This may trigger some intense emotions, I won't tell you which kinds though (; Read at your own discretion. I don't own Hannah Montana. Nor the song I was repeatedly listening to as I wrote (Brown Eyes – Destiny's Child). Enjoy!

I discreetly step up behind her eyeing her waist like a ninja on a mission. My eyes, so focused on the curved-in part of her upper body, misses the small but deadly puddle I forgot we had created in the water half of our dispute. I slip and slam my arm against the counter to keep me up. It could have woken up King Kong, but she doesn't turn around. In fact, her unchanged stature shows no sign of her even noticing my existence. I raise my eyebrows in amusement at her determination in this silent treatment and continue onwards with my mission.

One poke—that's really all it takes. But I can't help it; I attack both sides at once. The squeal, the leaping, the angry string of phrases that follow: this is why Lilly Truscott is my best friend. Only she could continuously take my abuse and tell me she hates me for this life and the next, to end up sharing her lunch with me later on that day. And so on for a perfect 14 years.

"Oliver! I swear I could kill you right now!" She yells aimlessly swinging her fists towards my body.

I try to connect my hands with hers as I slyly reply, "My mom's a cop, Lillypop."

She takes half a second to let her new nickname sink in. Even I am a little surprised. First that I actually let that out of my mouth, and second that, if I try really hard, I'm positive I saw her smile a bit at it. I smile back even if hers was long gone.

"You're so annoying," she grumbles, pointlessly—if she really wanted to leave, she'd be gone by now. I know it; she knows it. Her anger, this entire dispute, is something we go through nearly on a daily basis.

Both our hands fly around, sometimes painfully slapping into each other, until I finally grasp hers. She tugs a bit and then sighs—I've won. This is the part where I let go and then make a triumphant speech about how she can never beat me, then she punches me, and I pretend it hurts and so on and so forth.

But I don't let go. It takes her a few extra seconds but I know she's finally noticed when her blue eyes look up questioningly into mine—this is no longer part of the routine and so confusion ensues.

It's not so much that I don't let go, rather that I can't. Not that I've lost complete control of my body. It's hers. I've lost control of what her body does to me. The tiny connection between my fingers and her wrists, electrocuting through my body and for half a moment I wonder if she's a robot and I've caught her short circuiting. And then for the next moment, I wonder what a different connection than just fingers-to-wrist would do. Say lips-to-lips? Before I can change my mind, I test it out. And before I can form an apology, she kisses me back. I'm now convinced one of us, if not both, is a robot and lighting has struck.

With a newly acquired determination she stares at me, lightly nibbles at her lip, then says, "Never let go?"

The only reply I can think of, "What?"

She steps closer to me, though I was convinced there was no space left between us. "I love you, and want to be with you forever, Oliver. But I'm not gonna lie—I'm scared, unless you can promise to never let me go." She whispers into my chest, yet I hear her perfectly.

Feelings I didn't know I held for her settle into me like they knew their way around perfectly. I look around, why are we in Jackson's apartment? Outside the window, it's pouring… in the middle of July. And it finally clicks.

I refocus on her, her pleading eyes. Her hands burn in mine. I don't want to let her go, ever. But I don't have the courage to tell her. "I promise. I won't," I lie.

She smiles, but I don't return it, and just in time a loud buzzing startles us both. Her confusion only hurts me more, and I can feel our handhold loosening. "I love you too," I tell her disappearing figure and then open my eyes to the ceiling.

I turn to my side and turn off my alarm. Right next to it I look at the picture of my girlfriend and I, taken before I foolishly let her go on that storming night. Flashbacks of tears, water puddles, screeching car brakes, and the last look I saw on her face: fear.

I look away from the picture and pull myself together for the day. Once more I didn't have the courage to tell her that I would never hold her again. Maybe next time.

Yes, he was dreaming. Yes, she is no longer alive. Yes, I am nearly crying. Yes, you should review. xoxCamy