She is aware at this point that he is using her. She is aware that it is not love binding them together, not love that brought him to her this dreary Friday evening. She knows quite well that he does not dream of her once he finally rests his eyes for the night. She has heard him mutter her name ever so softly in his sleep, heard him breathe out her name with a soft shudder to it before he finally retreats to what she now calls his side of the bed. In the morning when the suns rays start to filter in through the blinds and he is gone, she will rest her head on his pillow. She will breathe in his scent, try to imagine that it was her name that he whispered into her ear the night before. She pretends that it was not the name of some other girl laid to rest a few winters before.

She promises herself night after night that she will not let this continue. She says she will resist. She still manages to find herself leading him up to her room night after night, always making sure to turn off the lights once reaching her simple bedroom. Broken promises always seem to litter the floor of the pitch black room along with the tiny heaps of their hastily discarded clothes.

As she looks over at his sleeping form, his back facing her, she remembers her mother one sunny summer day, sitting her down on the old wooden kitchen chair, telling her the facts of life. She remembers her mother describing it as an intimate thing, an act of love. She looks over at him again, remembers and sees the act as anything but. She thinks somewhere in the back of her mind that perhaps if she only waits long enough, that one night shafts of light will grace her face and he will see her and not feel the urge to leave. That one day he will whisper her own name ever so sweetly into her ear. She allows the little girl hope to live on.

She remembers their younger years where she would follow him with love in her eyes and he would never notice. That, or he never cared. She hopes that the former is true. She hates to think that he will never love her back; she realizes at this point there is little chance that he will ever see her for anything other than a gateway to some dead girl. She has built her world around him. It has been that way for as long as she can remember.

She realizes that she lets him do this, never does a thing to even hint that she wants him to leave. She knows she should make him leave, but she always welcomes him with open arms. It's not his fault. With the lights off, her dirty blonde hair becomes a soft chestnut brown, her eyes become a deep, dark brown. She pretends to be a dead girl for his sake. She fears that he is so close to just breaking down; she figures it's the least she can do.

It's sad, she thinks, that this is the best he can do. When they are done, and he is long asleep, she stares up at the ceiling and thinks that she is dead, merely dreaming she's alive.