It's not like... I said... that I love you.

-The Thrills (Found My Rosebud)

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He's sitting there with that girl of his, the new flavor of the week, and they're fawning over each other like rabbits. She's slipping a hand in his shirt, he already going for her bra. She's going for the pants, he's already in hers. She moves slow and he goes so fast it's a wonder that I can even see his movements.

She's lifting her shirt now, and what the hell am I doing? He's removing his pants, and this is voyeurism, is it not? She's naked now, and he is too, and I can feel the dirt and blood clogging my arteries.

But I can't look away.

And now they're going at it, soft or rough I can't tell because of a curtain in my way, but they're definitely doing it, because I can hear the moans from here. Oh, where are his parents? Where are hers? They should stop them. Because this girl doesn't love him. And he doesn't love her. But I love him.

I'm mesmerized, and finally I have to look away because they've heard me moving. I duck quickly. It's silent for a moment, then I hear, "Come on baby, it was nothing." And then the impatient springs of the mattress squeak beneath their weight and the frequent, high-pitched, breathy moans she's making continue, and I choke back the urge to cry.

What was that time when he kissed me at the DX, when everything was quiet and the other partner was gone, off to get lunch? He'd pinned me to the wall and our lips were set on a magnetic crash course for each other, our hands searching fervently, his shirt dropping to the floor and the warmth of his body spreading to mine through my own shirt. And he'd pulled away and promised, promised me, that this wasn't just some one-time thing. We'd do it again.

That promise had been kept. We'd be home alone and he'd pull me close and bring our lips together and sometimes we got close to doing it, and it would have been my first time. But we always stopped, because it was special.

I was there thinking he liked girls, and maybe he did, but he always kissed me so soft that I began to think it was love. And I began to tell him. I would whisper to him that I loved him and he would just smile. And I thought he meant it too.

And suddenly the moans quiet, and I realize I've been thinking too much. And I hear, "I'll call you" and it is his voice talking. So I crawl out from the rosebushes lining the matchbox house and slide into the empty lot lucidly. He's bound to come there sooner or later. I can talk to him.

Sure enough, ten minutes later he spots me, and his face brightens considerably and he comes over at almost a run, but more of a quick jog, and his lips meet mine and I don't kiss back. He notices and pulls away and looks confused for a moment, then almost hurt. "What's wrong?" he asks, quietly.

"Do you love me?" I ask quietly. He blinks, then looks blank and indifferent. "Steve?" I whisper, and I place a hand carefully on his chest and say, "Do you love me?"

He looks at me, and I say, "I saw you and that girl. You act like you love me, you know I love you." I slide my hand onto his shoulder, followed by my other hand, and I say, in the quietest whisper I can muster, "Why'd you cheat on me?"

He looks furious and throws my hands away, then stands and says, "It's not like I said that I loved you." And I can almost see behind that angry mask, but he's gone before I can interpret it.

I sit, fold my head into my hands, and cry for my own stupidity.

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A/N: Yes, I've been doing so much SP work that I've been craving Outsiders for a long time. And now you have some.

Steve? I know you can figure it out. (And you already know it's not Soda.)

Guess in teh reviews, if you decide to leave any.