FicWad

He stood with his hands in his pockets, looking out at nothing in specific about the snowy atmosphere but taking everything in. The gently falling snow, beautiful, innocent and unsuspecting, completely unaware the only thing awaiting it in this world were trampling shoes and dirtying mud. Ah, how he could relate.

He knew he had to call her, but what to say? He struggled with the idea of telling her that he knew she was the fan. Should he? . . . No. Let her believe she got away with it. If she admits it it is a different story. Otherwise, it'll remain their little secret. She believed she got away, he knowing otherwise. Ah, dramatic irony.

He walked through the parking lot slowly, thinking to himself. He felt lost, hopeless. Trapped inside with wolves at the door. Depression. He was not away of the clicking of heals through the slush that littered the parking lot, nor the mutterings of how God damn cold it was outside. He was trapped within the confines of his own hallow shell of a body. Only focused on himsef, how selfish, but at that moment he couldn't even find the strength to give a shit.

A hand on his shoulder. Feminine, slender, lightly gripping. He was suddenly hopeful it was Sophie, coming back to him. Hope springs eternal, even when we believe we can no longer hope. He whirled around to disappointment. He kept his face carefully blank, an empty slab of marble before the sculpter swung away.

"Matt? Matt, I'm sorry, I had no clue that was your ex," it was the hostess, apologizing again for the surprise. His thoughts were derailed from himself and hopped to her, instead, glad to be off the track of self-abuse. Her clothes exposed her arms to the bitter cold, as well as her legs below the shin. She was shivering.

He removed his brown jacket with the insides made of imitation fur and extended it to her, his bare arms only slightly showing the history of his teenage years. A very light, unnoticeable in the current light, road map of scars criss-crossing every which way. "You must be freezing. And you didn't know, so don't beat yourself up over it. Forget about it."

She refused the coat with a shake of her head. "I want to make it up to you, all the same. Le tme buy you dinner sometime."

His insides locked. Rage boiled. He was suddenly pissed. He felt hot in the cold. Extremely hot. He could not, however, he could not freak out at her. She's just trying to be nice. Just break a heart. Easy business. How the world works.

"I'm sorry, but, as you hopefully know, I JUST finished talking to my ex after three years. I wrote a damn BOOK about us. I hope you don't believe I can accept that offer at this current time. My apologies. Maybe in a year," he responded, trying not to raise his voice. Would he still be alive in a year? Can he continue the way he is? He was unsure. Or maybe, what if he wasn't single in a year? Maybe. . .? No, don't even think about that.

Her face fell ashen for a moment, but she was quick to disguise it. She was a trained professional, after all. She had tricks. "Okay," she told him. "I'm so sorry - I wasn't thinking. I'm so, so sorry." She turned and walked away, leaving Matt utterly alone in the snowy wonderland that did not care whether men lived or died.

Eventually, he got in his car and drove off.



She was sitting at home, doing nothing but sitting. Simply sitting. She was lost in her own head, replaying the events and wishing she could go back a few hours to the talk show. Or three years. Yeah, three years. She could not even begin to describe it. She was a raft, lost and adrift in a story sea, the waters violent, threatening to break her, rip her apart and swallow her entirely.

She was waiting for him to call her but refused to admit it to herself. What would he have to say? Did he realize it was her? Those last few seconds she thought he was on the verge of realizing. . . but she was not sure. So here she sat on her comfortable couch, all alone, with her knees drawn up and the tv off. She felt tears, but was unsure how to stop them.

She missed him so much. Her Matt. And she was his Sophie, or as most called her, Fie. They would have been perfect together, but there is no longer that option between them. She knew she did the right thing but she regretted every moment. Knowing does not make it better. Usually, knowing makes it worse. Ignorance is bliss. Too bad we're curious creatures.

He had orginally asked her out on a couch. He had been awkward, nervous, and she found it incredibly cute. She had been his first everything. And then she stripped herself away from him because of . . . did she ever tell him the true reason? She could not even remember. She rarely lied to him; she was not one to bullshit with others. Hell, she didn't even want to admit to herself why she truly broke up with him.

Oh, the pain of regret. Hopelessness. Crushing guilt. Why live?

The phone rang, driving her out of her thoughts.


"Sophie?" The voice on the other line was shaky. His voice. Matt's voice. She felt relief - he called! - but at the same time a quickly growing panic like a wildfire after a very long dry spell. She was horrified at what could be coming next. She wasn't sure how to prepare herself - or what to even prepare herself for.

"I met a fan today," he told her. Both their lives rested on what he was about to say next. The dilemma. The brutal moral war. The truth or a lie? Which to say, which to hide? "She reminded me a lot of you. Her name was Janett. So, you were right. I helped people. You were always right."

He ended up gagging the truth, beating it senseless, and stuffed it in the back of his mental trunk, locking it inside and there to sit and rot and stink for the rest of eternity. he had to remind himself every two seconds what he is doing is for her - for once not to think only about himself - its to keep her happy. And that's what he wants, isn't it? She may have said she was sorry, she may have said she misses him, she may even still love him, but she was happy until he called her. He was so sure of it.

"I knew you were destined for great things, sweetie. I knew from the start. I at first thought I could have you and we could do great, but I was wrong, wasn't I? See, I'm not always right." She responded, unsure of how she felt. Did she actually want him to call her out? She did not think she could ever admit it to him now. If he ever found out his 'fan' was a lie just for me to get close enough to see him again, he'd never want to even talk to me, she thought with a horrible sense of confidence. It had to be true. Oh, how far from the truth it was, in reality.

The memories of them came flooding back even stronger. Things of a better life, best left forgotten. His first kiss was with her, how happy it made them both. Her lips against his, gentle and with a hint of the passon he'd later find within her. He tried not to cry. "Blasphemy. You were nearly always right."

She smiled to herself, a tear running down her cheek. So much she wanted to say to him. Her dreams - the happy ones, at any rate - were always in some way blessed with him. Sometimes they were memroies of the past, sometimes of a future she wished they could have shared together.

"Christmas is coming up in a month," she said, trying to derail her thoughts. "How's it looking for you?"

"Lonely," he told her. "I think I have to spend Christmas Eve doing something, but that's about it. How about you?" He tried to sound as detattched as possible. He was thinking of what comes up in a week. He wondered whether he'd be around for Christmas.

"Me? Not a thing. Avoiding the family as well as I can. Same old."

"Ah, yeah. I'm sorry about that."

"Not your fault."

"Sorry about it anyway," he told her, his stubbornness showing ever so slightly.

An uncomfortable silence threatened, but neither wanted to hang up. To prevent it, he asked a question on impulse.

"Do you think I can have two more phone calls instead of one?"

She at first did not comprehend what he was asking. Then she remembered that she only gave him three calls in the note.

"I dunno. That's breaking the rules," she teased, attempting to get some humor in their conversation.

"Please?" He asked, competely serious.

She was about ot admit he could call her whenever he wanted but was not sure whether she could handle hearing him all the time. Not without actually having him.

"Two more," she told him.

His thoughts were stuck on next week, not letting go. Hearing her voice was both pleasure and torture. He loved her, he needed her. Why couldn't he have her?

"Thank you, beautiful. I have to go. I'll call you again sometime soon."

"I'm looking forward to it. I lo-"

He hung up and had to resist the urge to throw his phone. Instead he forced himself to gently set it down, walk over to his massive stereo system that resided within his living room and turned it on, blaring it loudly. HE screamed along to his lyrics, his mind unable to stop thinking of the past and what comes up within a week.


She cried herself to sleep that night. She knew what was coming up, as well. What was coming up within the week. Could she live through it? A week until their anniversery. When they were still a couple. So much history within the two and a half years. In a week, ghosts best undisturbed will be awoken. And man, will they be pissed.