You were nothing to me.

Is that what they're calling it now, dear? Absence of morality, a total apathy on the splotch of romanticism that they call an offbeat relationship? Nothing implies that there had originally been something, something that had to have made me that 'nothing' to you, correct? If I had truly been nothing, why would you have slaved away all those weeks, those months in making me smile?

I try to make myself upset about the whole situation, but I can hardly imagine doing so; especially over this. I know you're going to change your mind sooner or later (you were always so fickle) and I can sit here and wait. What few people who know our predicament call me a disillusioned fool, that I'm only setting myself up to be hurt all over again. But I like to think that I know you. I like to think that I can see all those plans you carefully calculate in your head.

You were nothing.

I recall the day we met. I also recall our first sleepover, our first date, our first kiss, our first everything. Now, I couldn't tell you the date but I could tell you every little detail about it. Take our first get-together, the first time we actually set down a time to meet up. You wanted somewhere quaint, with good coffee and cheesecake. I'd heard of a place near downtown that was supposed to be good. You seemed to enjoy it, but I don't like that kind of thing. They had subs, though, and I had my normal plain jane. There was a couple sitting two tables away from us, one was blonde and the other a redhead. The redhead was pouting over something, and I remember thinking – that'll never be me. The blonde was consolidating at first, trying hard to make up for whatever he had done wrong, but eventually, I suppose, he tired of her games and sat there in silence, sipping his coffee and looking around at other people. We made eye contact and stared; he looked away first. You and I didn't talk much that day, we mainly enjoyed our eatery and commented on a few things that surrounded us, talked a little about the people we mutually knew. There was no sharp connection, no static that clung us together.

But you invited me over to your place anyway. You said you were throwing a party and you wanted me to help you set up. We mundanely went shopping, and while we were checking out snacks, your hand lightly trailed across the small of my back. Suddenly, my ears were perked and I was alert. I looked at you from the corner of my eyes, but you were unreadable, like you were for a long time, before I learned to decipher the glimmers in your eyes. As passive as you like to think that your face is, your eyes always give you away (especially since you seem to avoid eye contact whenever you're plotting something).

By the time we got back to your apartment, there were people milling around cars and your door, waiting for you to arrive. You opened the door, looked at me and smiled, and things began to unravel. I followed you in, foggy, and helped you set up as everyone started to put on music and dance and scream and gyrate. You left me – it was for around 32 minutes – and once you came back you never said a word. You merely took my hand and led me to your bedroom (and kicked out a couple who had already taken residence there). You pushed me onto the comforter and slithered on over my body before making me undulate with 'hallelujahs'. You tasted like lemons that night – your overriding taste was always different, but the base of your breath was always the same: a slight heady, darker taste full of energy and life.


You conquered me that night, you truly did. We must have said less than a hundred words to each other (combined), but I knew I was smitten. Obviously, because I was always over there after that. You were a woman of few words, but I learned to read you. You'd walk around your apartment, strutting and totally carefree of whether or not your blinds were shut and I envied you for that. We never swapped sappy love stories or rehashed our past 'lovers' (you called them 'another sheet of paper', because I guess they were easily burnt). But I know how you are. Even though you may not have said much, I know what you're thinking and how you feel and though you'd never ever admit it, I know you feel the same way about me. We'd make love and you'd whisper sweet nothing-promises into my ear and I would fall asleep to you stroking my side...

Okay, perhaps I'm fantasizing a tad, but that's not to say that you didn't want to do so. You didn't have to whisper those sweet nothing-promises, because I could tell from the way you made love to me. I could tell that you were equally smitten by the way you merely fucking breathed. I was the one you turned to when your cat got hit by that SUV, I was the one who held you after you had a bad day with friends or at work or you were PMSing or whatever, and I was the one who even held you when I had no good excuse whatsoever. We were made for each other, don't you know that? We girls gotta stick together, is what you told me.

I showed up at a party I'd been neglected to be invited to. I knew that it had happened before once or twice that you had failed to mention it to me. But I also knew that you made it up to me the very next day with long kisses and slender touches. One of our mutual friends had mentioned to me in passing about one you were throwing and I thought I would surprise you by showing up. I knew that you loved surprises.

But I guess you forgot that I hated them.

I remember the walk down the hall towards your bedroom (as you had been found nowhere else). I remember turning the knob and stepping in with a smile and a "Hey, baby," on my lips before I thought my eyes were going to burn right out of my skull. You were with a disgusting man. Now, I know that sounds feministic, but I'm fairly sure I'm not one of them. Just the fact that you were with a man is what disgusted me, I didn't understand: he looked like a greaser. Time became irrelevant at that moment; we stared at one another, daring the other to make the first move. He did, he rolled off – taking that comforter with him, our comforter – and glared at me, obviously pissed that I had interrupted his precious time. I hope he went flaccid.

You, though, you on the other hand acted like I knew that you would. It was the words that surprised me. You stood up all nakedness and sweat, "What's the matter with you?" You asked me this simply. There was no anger or reviled emotion in it. "It's not like you meant anything. You were nothing to me."

I overreacted, I admit that upfront. I ran from your room, screaming and trashing your apartment. I'm sure I did some irrevocable damage that you would have to pay for later on. Afterwards, I'm surprised I didn't crash my car on the way home. I was cursing the day for being so beautiful outside, and I felt a twinge of glee when I noticed that the wind was strong enough to be pushing the car while I was driving.

I came home and locked myself in my room for three days. When that mutual friend came over, I was a little relieved that somebody was going to check up on me. He told me, though, "You weren't the first to have this happen to you, you know. You have to just get over her; she's nothing but the devil in disguise. She's pretty to look at, but you don't want to get involved."

He left. I punched walls before coming to the realization that it wasn't the end. You were going to call me up and everything was going to return to normal. You were going to stay with me. You were going to continue not whispering those sweet nothing-promises into my ear. Yes. Everything was going to be fine. I know you're lying, dear. I know you can't stay away from me. We are meant to be.

a/n: desperation/disillusionment is never pretty. i feel so sorry for her. but i can't help but write it like that. for the record, it's meant to be implied that the main character believes (wrongly) that the other woman will show up. but she never does.