Far be it from me

They won't go away, these words and these thoughts and these endless speculations that fill my every waking moment from then and till now.

Then and now.

Then, when I was uncomfortable and awkward and all the things I still am, but I wasn't this torn then. I wasn't this confused. Because between then and now something happened to make everything more confusing and surreal, something so small and seemingly unimportant but to me it changes everything.

The voice might have been altered in my head but the words haven't. Although they were muffled, barely there and possibly imagined, I'm still hearing them echo over and over inside of me. Countless times being repeated, analyzed, thought over and I'm still getting nowhere, still only speculating over their meaning, over their authenticity.

I almost wish I hadn't heard it, I almost wish the words were never thought, never uttered.

But only almost.

Because although they haunt me, wake me, chill me, shake me, they still mean something to me, something I'm not sure I'm ready for. Something I never knew I had to be ready for.

Maybe if she had given me something, anything to prove what I thought I heard then maybe I would've been more enlightened, more at peace. But she didn't. When Madison's words got stolen by the wind outside, Spencer never answered, never acknowledged that anything had been said. And as I hopelessly watched her from the rearview mirror I prayed for some sort of answer in her eyes, some glimpse of it being true or not, but all she gave me was nothing.

And it's been so long since then, it's been such long days of trying to understand, trying to find an answer, a hint, but still nothing.

"Ash?"

I hear him, I really do but I'm not sure I want to, I'm not sure if I'm ready to break these thoughts I've been swimming helplessly in for days.

"Are you under there?"

I want to answer that I'm not because I'm really not, I'm anywhere but here, anywhere but in this reality and instead so far into my own that I can barely hear him, barely feel the blanket I've got securely tucked around me and over me.

He won't let me stay here though, he won't let me stay in this cocoon of safety that I've hidden under in my room ever since I got home from school, because he drags the blanket off of me and onto the bottom of my bed.

"Ashley, stop hiding from me, you've been moping around in your room all week...!"

He's not right in what he's saying, it hasn't even been a whole week since the car ride that seemed to change everything and nothing at the same time for me.

I can hear him sigh and instead of looking up at him I imagine how he looks. I imagine his shoulders slumped, his eyebrows knitted in confusion as he shuffles out of my room wondering what he did wrong. Wondering why I'm being this way.

I wish I could tell him it's not his fault, it's not his making. But that would ask for me to explain why, why I've been avoiding them all, why I've been lurking inside my own head instead of opening up and being present in reality. And I don't know how to explain it. Because I'm not sure if there's anything to explain.

I hear them outside, Spencer asking Glen to hurry up and get out of here already. Glen grunting in response as he seats himself into the driver's seat and turns on the engine. A roar is heard in the distance as they drive further and further away from me and I wish my thoughts of them would too. Just slip out of my grasp just like their physical forms just did.

There's a sting of regret slipping into me when I realize that they're not here anymore, that they're somewhere else, living their lives, living it up as a teenager would. As a teenager should want to.

But I can't.

I can't go there and watch her, I can't see it before my own eyes that it might be true. That she might be like me.

Because what if I see her eyes linger too long on someone she shouldn't be looking at. What if I see her gaze trace up legs of friends I never thought she would ever look twice at. What if I see her touch someone in pretended innocence while her eyes tell something completely different.

What if I happen to catch her sharing the same guilty expression as I have after watching someone for longer than what is allowed and still know that I have no chance. That she's still so completely and utterly unattainable.

How could I ever handle that.

I couldn't.

Distant laughter and soft music filters through here, seeps into the room I haven't left for mental centuries, and I can't stop the sad smile from playing across my features, muscles subconsciously tugging at the corners of my lips without me having any chance to stop them. Because I know who they belong to, these laughs, and I know they are for real.

I've seen them dance before, the parents, and I remember the look in Paula's eyes as she tripped over her own feet and had Arthur save her from falling into the shelf she uses as a display of adoration. My picture used to be there. I'm trying to remember if it still is.

Closing my eyes in an attempt to unfog the mental image I have of them seems to work because I almost feel their smiles when another set of giggles reaches my ears.

I wish I had what they have. I wish I had only half, even just a fraction of what they share, but all hopes of such things seem hopeless.

Because I don't even have the right. It's been taken away from me by moral assumption and social disgrace, and I doubt it'll ever be given back to me.

They kiss cheeks, I'm sure, and backs of hands and secret pecks of lips because they know I'm in the house.

They dare a deeper kiss, I'm sure, guiltily throwing glances toward the hallway scared that I might barge in.

But it's all pretend. All of it is, because they're not really feeling guilty for sharing kisses in the dark, they're not really all that scared that I might see their display of affection.

And they don't need to be. They have all the acceptance in the world to act as they do, and it pains me to know I'll never have that.

The same chorus of "of course you can!" that everyone has to act on their feelings.

And this is why I almost hope none of it is true. None of the thoughts and speculations and selfish hopes I've ever had of Spencer being like me, being gay.

Because for some reason, I think it would pain her more.

I don't have nearly half as much to lose.

They are silent now, if it's for real or just doors and walls silencing the sound I really don't need to know. I'm just content with no longer having to think envious thoughts of their obvious night of romance.

I've been reading for awhile, just paragraphs and lines that has failed to gain my interest and my mind has gone numb from all the thinking, exhausted from all the strain.

And now I'm just present. Just here, not thrown around into sharp edges by my adulterating mind, the one who swears to help me but does nothing of the sort.

I'm so thankful for the break. I'm so grateful for no longer imagining Spencer's voice in my head saying good things and bad things and all in between.

I'm pretty sure she doesn't want to be there.

Stuck inside my head.

So when she edges her way back into it I try my best to ignore her, ignore her distant calls of seduction and despair that seems to come in alternate succession, and I'm starting to realize maybe I don't want her there anymore.

Maybe I'm the one who has to let go.

And I realize I have no other choice.

But let go.

I wasn't holding onto anything but an illusion anyway.

She's still here. Still more present than ever and I know it's not that easy, it's never that easy to get rid of something that's been stuck inside your head for so long. Because you don't know what else to occupy your mind with. You don't know what else to think of.

I've been trying to come up with things to take her away, to remove her from the throne she's got in the middle of my mind but she's stoic. Frozen in her spot. It shouldn't surprise me though, and it doesn't because it's still Friday night, it's still
the night of my decision and nothing is that easy. Especially not when it's been this hard.

I've been sitting on the porch for an hour now, it's cold and breezy tonight and I'm not wearing more than my Pjs. I don't need to. There's no one else around.

I don't think much of it when I hear footsteps on the street ahead of me, neither do I give them any attention. I can't help but hear them though, as they trudge in defeat toward something I don't want to mull over because I'm not interested in them. I just don't want the person to stop and talk to me.

My eyes stay glued to the driveway, avoiding any communication with this fellow being who strolls along the empty streets on a cloudy night. And then they stop. The footsteps.

I could always pretend I don't know who is in front of me, I could always avoid and go away and just leave this situation and this person who's now undoubtedly watching me, but it burns, this gaze I'm privy to. It hurts.

And there's not a question in my mind asking me who this is. There's no inner monologue discussing the identity of this stranger before me. Because I haven't been able to get this stranger out of my head all night.

"Hey..."

I still haven't looked up, afraid of looking at her and getting thrown into the whirlwind of confusion she always pushes me into, but I hear her clearly, so much more clearly than what is expected because she doesn't say it, doesn't voice it out. She merely whispers.

Unable to watch the ground in front of me anymore I shift my gaze but not at her, never in her direction. My elbows have been resting lightly on my knees where I'm sitting on the steps not far from the ground beneath me, but I have to let one arm fall down as I turn my head to the side, away from my own shadow projected onto the driveway. I don't need to be reminded of where I am. I'm perfectly aware.

She's not watching me anymore.

It doesn't burn anymore, my skin. Instead it's my chest that takes over the pain my skin previously wallowed in because I hear something so unexpected and heartbreaking that I can't help but look up at her, neck reluctant but ears registering something I'm not able to resist.

Because I just heard someone sniff. I just heard someone swallow loudly and when my gaze lands on her, when my eyes take in her features I realize it wasn't just my imagination. It wasn't just my mind playing games with me.

Instincts must have kicked in because it's barely seconds before I'm up and off the porch, the tip of one foot still lightly touching the last step, suddenly frozen in spot when I realize I don't know what I was about to do, don't know what I'm supposed to do. So I just stand there, awkwardly stoic with a composure that tells all and nothing. Drive and reluctance. The latter always wins.

Her fingers press against her forehead, palm lightly touching her left cheek as she tries to stop crying, stop showing these emotions I'm sure she hates herself for having. And then she stumbles forward, just a few steps and they are rugged, uneven and nowhere near sober, these steps she's treading. Her body hangs uncomfortably upon her feet where she's swaying lightly in intoxication, feet making small sounds on the ground beneath her. And then she starts walking.
Not really toward me because she's not looking at me anymore, hasn't been doing so ever since she looked away from me. Still, she's walking in my direction, lightly to the right of me before she clumsily sits down on the edge of the stairs as far away from me as possible.

Maybe she wants me to leave.
I'm not going to though, because I am so intrigued, so curious as to what has made her this way, made her weak and crying.

I'm still watching her, still taking her in so completely and openly. I shouldn't be watching her like this. I shouldn't be obviously staring at her, eyes sometimes tracing over her features in such an appreciate way before I catch myself doing so and stop. Because I'm sure she can sense me. I'm sure her gaze isn't the only one that burns.

"Are you alright?"

It's such a stupid question, laced with such naivety and helplessness because ofcourse she's not alright. She wouldn't be crying if she was. It doesn't stop her from answering just as dishonestly though.

"Yeah."

One word that could mean so much, one word that could be the start of so many sentences, but she doesn't continue. Doesn't elaborate. Only leaves me hanging with an answer I'm not sure how to interpret because it could mean so many things. "Let me alone, I don't want to talk about it", or "I'm fine, just being emotional" or the one I have a feeling is the right one because although I can't see them, I know her eyes are pleading "please pretend to believe me".

I won't pretend though.

"Did something happen?"

And I am thrown back to a time it was me standing on this porch crying, a time when she comforted me and I want to repay her that, I want to give something back. I'm just not sure how.

Her face leaves the confinements of her palms where it's been residing in and she
looks toward me, eyes shining with unshed tears, cheeks marking the trails of shed ones. Then she exhales, not loudly but loud enough for it to have a different meaning than just breathing out. I'm afraid it's because I've pushed her too far.

"I just-..."

She stops looking at me, casts her gaze slightly to my side knowing I'm still easy to see in her peripheral view. For some reason, it doesn't make me uncomfortable, because she hasn't left yet, hasn't shown any acknowledgment of my evident staring and the way her eyes seem to linger not too far away from me sooths my fears slightly, knowing she's not appalled at seeing me.

"They're just so wrong, you know, they think they know everything about me and they-... They're so wrong, I'm not-.."

The sentence is left hanging there, making me desperate to hear the rest, wanting to understand this, understand her. But as she breaks down right beside me, face seeking comfort in her palms once again I cannot get mad at her for not completing her sentence, for not telling me what I need to hear. Instead, I shift my gaze slightly away from her like she did earlier with me, shyly looking back at her now and then as I silently and almost secretly move closer towards her.

I know she notices.

I know, because I sense her shoulders tensing, her breathing altering and as I stop my slow movements of getting nearer to her, she looks up at me with such sad eyes, such a fragile frame that I can feel a lump building in the back of my throat even how much I try to swallow it down. It won't disappear.

Both sets of eyes lower down as I follow her eyes on their descend down to my hand who lays gingerly on steps beside me, nervously gripping onto it unsure if I should push myself closer to her or let her be.

She takes the last step for me.

Momentarily lifting her body up by her arms, she shifts closer to me, so close to me that our upper arms slightly graze one another. I don't gasp or shudder, at least not physically because my mind is reeling, so fast and so unintelligible that I have to concentrate to keep my head cold and not run away like the coward in me wants me to.

My chest hurts because it isn't used to this, my heart isn't used to such closeness, such warmth. It's so rapid I contemplate placing my hand over my heart in an attempt to still it, to slow it down.
"You've heard them, haven't you?"

It takes me a moment before I realize she just asked me a question, one that I'm supposed to answer instead of just hear. I have no answer for her though, because I'm not sure what she's talking about and apparently she notices.

"The million rumors that is passed around about me."

"Uh, some."

How can I answer differently? I don't want to lie to her, but I don't want to be brutally honest with her either. She doesn't need to know I've heard more about her than anyone would want to, especially someone that takes all of them to heart. Carries them with them like it's a burden of their own, someone like me.

"They're so wrong, I swear they are, especially Madison who-..."

She stops and my ears listen, hoping she'll continue and not leave me hanging once again. It's possible I should be feeling guilty tonight, feeling sneaky for making her open up when she's obviously not in the same state of mine as me, but I can't let this chance escape me, I can't let this go unexplored. This might be my only chance to learn more of her.

Her hand hits her forehead as she groans loudly, hiding a whimper inside it as she drags her hand down her eyebrow and cheek, pulling the skin downwards with her. It's starting to take a toll on her, this emotional state of mind she's currently residing in and I wish it wasn't so, I wish she would be like this more often. More open.

Because my heart only seems to beat faster.

"I didn't mean to, I swear I didn't, I was just drunk and... and she was there, I didn't mean to kiss her."

And then it stops.

I swear it does.

Because as much as it would kill me to see her do something like that, it kills me even more to hear her say it. Voice it out, manifesting it in a conversation I'm never going to get out of my head. That I know will get replayed over and over inside my head until it will drive me crazy and in the end kill me.

It starts beating again.

So slowly, I can barely feel it and I'm not sure I want to. Feel it beating against my chest again. And as my heart comes into rhythm again it starts escalating, pumping harder against my skin and I can't stop the movement this time, my hand lands on instinct over my heart.

And when I shift my face in her direction again, I understand why.

We're far from touching but it still feels like her skin is touching mine, heat building across my cheeks as they redden when she does touch me, when her fingers finally land on my jaw.

And they dance again.

The fingertips once again dances such a slow dance across my cheek as if their touch is too intimate to be real. And it is.

It's way too unreal this moment, this unrealistically tense moment I've been dreaming of but in different settings and in different states of minds. I never thought it would really happen. That's why I never really prepared myself for it.

I am so unprepared for this, so not ready to see what lies inside her eyes as she
stares at me just as intensely as I've been staring at her. And I'm scared to see my own feelings reflected inside her eyes, unsure if what I'm seeing is right or if I'm imagining it.

Unsure if she really means to kiss me as she starts closing the gap between us, or if she meant to just embrace me and let her lips linger softly on my cheek after I turned me head away from her.

And I am mad.

So mad at myself for turning away from her, from stopping what might have happened, might have altered every perception I've ever had. Because what if she did mean to kiss me? What if she did mean to lock her eyes with mine and tell me revelations I've been dying to hear but am unable to handle.

Her lips are still lingering on my cheek.

Her fingers are still touching my skin, no longer moving after having stilled the moment she leaned in to me.

And then her arm surrounds me, embraces me while the fingers on the other starts traveling down my neck and behind it, holding me steady in her grasp as she hugs me awkwardly.

I don't hug her back.

This is so wrong, so incredibly wrong because what is happening right here shouldn't happen at all. She shouldn't be this close to me, shouldn't be so forthcoming when she's obviously and completely intoxicated and not herself. And I shouldn't let her.

"Spence-..." I try, not succeeding in having her stop her hold on me, instead only making her increase the grasp she has on the back of my shirt, holding me firmly in lock inside her embrace.

I want to break loose.

Not because I don't enjoy it but because I enjoy it too much and I know she's doing this because of something. Something called a bottle of vodka and a huge dose of teenage drama and I know she's only doing this because of these factors.

And when I think she's had enough, when I think it's going to stop – this embrace that makes my insides tingle and my heart beat painfully fast – she instead let her lips move across my cheek and closer to somewhere I'm not ready to have her, somewhere where I'm trying to form words but my lips don't want to comply to my command.

It's happening so fast but only mentally, because the path her lips seem to travel is done so agonizingly slow, with such pretended innocence that I'm not sure if this is going where I deep down know it is.

As the corner of my lips suddenly feel a pressure from someone else's lips, I'm no longer unsure of her intentions. I'm no longer pretending to believe their innocence because her breath mingles with mine and I'm afraid to breathe, afraid to let my own puffs of breath touch her skin in case it will break this spell we're both under, this moment none of us should go further into.

I know this shouldn't happen. I know it more than anything because this will only
make things harder, only heighten the tension in this already tense household or it could possibly break it. Possibly break everything.

I don't notice the tears before I feel them descending down my cheeks, silently etching my guilt and fear into the skin she previously branded with soft lips.

I think she notices. Because she hesitates. She waits longer than she needs to because I haven't turned away. I would've turned away by now if I didn't want this too.

She knows I want this too.

I just wish it could be under different circumstances, in a world where we weren't supposed to be sisters, in a world we didn't have to think about other people's opinion's, in a world where I wasn't the only sober one.

But I am. And it is.

So when it happens, when my eyes closes much like her own as she leans closer to me, closer to where we both want to go but none of us should want to go, the tears fall harder. The tears stains my cheeks simultaneously as her lips meet mine before I even have time to wet them. But it isn't necessary because she does it for me not long after the first touch of her lips on mine.

She knows this is wrong too.
I'm not sure how drunk she really is, but those shaking lips are not caused by alcohol, I'm sure of that. I'm sure it's caused by the same thing that causes my cheeks to imitate waterfalls, and I could always stop this, I could always lean away.

I just don't want to.

Especially when her tongue so shyly comes out to tiptoe over my bottom lip like she's afraid to put too much pressure on me, on us.

But it's already too much pressure.

Lips still lingering in pleasure we don't deepen anything, we don't move things further. Because I'm not kissing her back, not like she wants me to, not like I need to do. Maybe if the circumstances were different, maybe if she wasn't drunk and I wasn't sober, maybe then it would've escalated but I just can't. I can't tread into waters I'm sure to drown in when I know she won't be there to breathe life into me again.

Because there is a tomorrow.

There is a dawn after this night and somewhere along the night she is going to realize what she has done and how this could ruin everything.

This is why I let her lips remove themselves from mine because I know there will be consequences, I know there will be hell to pay for acting on these impulses none of us should have given in to.

Because although there might be a tomorrow for her and me,

there will never be a tomorrow for us.