kiss. Seeing, for the first time, who my real kissing partner was.

"But—"

Aqua eyes, not the familiar chocolate shades, locked with mine, the thin French lips breaking out into a smile.

"You're not—"

She nodded.

"But I thought—"

Her hand slipped away from mine, weighted with guilt.

"Aimee?" I finally managed to utter out her name, "What are you doing here? And—the—the footsteps?"

The world ceased to spin. The seconds froze. People stopped in their tracks. Her words hung in the air, echoing in my ears. A knife, cutting through the cold air.

"It's Miss Blair. She's gone out, but no one can say they haven't heard her soft sobbing."

Soft sobbing? Hear her soft sobbing? Her? Miss Blair?

My Blair.

Shit. What the hell have I done?

"I'm sorry," Aimee added to her sentence quickly at my silent response of her words. But I couldn't care less. Her mouth was moving, but all I could hear was silence.

And the words in my head. Spinning.

I have to find Blair.

After you've done what you did? Shouted back my stupid mind.

I have to tell her everything.

What, that you love her? Didn't you say that already?

I'm wrong, okay? I'm wrong. I'm a coward in denial. A weakling in—

God. Do me a favor, will you? Spare your usual degrading self-doubts and get the girl, Bass.

I tune out from the mind, which abruptly has gone off in a self-destruction mode, hurrying as far out of the building as my shoes could take me.

The very same shoes I'm trudging through the New York streets with.

Ironically, I find Blair in her favorite spot in Central Park. By the ducks' pond. She sits alone on a wooden bench, completely immune to the heavy rain.

I should have known better (to bring an umbrella).

And forget my shoes, or the forgottten umbrellas. I don't need a single thing to give Blair right now.

Words are my only weapon.

"Hey," I clear my throat, watching her turn around and surreptitiously wiping the tears leaking from the corners of her eyes.

"What do you want?" her voice is blunt and direct, not bothering to hide the evident sourness.

Oh, great. What excuses have you prepared to say, Chuck?

Nothing.

"I'm sorry for—"

I don't have a chance to finish my sentence, for Blair immediately cuts me off, taking her moment.

"For what happened? For you, after a bet with me, kissing some girl—especially a girl I'd hired to spy on you?"

I'm sorry, but…WHAT?

Um, I should have seen this coming. It was this close on the scale of obvious-ity (if such a word exists).

For a split second, hand clasping over her mouth, Blair realizes the confidential piece of information she has unknowingly gives me in her dejected outburst.

"You," I say my words slowly, emphasizing each syllable, "Hired a girl. To spy on me, Blair? Is that what you just said?"

And that is the most breathtaking epiphany in the whole day.

She. Didn't. Trust. Me.

Blair simply blinks, spitting out her words in a rapid, 'let's-not-get-into-this' voice. "Yes, I did. But god knows it'd turned out like this on you—on us—on me…!"

Another possible implied meaning: she still loves me.

No, I'm not getting over the top.

"Blair," I call her again. She stands up, preparing to leave.

"What? I thought I'm done. We're done. I didn't trust you, and, after today, you probably won't trust me."

I reach for her hand first, and, this time, she doesn't let go.

"Do you still love me?" I know it's damn cliché, but I finally and definitely have to ask her.

Blair turns back, hand yet in my grip. "I did, or at least I thought I did. Didn't even know then if it was love. You crushed my hopes and dreams. I wasn't sure and I can't have known with you, being who you are."

"Forget the girl, Blair, forget anyone out there at all," I say, looking into her eyes. "It doesn't matter. It's just us now. Sorting ourselves out. And you know you love me, Blair, you know you do."

One impossible thing happens: Blair actually smiles as I gently wipe the tears at her cheeks.

"I'm just a coward in denial," I continue. Once I start, it has to all come out. "And no matter how many girls you hired, I still love you. I promise. Even after the "proof" you so helpfully sent me."

The sky seems to agree with me for a moment, pouring down more rain.

This time Blair laughs softly, unable to find further excuses for her "proof" that I actually love her.

"I hate you being right, Bass."

At least she's honest.

"I hate the butterflies being right, Waldorf," he says, grinning.

We're both standing there, talking, in Central Park, soaking wet like maniacs.

But I don't even care.

"I love you," I reply, savouring the words.

Love, and to be loved in return.

His face lights up. "I love you, too, and it's not just for the money. I wouldn't have run in the rain to follow you all this way. If not for the crazy—"

Laughing once more, I throw my arms around him and we kiss. A long, lingering kiss in the rain.

All those love cliché's? I think I might finally understand.

Love is not winning or losing. Any bets.

His arms around me, the warm feelings inside. The butterflies.

Love is absurd. Makes you insensible and light-headed as hell.

The sweetness of the kiss. The taste of those three little words I've longed for.

Chuck breaks the kiss gently, kneeling down and pulling out from his suit's pocket what I think isn't—

Is that…a ring?

With a little pitter-patter, the rain calms, as if giving Chuck a moment for his words.

"I know it's been a long time since I first asked you this," he says, holding out the ring and staring at my puzzled face.

"But Blair Cornelia Waldorf, will you marry me?"