A/N: This is my first Lizzie McGuire fic, so please don't judge to harshly. It's also the most angst I've ever written about, and it's all from Miranda's point of view. Some of the characters are deliberately out of character, so that's not a mistake. There is a lot of Lizzie-bashing in this, so if you love Lizzie or something please don't flame me; I don't actually feel that way it's the way MY Miranda feels. Well, better get on with the story now, Enjoy!

I lay on my bed ans stared, completely mesmerized by the ceiling above my bed. Laying on my bed and memorizing its every crease and curve. I seemed to spend a lot of my time doing this. Just lying still and thinking. Playing my whole life over again in my head and reflecting on how pathetic it all is. My non-mutual love for my best friend, Gordo. And my undeniable hatred for my other best friend Lizzie. Gordo is so unreal, like he's to perfect to even exist. I'm probably imagining him. Probably schizophrenic. That's it, schizophrenic. I'm some fucked up psycho who has convinced herself that her image of perfection exists. I want him so bad it actually, physically, hurts. If I don't have him lying here with me in my arms in the next five seconds I'm going to die, or at least I hope so.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Damnit. He's not here. And I didn't die. Well that really sucks. I seriously do think I'm going to die if I don't have Gordo for myself in the ridiculously near future. I wonder where he is at this exact moment. Maybe he's lying on his bed staring up at the ceiling too. Maybe he's letting himself wallow in the melodrama that is his life too. Maybe he's thinking of me, too.

*Silence*

I doubt it. Gordo thinking of me right now. It's almost funny. Almost funny meaning really really sad, of course. Gordo will never love poor, pathetic little me. Being in love with me would be like being in love with pure misery. And that's just preposterous. Right now he's probably thinking about Lizzie. Lizzie Lizzie Lizzie. Lizzie McGuire. Explain to me again exactly why I'm best friends with someone whom I hate with every single cell in my body? I never really had any friends outside of her and Gordo, so pure desire not to walk the halls of Hillridge Jounior High alone for the rest of my teen years makes her qualified enough, I guess. If I dumped her I know Gordo would just drop me and focus al his attention on her, take her side and forget I ever existed. I know it. And I couldn't stand not being a part of his life. Let me reiterate he will always be part of my life. I couldn't stand not being a part of his. I don't really know why I hate Lizzie. Maybe it's her flawlessly blonde hair. Or her "innocently pink" lip-gloss. Or all the attention she gets from Gordo. It's like after everything I say he responds by relating it somehow to her. If I say, "I get to go visit my cousin in Florida" he responds with "Lizzie went to Florida once." It's like Lizzie has dominated his thoughts, he's succumbed to her. So far he hasn't said anything about being in love with her or anything like that. If he thinks he's in love with her he doesn't know what love is. He could never be in love with perfect little Lizzie McGuire. Love is what I feel for him, not some stupid little schoolboy crush he has on her. How could anyone be in love with someone whose life revolves around her Saturday afternoon trips to the mall and bitching about her ex-friend Kate, of whom she is insanely jealous with her newfound popularity, therefore not depending on Lizzie for Saturday afternoon trips to the mall anymore, but on people far more elite. I never liked Kate. I knew all of this spite was inside of her all along. The only person I've ever really liked at all was Gordo. Gordo is the reason all of this happened. Gordo is the reason I'm lying here right now, Gordo is the reason for my every movement. And he doesn't even know it. I've always loved him. I just didn't know it for a moment.

"Mija! Time for dinner!" My Carol Brady-like mother called up to me from the stairs, interrupting my pity party. It amazes me how my parents never ask what I'm always doing up there in my room all alone for hours on end. I mean I could be shooting heroine and they wouldn't even know. Then again, they probably wouldn't want to know, it would totally ruin their model- family equilibrium they've imbedded into their minds.

Dinner was tacos, again. You see, my parents didn't actually know how to cook any Mexican food. They were both born and raised in the States, and had only been to Mexico twice in their lives.

I sat down in my usual spot and watched my mother strap my two little brothers into their high chairs. It seemed odd to most people we met that they would have a fourteen year old and then a two and three year old. I guess it took them eleven years to figure out I wasn't going to be enough, and that's usually what I told them, too. They usually muffled up some polite laughter before turning away, having no idea I was totally serious.

"So, Mija, how was school?" My dad looked at me and smiled, trying to be a more "involved" father so my mom would stop nagging him to be one. If he had a say, he would spend all his time watching football in his boxers. I wonder why he ever got married, he seemed so much to prefer the bachelor ideal.

"Good." An A-bomb could have dropped on the school and everyone and everything within a hundred miles have been blown to dust and I was exposed to such high radiation I now have leukemia and I would still say good, it was just that routine.

I turned my attention to my dinner to show I had no more interest in conversation, not that I had any in the first place.

My parents went on chatting about some lady my mom had run into at the grocery store. The way my parents talked it sounded like they were aquantinces who really had nothing to say to each other rather than a married couple. They were supposed to be in love with each other. That idea almost made me laugh. My parents, in love with each other. They hadn't loved each other in years. But they were afraid to leave, afraid to give it up and go somewhere where they would really be happy. They had become to comfortable with each other. At least they had someone waiting for them when they came home, even if it wasn't the supposed "one."

I excused myself from dinner without even saying anything. I got to my bedroom door and stared into my room, everything in it seemed so fake and forced, like a cover for the real me. I could never let anyone see the real me, that would be disastrous. I would be shunned, treated like a freaking leper. I suddenly found comfort in the fact that everything was a cover for the real me, at least no one would be finding out who that was anytime soon.

Maybe I'd let Gordo know who the real me was. If I was really sure he wanted to know.