Author's Note: I've been stressed out beyond all limits lately. This is just something to vent… I don't even… out of my system. Because I so need to and because Cadley makes me a happier camper. Written during eh 20 minutes. Oh yeah school starts tomorrow. FML :[


Wilson was right when he spotted me watching her helping out in the ER, absentmindedly shuffling through folders even though my thoughts were somewhere else entirely. He said I should stop trying to figure her out, because she does neither want to be figure out nor is meant to be. I didn't understand what he meant then, but I'm pretty sure I do now.

It's Rubik's complex. We all know House has had it for years, and apparently, it's contagious. And no matter how ridiculous it seems, to me it's the sickest I've ever been. It's spreading faster than plague and it doesn't kill me within hours or days, instead it waits, like the komodo dragon, who lets its poison flow into the wound and then watches the victim bleed to death. It's like torture, really. Thousands, millions of little knives digging into my skin. I can't see them, I can't feel them, but I know they're there, and believe it or not, knowing is already too hard to bear, maybe even more than the pain itself, because if I could see them and feel them, I would also know I could get rid of them and that it would stop. This doesn't.

I know she's there. But then the only other thing I know is that I know nothing, and I hate not knowing anything! He's changed me. I've become him. Am I really that miserable?

She's always there. Always the same. Nothing ever changes. Always witty, always helpful, always beautiful – what am I even saying – always a mystery. But maybe Wilson is right. Maybe she doesn't want to be solved. How can I feed my curiosity without causing her discomfort? Right now, I'm not sure which I want more. No, actually, I'm pretty sure I know which option it is, but that's the only thing in the world I do not want to know. I do not want to be obsessed. I don't want to be this person I've become.

Then again, we share things. Looks. Smiles. The occassional brush of hands. Like coworkers. Right? …Right?

I don't want to hurt anyone, but if I don't do something soon, I fear I might break down completely. This is all completely new to me, okay? I've never felt so… needy… in my life. She's like a rose, a rose so beautiful that even in a bouquet full of the exact same, velvet, thorny roses, she would still stand out like orange in blue. And when you see such a rose, naturally you want to preserve it, you never want to see it wilt. You'd rather see it frozen in ice and time. Forever. Anyone would.

Yet for some reason, I'm the only one who seems to acknowledge this rose's beauty. Maybe I'm just being delusional. But even if she were just another rose in the flowerpot, I want to – I need to – look after it. It's an instinct. If I don't do it, the gardener himself might have a heart attack. Unfortunately for me, that's who I am. That's what he's made me into. Being with him, under his control and direct influence for so long; he imposed things on me, things I never thought I would have to deal with. Now he's retired and I'm the only one left here alone with the knowledge that I must act but don't know how.

I just hope I won't get burned.