Cry To Tomorrow

Shivering, curled up, and shuddering, she sat at the head of her bed, blank-faced and
shocked. No one had died; she was not fact, the day had been perfectly fine.
Everything kept replaying in her mind; all these scenes and snapshots from the previous
six years or so. Him; him; him; him. It was a neverending torrent of smiles, tears, words,
hugs; life. Always, it was him.

Yesterday, it was him. Today, it was him.

Even when he was not there, she still found herself thinking about him. Constant, constant;
way too constantly for any healthy human; Best-Friend On The Brain Syndrome.

Sure, there were treatment options, but she really hadn't minded. So what? So she thought
about him a lot. He was her closest friend; the one that was always there, that knew even
more than she did about herself. It seemed logical to be thinking about him continuously.

But this was not fine any longer.

Eyes closed, slowly, wearilly; she fought the tears. If the tears didn't come, hope was
not lost yet. Her slender body tipped, and she fell to her side, the bed providing very
little comfort. Both hands were clutched in front of her chest, shaking with fear. Her two
pajama-clothed legs shook too, cold and numb; forgotten. It hurt. In her chest, it burned,
an ache that no sickness could replicate.

A strange, oddly soothing numbness travelled down her arms, and into her fingertips. At
this, the tears became even more threatening, as she could feel them welling up in her
closed eyes. His words repeated in her mind over and over. It wasn't so much the fact that
he had said them; he always said them. She had known it for a long time: she was his best
friend too. But now, the fact that this was true just caused more pain.

With a last breath, the first tear fell; she had lost. Here's to giving in.

After that, there was no stopping it. Her eyes shot open, their aqua color shiny from the
layer of tears. And they fell. Real, salty tears poured out of her eyes and down her pale
cheeks. Placing her face against a pillow, she screamed into it, the sound echoing in her
ears. Her lungs ached, sporadically contracting with rage, hatred, and agony. That pajama-
clothed body twisted around, legs curling up, then kicking, arms moving to wipe the tears
away, then slamming against the headboard with a thunk.

She sat up, hair a fiery tangle that matched the redness on her face. Still, the tears
flowed, though the need for them was lessening. Her legs and arms remained numb, and every
breath was shaky. Even the pain was still there. Everything still remained, except the
tears. Him; him; him; him. Always, it was him. Even when she wanted to forget.

Misty let her head drop into her palms with defeat. Her fingers parted, allowing both
bloodshot eyes to peer into the darkness as she raised her head back up. Tears still
leaked out, running over the back of each hand; warm. Him; him; him; him. Those brown eyes;
that black hair.

He held more of her than even he knew. He could make her; break her.

More than friendship, she thought, more than complete admiration. "I'm in love with him."