(this is a repost)

A/N: Don't hate me! I know I should be working on my other stories but I just couldn't get this oneshot idea out of my head. It's a little different, it's in 2nd person point of view which I have never personally experienced before. *Also, I deleted this story a few months ago because I wanted to submit it as a story for my Creative Writing class and had to turn it in to . I didn't want it to show up as plagiarism. Now it's back!* Hope it goes well! Enjoy!

How Could You Forget?

What do you think about when you stare off into the distance like that? It's got to be something important; your eyes are clouded with questions and conflicts and God knows what else.

Are you thinking of him? Or about the blue feather in his bureau, waiting to be clutched by your childish hands? Are you thinking about his warm arm around you, his breath against your rosy cheeks, his ghost-white smile?

I remember a time when you never wore that haunted look upon your face. You were carefree; your face was brighter than the summer sun, your laugh was always ringing in my ears.

Do you remember when we made blueberry pie together? You probably don't. But it was one of the best memories I can recount. Your blue and purple stained face crinkled into a smile as I flung another handful of the juicy fruits at you. You screeched and ducked under the counter, pleading me to stop but giggling furiously as you did so. And then you squealed as I crept around the table, handful of berries.

You slipped, I remember. I ran over to see if you were okay, and instead of grimacing, you smiled and dipped your finger in blueberry juice, and dotted my nose with it.

You turned me this way. Since when was I some sort of sap? Since when did I go around smiling like this? If you had told me the day we met that we were someday going to be chucking handfuls of blueberries around a half-made pie, I would have laughed.

I don't know when it was that I fell for you. I know that it wasn't when I first met you, no, definitely not. Too quiet, you just seemed so damn innocent. The way you called me 'Mister Marlin' as if I was some old man, the way you had no clue how to pick vegetables, yet alone plant them.

"Why is she here?" I would ask Vesta, pleading. And she would frown at me, and cross her burly arms.

"Give 'er a chance, Marlin," she had said. "She's just a little lost, that's all."

And I would snort and roll my eyes and throw two-year-old tantrums.

A little lost.

"Mister Marlin?" you would ask, your voice barely above a whisper. I never replied, I merely grunted in response. "What's the different between an eggplant and a turnip?"

I smacked my forehead often. This was one of those moments. And your lower lip would tremble precariously, and I would be forced to apologize (held against my will by a glaring Vesta). In which case, you would smile politely, bow your head and scurry off, your soil-covered gown swinging in your wake.

There would be times when Vesta wasn't around that I wanted to yell. Sure, I wanted to point fingers and jeer as if you were an untrained dog. But I refrained. There was something about you… something so different from all the other morons out there.

Do you remember the sleepless nights? Is that what you're thinking about when you stand there, lips parted ever so slightly, eyes staring into the unknown? Probably not. I would always stir to the sound of muffled whimpering. I remember the first time, thinking it was Murrey, groaning outside the door like he always did in the wintertime. Heat radiated through my face as I stood, clothed in only a pair of boxer shorts, and stomped down the stairs, still half-asleep, stumbling.

The shock on my face must have been a silly sight to see, when I noticed that the noise was coming from you. There you were, crouched in the corner of the kitchen, a glass of water clutched in your tiny, childish hands. I remember the tears that soaked the neck of your nightgown, and the way you smiled when you saw me.

"Oh, hello Mister Marlin," you greeted me, as if we had bumped into each other on the road. I remember shaking my head in disbelief as I came upon you, suddenly aware of my bare chest and your innocent eyes. I crossed my arms and stood before you, unsure of what my role was.

"What, um… what're you doing down here?" I asked her, my toes curling against the cold, kitchen tile. And that's when your smile faltered, your doe eyes suddenly cast downward.

"I couldn't sleep," you muffled into your knee. As if in a trance, I sat next to you, and I didn't twitch or stir when you put your head upon my shoulder. "It was awful."

"What was?" I asked you. And even if you didn't make a sound, and even if you didn't try to hide them, I knew the tears were rolling down your porcelain face.

"I… I miss them," you croaked, avoiding the question. But I knew what this was all about. I don't know what prompted it; it might have been the twang in your voice or the tears dripping onto my shoulder, but I found my free arm reaching over to touch yours, just barely, before I retracted it.

"Don't dwell on it," I told you. It was probably the only useful advice I had ever given anyone. "I know this isn't a castle, but it's something, isn't it?"

I don't know why I felt the need to protect you. I don't know why I willingly let you collapse into my arms after that, or why I proceeded to brush your russet hair with my fingers and pat your jolting back. Maybe it was because, for once in my life, I felt like you needed protection more than anyone. I had never met anyone so lost, besides myself.

"Thanks, Mister Marlin," you had said, your voice hoarse and whispery.

"Celia?" I asked, so many things ready to burst from my mouth but I kept them hidden, locked up for now.

"Hm?"

"You can call me Marlin."

I don't know when it was that I fell for you. But I know that by the time you were his, it was too late. The boat had already set sail. I had lost.

I remember the time that I couldn't accept it. Do you remember? Probably not.

It was winter, there were no crops to harvest but there were shipments to be delivered. I had seen you walking into the shack, and I knew this was it. My palms sweating, my sudden racing heart… it was now or never. I followed.

It was painful. I remember the look on your face, that look of surprise and almost… fear? You whirled around and I smiled as best I could, although I felt like I was bearing my teeth more than anything.

"Where's Vesta?" you asked. I didn't answer.

My God, why didn't I just answer?

At the time, I thought your nervousness was cute. The shakiness of your voice made me just want to melt; the questioning in your eyes was like candy to me. It's only now that I realize that those were things I should have feared, not treasured.

And I didn't answer you, like I should have. I had to listen to my stupid heart and sweaty palms. I instead crashed my lips against yours, thinking – no, knowing that this would be one of those movie moments, where you would grow limp in my arms, giving yourself to me. And I would sweep you off your feet and away from this mundane life.

Instead, your eyes remained open. Your body was rigid; your lips were statuesque. And I felt my heart shred into a million pieces as I unattached myself, and looked at you. The way your ruby lips quivered made me abhor myself, my heart, my goddamned sweaty palms. The nervousness was no longer cute, it was sickening.

And then you ran. I didn't bother to go after you; I knew that when I heard your feet clop against that wooden bridge that you were running away to your real prince.

Do you remember the first day he showed up? Of course you do. The whole town was buzzing at the news of the city boy, psh, what a joke.

I couldn't help but notice that night was one of the first full nights of sleep we both had in weeks.

And then there was the first time that you went to his farm. And the first time he came to ours. And the first time you called him yours. Of course you remember all of those times, don't you?

How could you forget?

"Oh, it's nothing," you would tell me. But all I could see were his lips all over your neck, hands on your body, your fucking name on his lips.

"Nothing," I would repeat after you. But to me, that word meant nothing at all.

It's hard to say I know exactly when I fell for you. It might have been during one of those sleepless nights, sure. It might have been the time we made pie.

But I'm betting that it was the times you protected me, from myself. You taught me how to smile, and how to look at the world as if the sun was rising, not setting. You taught me how to live.

It was that time when it was me on the kitchen floor, not you. Do you remember? You probably don't.

It was me looking childish, sipping water quietly, with thoughts whirring through my head like cars on a racetrack. And it was you who appeared at the top of the stairs, almost as if on instinct. And it was you who padded down the steps two at a time, your nightgown fluttering from side to side.

It was you who saved me.

So tell me, Celia, what is it you're thinking about when you stare off like that? Are you thinking about blueberry pie? Sleepless nights? Are you thinking about that time that I couldn't accept it?

Are you thinking about me at all?

Probably not.

A/N: I actually really like the way this turned out. Woo! Let me know what you think.