Dedication: To every boy who has ever broken a girl's heart, and, being a boyl, never catching on that he is killing her inside a little more every day. For any girl who has ever had this happen to her. To anyone, anywhere, who has ever had a broken heart. . .this is for you.

All Of The Above

She takes a deep breath and gives herself one last quick look in the bathroom mirror to reassure herself of her own fabulousness. Hair blown silky-straight, butt looking absolutely adorable in her favorite jeans, trusty sneakers, peppy red shirt to lift her mood and give her the courage to go after. . .well, not blood, but the truth.

She squares her shoulders and walks out, replaying the scene she's rehearsed in her head over and over again. She doesn't want to do this, but she knows she has to. She doesn't like how feeling this way makes her be. She loves to hate him and hates to love him. She's sick of hanging on words and gestures, innuendoes and smiles, then getting blown off like so much cheap trash the next day. She can't do this anymore. She feels sick watching herself turn into one of those girls, the ones she'd always looked down on and scorned for the way they hang all over boys who treat them like crap. Doesn't she have any self-respect left?

She stands by his locker, and sure enough, here he comes, late like always, his car keys jangling in his free hand as he whistles a Jethro Tull song.

“'Morning, babe,” he says, and she feels that familiar upwards swoop in her solar plexus. It's a sickeningly joyful feeling, but she stabs it down, reminding herself that after what she's going to do, she'll never be able to feel like that again.

“I can't do this anymore,” she says, not beating around the bush at all. One of the times when he'd been being sweet and serious, he'd told her that directness was one of the things he'd liked about her. Maybe it will work now.

“What?” he says, absently, hunting in his messy locker for a notebook. He hasn't really heard her at all. “Hey, did you do the French homework?” He stands up and looks her in the face, making puppy eyes at her like he always does when he wants something. The sickening thing is that even though she knows she shouldn't give in, she always does.

But not this time.

“You're not listening,” she says. “I can't do this anymore.”

It doesn't hurt any less saying it a second time.

Now he's paying attention.

“What are you talking about?” His perfect brow is creased in confusion. “Listen, can it wait? Tell me in Math, okay? I've got to go to homeroom. . .”

She wants, badly, to let him go to homeroom and be on time and for him to forget this conversation that wasn't. She wants to let herself go back to being his second choice girl, reveling in whatever attention he chooses to give her when he remembers she exists. She wants to let herself go back to being the happily pathetic girl who enjoys being miserable, as long as it's because of him.

But she can't. She won't let herself, not anymore. Not again. It's gone too far this time.

“No, it can't,” she says. “It'll take three seconds. All I wanted to say is, it's over. Done. I can't play this game anymore.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” That does the trick. He's focused on her and no one but her, now. She focuses on not getting distracted by his perfect face.

“This,” she says, gesturing angrily with her hands, short little jabs of exclamation.

And ‘this' encompasses so much, so much obscurity, so much assumed ad left unsaid. So much dreamed on and so much never occurred. ‘This' is letting him hit on her when there's no one else around, ‘this' is late night phone conversations and shared secrets, ‘this' is the heartbreak of being ignored in school the day after sharing her worst fears, ‘this' is promises to hang out on the weekend that are always broken, ‘this' is the mixed heartbreak and shameful glee of being known around school as his ‘friend with benefits', ‘this' is never knowing if she's going to be put on a pedestal by him or kicked down into the dirt. All the pressure and shame and desperation and anxiety of never knowing, the anger at being used, have built up and up until she knows she has to get out of this or go insane.

“I can't take it anymore, not even as just your friend, or whatever. It won't work, because no matter what I say, no matter what I do, no matter what I resign myself to, I'll always be disappointed because you aren't giving me what I want. I can't let myself get lost in vying for one more second of your attention.” She can feel herself getting upset, at her rightful shame in letting herself be manipulated like this for so long, but also in the knowledge that, after this conversation, the two of them have a very scant chance of ever becoming friends again. And the knowledge that that makes her sad makes her even more upset.

She feels her throat tightening up, and turns to walk away. She never lets boys either a) make her cry, or b) see her cry, so she knows she has to get away before both things happen.

He grabs her hand. His face is stormy. “What are you talking about?” he says. He is clearly upset. And rightly so. Even though she's only his second choice, he still cares enough about her for her to be a choice, after all. She knows she's really coming out of right field with this one, and it's not fair, but sometimes life is like that. “What did I do?”

“I. . .” Her voice wobbles a little. Damn.

She swallows. “Listen,” she says. “I can still tutor you. I can still ride the same bus to track as you. I can still sit behind you in Math. I can even sit and continue to be completely infatuated with you and try to pretend I don't want to cry because I am so in love with you, but I can't let myself do this anymore.”

“Fuck it,” he says, his face confused. “Why are you mad at me? Talk to me. What happened? What can't you do anymore? You're making me late to homeroom, I think I have a right to know why.”

“I can't let myself pretend you might actually care,” she says, softly.

He looks at her face for a long time, and she looks at his. She doesn't know what's he's looking for, but what she finds is almost as good. His mouth is sad, and his eyes are full of anger and confusion and upset.

The last bell rings.

“Go on,” she whispers, not trusting her voice to get any louder without warping into a high-pitched little girl's. “You'll be late.”

He looks at her one last time, a face filled with what she hopes is unspoken regret, and lets go of her hand.

And walks away.

A/N- Why, lookee here! A little gray button! Le gasp! And, myomy, I wonder what happens when you click on it? What's that you say? It leaves lovely little comments for the authoress that make her incredibly happy and brighten her day and make everyone in her Pre Calc class think she's on crack? Well, myomy, why don't we all test drive this wonderous l'il button and make the authoress happy? I'll do it if you do! One. . .two. . .REVIEW!