A/N: I'm experimenting with writing styles, and even though I'm not the biggest fan of this pairing (don't hate 'em, just prefer other pairings), I was inspired for these guys. This style is good for angst, in my opinion. (;

In Ray's car. Don't look at him. He'll keep talking if I look at him. Talking Ray is the last thing I need.

I can't be sad about what he said yet. Blank stare, empty like my chest, at the road ahead. Hollow, not heavy. Feeling light, but the foggy kind of light, not the euphoric kind.

And then, just like I'm expecting, it hits, the invisible blade that goes right for my gut and makes me feel agonizingly ill. Press myself against the back of the passenger seat to keep myself from doubling over because of the physical manifestation of my sadness. Try to control my breathing but heave a deep sigh, anyway. And then another one. Who or what sucked the oxygen from this car?

Ray catches onto my sighs and says, "Look." Oh, god, no. "I just can't see it working out." Broken record. I heard him the first time. "I mean, it's whatever." Maybe to him. "It's not about you." Don't buy it. "It's nothing you did." What about that one time? "It's nothing you said." I bet he didn't like that poem. "If anything, it's me." Oldest lie in the book. He says that so I won't hate myself, but he's too late.

Body tense, face in my hands now. I don't mean to be like this, an open book. Can't talk without sounding like a dying frog probably. Don't reply to him. Just want to get home. He inhales through his nose. Exhales the word, "Whatever." A word that I hate now. A word that is everywhere.

Sit back up. Look out the window because I have the ugliest crying face and I don't want him to suffer through it anymore. Try to wipe a tear away and smudge my already ruined eye makeup slightly. I'm even more imperfect now.

Try to remember that poem the therapist wrote but only get two lines. The therapist he wanted me to see because he couldn't bear to see me "so sad about... whatever it is." He never even bothered to ask, but it wasn't like I had an answer for him, anyway. A wry smile at the irony, how I will have to relive this all on Thursday, even though I almost can't live through it the first time. Maybe I just won't go.

The poem was an exercise. When I told her I couldn't write anything that wasn't dark or sad, she tried to show me that happy poems are just as easy to write. We were supposed to write it together, but I couldn't. Still can't. She did all of the work.

Everything will be okay.
Tomorrow's just another day.

The more I recite this in my head, the louder and more bitterly a voice screams back at me. Another day... Another day. Another day just like this one, just like the last! THEY'RE ALL THE SAME! Get out of bed, go to work, go home smelling like gravy and beach but mostly just gravy, have writer's block, be unhappy, call Ray, maybe go somewhere with Ray if I feel up to it, go to bed, try to sleep, get hardly any sleep at all. Rinse and repeat. Same formula over and over, except now without the Ray part. Maybe I'll replace Ray with lying in bed and staring at the ceiling, which may just be the only acceptable use of my time now.

Finally, he pulls up in front of my house. I try to hurry out of the car, open the door before undoing my seatbelt. Stupid. Free myself and hit my head on the way out because I am tall and the car is small, a two-seater that sits low to the ground. New wave of tears, strangled sob, not because the bump hurts but because I am embarrassed. Close the car door and try to hide my face.

He rolls down the passenger side window and asks, "See you... around?" The first part a statement, the last part a question, because at first, he was so sure of himself, and then he suddenly wasn't, given my current emotional state. Answer him with another sob. Idiot. Start walking to my door, hoping he'll drive away, but he doesn't. He always waits for me to get inside. Walk slowly deliberately. Maybe he'll get impatient with me and just leave. I really want him to just leave. But he doesn't. I hear him pull away after I close the door.

Don't go downstairs to my room just yet. Back against the front door, one hand on the doorknob, the nails of the other scratching at the paint. Try to forget what he looks like, what he sounds like, so that when I inevitably go outside again, when I inevitably see him again, I won't have to recognize him as "that guy I used to date." That guy I used to love.