So this was kind of a spur of the moment type thing I created while putting off studying for a test. It was going to be a one shot, but three pages turned into eight and I just seemed to be going so I'm going to break it up and expand it if the readers think it's going somewhere. This is my first time writing for the show, and I took some liberties with the characters, but be patient and have an open mind. And don't forget to review with any comments or ideas you might have!

Thanks,

Sarah

Standard disclaimers apply

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Falling Slowly

It's a cold and clear day in New York City, beautiful and busy as always. Taxis honk and whiz up and down the narrow streets and avenues, yuppies and hippies alike plod along the sidewalks, street vendors peddle their wares. People speak English, Japanese, Spanish, German, French, Russian. Red, yellow, black, white, brown, every color and creed all mixing in one city. It never ceases to amaze me, how different things are in this city.

It's been over 7 years since I left Malibu and high school behind. A week after my graduation, I got onto a plane and flew to New York City. Sure, I've been back; to visit my Mom and my other family in California, but of course it's not the same. My home has moved.

I'd always loved writing, but it wasn't until senior year that I really wanted to make my small passion my livelihood. So I packed my life up and moved to New York, where my dad was working at the time. It was there that I found music journalism. For years I paid my dues, worked as a bartender in bars and clubs, but I met the most amazing bands and soon began to write for amateur and underground music magazines. And to my surprise, I was good. I was very good. Eventually, I worked as a temp at Rolling Stone, then became an intern, and then, last year, was made a full staff member. I nearly cried when Eric told me. I was ecstatic.

I'm sitting in a little café, drinking coffee. It's early, a little after 7. It's not too often that I'm up this early, but I've been stricken by simultaneous bouts of insomnia and restlessness. My laptop is open in front of her me, a blank word program staring back at me, the curser blinking, blinking, immobile on the screen. I'm stuck.

It's moments like this that I remember how much New York isn't southern California. In Malibu, people pay big money for wide space, views of the beach, for solitude. They pay for a lazy, laid back, easy going lifestyle filled with sun. New York is kinetic, constantly in motion, cramped, closed in by concrete buildings on every side. The sounds are the most different. If there is a dull buzzing in Malibu, then New York has a big set of drums, bass and cymbals and snares that endlessly play a beat that the whole city moves to. The first few years were incredibly hectic and loud, but I've grown used to the beat of the city, grown to like it, and there are times at night when the city quiets just a tiny bit.

I put on my headphones to help drown out the cacophony of honking horns and play an mp3 from some band, one of hundreds that I've listened to in the past week or so. It's a short piece that I'm writing, find a talented undiscovered gem of an artist and write an article. For the most part, I'm sent either rhyme-challenged rappers, indecipherable screamo bands, or some "singer-songwriter" who knows how to play 4 chords on a guitar. This one is the latter, and to top it off, a whiny nasally voice pierces my ears. I hit stop, and take a long pull of my coffee. It's going to be a trying couple of weeks.

I'm now listening to the Ramones, a band a little loud for so early in the morning, but I'm hoping the punk will put me into a better mood than I've been in lately.

I distract myself by munching on a croissant and reading the daily news online. The minutes tick by.

And then someone walks by the window. For a moment, it doesn't register. But then, memory hits me like a flash of lightning and I'm in a surreal slow-motion state of semi-consciousness as my mind registers that I know the person who's literally a few feet from me and separated by only an inch of glass.

But it can't be. Right? Couldn't be.

But her hair is chestnut, her gait long and smooth just like I remember. She's wearing sunglasses, but I could always recognize that profile, even after all this time. And then, her head turns slightly as she stops in front of the door to the café, fumbles in her pocket for what is probably her cell phone. No doubts now.

Miley Stewart.

I remove my headphones, slightly breathless, hoping that she sees me, and half wishing that she doesn't. She keeps the phone pressed to her ear for a minute or so, earnestly engaged in conversation. And then, she clicks the phone shut, and turns.

Shit.

I freeze, panic, look down at my computer. She won't see me. It's been too long. I wait for a few tense moments, and then carefully lift my head.

Our eyes meet. She's taken off her sunglasses and her brown eyes stare straight into my blue ones, utterly deer-in-the-headlights, and my eyes probably reflect the same reaction. My heart pounds, my breath hitches in panic and recognition.

Miley Stewart.

She blinks at me for a few more seconds, and I stand. Will she come in? She does, watching me the whole time.

"Lillian Truscott." Her voice is a little deeper, more mature than I remember.

"Miley Stewart." It feels odd to form the syllables in my mouth. There is a brief silence; the air is thick between us.

"You look amazing," I say. And she does. She's wearing high heeled boots, form-fitting jeans, and a tight red pea coat. Her chestnut hair is a little shorter than I remember it, but it still flows in waves down her back. She smiles, a bright smile that I remember all too well. Some things never change.

"You're kind," she replies, looks me up and down. "But you look wonderful."

I blush. I haven't blushed in years, but Miley always seems to have a way to make me.

"Thanks."

She stares at me, trying to analyze me, looks me up and down again a few times. I hesitate, then point towards my table.

"Do you have someplace to be? I'm sitting right over there. I could buy you a coffee, if you'd like." It's a bold move for me, and I'm not really sure why I'm making it.

She smiles again, looks down at her feet, then back up again. "Yeah, that would be good. I don't have to be anywhere until about noon anyway."

I nod. "Let me get you something then."

She starts to protest but I hold up a hand. "Come on, Miles. Let me."

She nods in response. "Okay then. Low fat cappuccino, please."

"Coming up."

As I'm standing in line waiting to order Miley's coffee, a suddenly memory strikes me. The last time we had seen each other face to face, we were both 18, still children in essence. It was three weeks after our graduation from Seaview High School and I was standing outside of LAX, ready to board a plane and leave California and all that I knew.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The busy LAX traffic swirls around me. Mom left a few minutes ago, so I'm crying. I already miss her. Half of me tells me to stay, to call her and tell her to turn around, but my ticket and boarding pass is in my hand. No going back now. I take a long, deep breath, and gather my carry-on bags. Time to go.

"Lilly!"

I know that voice. I turn my head sharply, look for the speaker, but the crowd is too thick.

"Lilly, wait!"

And from between two business men in suits comes Miley at a full run. Why is she here? I don't have the time to ask or think, as soon as she's within arms length, we seize each other in a fierce hug, wrapping our arms around each other's bodies tightly. After a few moments, she breaks the hug. We are both crying.

"Do you have to go?"

I laugh through my tears and hold up my ticket. "It's pretty much all set now!"

She smiles. "I know. I know. Go be brilliant, okay? Don't forget to call and write."

In a bold move, I place a hand on her cheek. "And always remember to be Miley."

She begins to sob, and I hold her close once again. "And don't forget," I whisper into her ear through my tears, "that I'll always love you."

And then, I'm gone. I cry most of the way to New York, nearly 5 whole hours.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

That was almost 8 years ago.

"How long has it been?" She asks as casually as she can as I return with her coffee and close my laptop with my free hand. It's a sore spot for both of us. Five years of intense, inseparable best friendship, and then nothing. The fault is placed on both of us.

"Nearly 8 years," I reply. "Does that make us old?"

She laughs. "Hardly. You look as young as ever. How are you, Lilly? I was going to call your Mom today for your number, but hadn't gotten up the courage yet."

I smile inside. It's an oddly happy thought we still make each other as nervous as we once did. "I had no idea you were in New York. Do you live here?"

She shakes her head. "No, I bought a nice apartment in LA about two years ago. But Daddy doesn't like to travel so much anymore, so he sends me to take care of business from time to time."

I lean forward. "I read in the tabloids that there's talk of a Hannah Montana comeback tour. Wanna give me an inside scoop?"

She laughs and wags one long finger at me. "Like I would ever tell a music journalist. Miss I-work-for-Rolling-Stone? Please."

I give my best mischievous smile. After a long moment, she answers.

"No, that's all speculation. It's amazing what they can come up with these days."

It's amazing that we can speak so lightly, and yet there is this heaviness in my chest that I can't get rid of. She's so utterly and completely beautiful, her eyes sparkle exactly the same as when we were kids, her smile still full of joy. All these schoolgirl feelings, the flush, the racing heart, the nervous fluttering. Even after all these years, we still do these things to each other. For a moment, I see a hunger in her eyes and I am almost undone. It takes me a second to compose myself.

"Do you still write music?"

She nods. "Sometimes. But it's all very private now. I write for me. The rest of the time, I produce. I'm happy where I am."

We talk for hours, catch up. It's gossip, mostly. We talk about Oliver, who's been married to Sarah for almost three years and who's about to become a father. We joke about how we were both at the wedding but conveniently managed to miss each other the whole night. He has a son, now. A beautiful little family. Miley tells me how she saw him while visiting Oliver and Sarah a few months ago, and even shows me a picture.

On the tip of my tongue is "what happened to us?" It's the elephant in the room. All these years with no contact, no hugs, no Miley. Just the memory of our touch and the last time I told her I loved her. I want to hug her now, but I am too scared to do that. I never was that good at saying the obvious, at acting on my true feelings and desires.

Finally, I check the time. I should head in to the office. She notices.

"Am I keeping you?"

I put my laptop in its carrying case to distract myself and avoid looking into her deep brown eyes.

"I should make an appearance in the office. The boss will want to talk to me. Do you have to work today?"

She nods and stands with me. "I'll have to be in the studio soon." She steps around the table so that we're close enough to touch, and I'm suddenly having trouble breathing.

"It's so good to see you Lilly," she says softly, intimately. I can smell her perfume.

"How long are you going to be in New York?"

"A week."

I take out a card from my case. "Then call me, if you wish, and you can buy me dinner." I smile, and she smiles.

"I would love that."

I don't know why I hold out my hand for a handshake, but Miley takes it and pulls me toward her, lips touching my cheek in a soft kiss. Lightning flows through my body, and I'm speechless.

"I'll call you," she says nervously, and walks out of the café and down the street. I stand, watch her, with only two words in my mind.

Miley Stewart.

------------------------------------------------------------

Well, what do ya think? Ideas? Comments? Criticisms? Review and let me know!

-Sarah