Maybe You Were the One
by angels and effects

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She was the girl next door. He was the guy sought after by two thirds of the female population in their high school. She wore simple clothes bought from the dollar store. He wore branded ones, every Converse shirt he owned easily costing the size of her monthly allowance. She was the school outcast. He was at top of the social pyramid. She ate at the library every day, alone. He ate in the cafeteria, surrounded by his equally popular friends.

And he loved her.

Maybe it was simple puppy love. Maybe it was a momentary unbalance of chemicals in the brain. Maybe it was the undying hope to experience true love, not lust. But whatever it was, he knew it. Guys like him didn’t fall for girls like her.

That simple fact was the very reason why he never spoke to her. At all. Only one word in his entire life; that was all he’d ever said to her. The one word he should have said so many times, but it wouldn’t make sense to her, even if he said it a million gazillion infinity times. Would it?

“Sorry.”

He’d bumped into her in the hallway. It was the only time he’d ever touched her. Her skin was so smooth, so warm. He itched to touch her face… but she didn’t yet know how very much enamoured he was by her. She probably never would, at any rate.

It didn’t help that she was so mysterious. No one knew anything about her. The only thing they could pick up on was that she loved Stephen King books, and that her mother had passed away when she was very young. Because of that, it was all he knew about her too. But yet, he wanted to know more. Her middle name, her favourite food, her taste in music, her favourite hobby… Anything, anything to get to know her better.

But fate wasn’t kind. High school ended on a high note for most as they headed off to Yale, or Princeton, or whatever Ivy League university they had gotten into. The last glimpse he’d caught of her was her graduation gown-clad back, cap off, disappearing round a corner. He’d never even seen her face. Just one last look, but he hadn’t been given that chance.

Why? How had he fallen for her like that? Was it how she had stood up against abortion in their English class, during one of their infamous debate sessions? How she loved to tuck one lock of her hair behind her right ear before doing her work? The way she never smiled, making him want to make her smile even more? The way she seemed so soft-spoken, yet so fiery in her beliefs?

He didn’t know it himself. The only thing he knew was her name, Sherry Kingston, and that she was headed for Columbia. That was all.

And six years later, that was still all he knew.

By then, he was a famous celebrity. He’d taken up Drama in university, forgoing a football scholarship. He didn’t feel for sports as much as acting. Sure, he’d been ‘famous’ for it during high school, but his life was one thing. She was another thing. And acting was one thing altogether. He had the passion for it, the spark. If Mother Theresa could go take care of unfortunate people and live their simple lifestyle for the sake of humanity, why not go with acting?

His mother had been furious. She didn’t understand why he wanted to act. She didn’t understand that he didn’t even like football. He only played it to please his father. But now, it wasn’t time to make his father happy. It was time to make himself happy.

After all… what could have happened during high school if he hadn’t joined the clique of populars?

Only God knew.

Is this the New Year or just another night?
Is this the new fear or just another fright?
Is this the new tear or just another desperation?

His name was Shane Garton.

She looked at the pictures spread out in front of her. Her job was to report, not salivate, but she couldn’t help it. He had been the varsity football quarterback in high school, the guy of every girl’s dreams. Looked like that hadn’t changed, at least. He was still the heartthrob he had been six years back, and that was through a grainy newspaper photo!

She tilted said photo to one side, examining it with a critical eye. How could someone look so… heart-breaking? It probably was a crime for someone to have such beautiful gray eyes, such silky-looking, thick brown hair (no one could mistake that colour), such a lean yet athletic body…

But she knew that it wasn’t his looks that captured her attention so. In high school, she had been the outcast. No, there wasn’t any denying it – even the blindest of blinds could see that. She had bumped into him one day near the lockers, and he’d said ‘sorry’. Just one word, but it elicited something in her… Maybe it was the fact that he even bothered to apologise. And from then on, whenever he passed her, he seemed to give her some kind of look. A look that showed her he cared, somehow or another. Of course, she didn’t know exactly what he meant by them, but then, he was-

“Sherry,” her boss interrupted. She looked up from the photos.

“Yes, Mrs. Orson?”

“Get that article for me latest by 4 on my desk, pronto. Don’t even be a second late.” The editor’s eyes were stern. Pretty obvious where the standards she had for every employee working under her for the Los Angeles Times stood, she made it.

She gulped and nodded, signaling Mrs. Orson’s leaving to harp on another newbie.

She turned back towards her desk. Her eyes fell on one particular photo. It was of Shane coming out of a local pub, arm around some famous actress. What was her name? Anna… Anne… yes, Anastacia Williams. Shane’s co-star in The Prophecy, she was everything every female dreamt of. Slim, curvy, beautiful… and rich.

Everything she wasn’t.

She sighed and gathered up the pictures, putting them into a folder. She had an article to write and her own mouth to feed. Slacking couldn’t be afforded, and thinking of him definitely wasn’t (COULDN’T be) on the list. It wasn’t the New Year (if it was, slacking wouldn’t be unusual), and she needed to get her priorities straight.

So, jaw set, she forced him out of her thoughts and got down to work.

If only she knew how close he was…

Is this the finger or just another fist?
Is this the kingdom or just a hit n' miss?
A misdirection, most in all this desperation

“Fuck it,” he muttered, staring at himself in the mirror. He was rich, famous and good-looking. To add to that, there was a beautiful woman who (rather obviously) liked him enough to call him every single day (which was getting a tad bit irritating). He was the epitome of successful, a millionaire at the young age of 24. So his mother had decided that acting was good enough for her little boy after all, and had reconciled with him. His father had gotten over it as well, even calling him to congratulate him on the movie’s success.

But that wasn’t his main concern.

His main concern was that he couldn’t stop thinking about her.

Yes. He eyed himself in the mirror once more. What a clichéd thought. In fact, he couldn’t help wondering what it was about her that was so endearing, now that he thought of it. Was it the black curls that always tumbled down her back, unhindered by hair spray? Was it her dark brown, almost black eyes that looked like they could open your soul with one glance? Was it her slim frame and captivating bow-shaped mouth, how they made him want to sweep her into his arms and kiss her crazy? How she looked so natural…

He needed to get out.

Cap on, normal clothes, sneakers, sunglasses. He needed to go incognito, or people would start swarming over him. Normal people craved attention like that, but he was getting rather sick of it. What was the point of being famous if he wasn’t peaceful at heart?

If only he could see her face one last time…

He stepped out of his apartment, taking a detour through an unknown alleyway and stepping into the bright sunlight. No one gave him a second glance. Brilliant.

Taking his time, he strolled leisurely down the sidewalk. He’d left his cell phone, whatever communicative devices he had back in the apartment – he didn’t need people disturbing him. Calls and messages wouldn’t help his peace of mind. He knew The Prophecy had done well, but he didn’t need people telling him what a talent he was every minute, damn it! All he wanted was…

His stomach growled.

Oh, well. That sentence would have to be completed, at any rate.

He entered a small eatery, not taking off his sunglasses. The paparazzi would probably have a field day if he did. He abhorred them, let alone wanted to give them attention on a silver platter. It was weird, the things paparazzi could catch – what was the big deal with getting breakfast? It was nothing out of the ordinary; definitely nothing inordinately exciting at all.

Of course, he didn’t know.

“Coffee and a bacon sandwich,” he told the waitress. She was rather cute, he reflected through his sunglasses. Dark curls up in a high ponytail, starched uniform, white smile. As a matter of fact, she looked a lot like…

He looked at the name tag. ‘Henrietta Price’, it read in neat block letters.

Damn.

So why was he still thinking about her?

“Your order will be ready in 5 minutes.”

He nodded, before perusing the scene outside. It was a sunny L.A. morning, people milling around the traffic lights. He reflected upon it – people were a weird species. Some people were stubborn, some were frugal, some loved to drink coffee but not tea, and some loved cappuccino but hated mocha…

So which category did he fall into?

“Here you go, Mister. Coffee and a bacon sandwich.”

He looked up and smiled. “Thanks.”

She smiled in return and retreated back into the kitchen. He brought the cup to his lips, savouring the warm liquid. Taking his eyes off the roads, it was the simple act of glancing up to see if there were any napkins that brought his attention to who had just come in.

Wait.

He looked closer.

It had to be a delusion. Had he thought so much about her that she was right there before his eyes…?

He forced his eyes to look back down at his plate. This was insane. She wasn’t there. It was probably like what had happened with the waitress… there were a lot of people with black curls, after all. It didn’t mean she was in the same room as him. Yes, he was probably imagining things.

Yet, he couldn’t help but steal another glance at her.

And his heart nearly stopped.

Her eyes met his.

Is this what they call freedom?
Is this what you call pain?
Is this what they call discontented fame?

She stepped out of her dingy apartment, lamenting at the state of her shoes. She needed to get a new pair, but she had to get her pay first. But never mind about that; what she truly needed now was breakfast. She was out of groceries, so she decided to head down to the nearest eatery and grab something.

Pausing to lock the door, she groaned to herself. God, just get some muffins and scram off to work quick. What with being a freshie, she couldn’t take any chances. Tardies in high school were one thing; being late for work was another thing. And money was one thing altogether. Oh, God, now this was why she hated working.

Clocking a record of three minutes from her apartment to the streets, she entered the eatery, basking in the air conditioning it blasted right in her face. Her hair was down as usual – she hadn’t bothered tying it up, with the result that she felt rather warm. Any relief from the heat would be welcome, indeed.

“Miss Kingston! How’re you doing today?” Henrietta, the waitress, greeted her. She usually stopped by before and after work, so the people who worked the morning and evening shifts knew her well. Of course, that meant discounts now and then, which wasn’t a bad thing at all.

“Great, but I’m going to be late,” she said, trying to smoothen her hair down. “Two cinnamon muffins, thanks.”

“Will do,” Henrietta said. “Hold on a moment, I’ll go get them.”

She nodded. As per her ritual, she seated herself by the counter, looking around. People were a mysterious thing to her; she never had been people oriented, not wanting to expose herself to the harshness of human personalities. High school had been rife with preppy cheerleaders and cocky jocks. It’d gotten to her, so she’d just preferred to keep her distance. Well, besides admiring Shane Garton, of course. Admittedly, she had had a huge crush on him, but she was grown up now. He was famous, very famous, while she was just a rookie at the Los Angeles Times. She earned barely enough to support herself, while he raked in millions. Who was she to him? Did he even know her name, or her existence?

She snorted to herself. Yeah, right.

As she scanned the room once more out of boredom, her eyes landed on a man. He was dressed in a white shirt and running shorts. Inconspicuous, but the sunglasses alerted her. No one wore sunglasses indoors unless they wanted to hide something about themselves. She wondered what he was concealing behind those shades.

Then he looked up.

Her breath caught.

Of all the saints above, no. Holy.

It couldn’t be him

She looked away hastily. Henrietta came out and handed her the muffins in a little bag, warm from the oven. Handing over the appropriate amount of money, she averted her gaze from the man, gathered up her stuff and started to leave hurriedly. It was like a chant had started up in her head. It isn’t him, it isn’t him, it can’t be him… he was a celebrity! Celebrities didn’t go to eateries like this!

Did they?

Ding. She stepped out, risking a last glance towards him. He was still staring at her intensely. Well, at least that was what she could deduce, since his eyes were hidden behind his sunglasses.

She shivered. It couldn’t be him. She was hallucinating. Yes, that was it. Even if he had recognized her, did he even know her? She hadn’t been what you deemed popular. She’d been the invisible one, the blend-into-the-walls kind of person. The wallflower, to put it one way.

But yet, that messy brown hair… it looked so much like Shane’s, no one could mistake that…

So many people have that shade of hair colour, it’s nothing, she reassured herself again. You can go on to work and forget about it. Just be satisfied with photos, because you can never get anything else. He was off limits – she was a reporter, he was an actor! It was verboten for people like her to stay away from people like him. She knew the paparazzi, in any case. It couldn’t…

She stepped off the curb, still deep in thought.

“Hey, watch your back….!!”

The screech of tires. She looked up, startled.

Wha-

And there came the sickening crunch of car meeting body.

The muffins fell to the ground. Her head collided with the hard gravel of the road. Her body went limp, slumping to the ground in front of the bent fender. Blood pooled out from below her form, forming a steady stream towards the shoes she would never get to replace. Her hands became flaccid, her eyes closing.

His name was Shane Garton.

You're pushing till you're shoving
You bend until you break
Till you stand on the broken fields where our fathers lay

He stood up, the bacon sandwich forgotten. The scene before him was like a nightmare come true.

No. It couldn’t be.

People started pointing towards the outside, whispers escalating. The waitress who’d just served him ran out of the eatery. Traffic had stopped and people were gathering by the sidewalks, looking at the prone figure on the road. He didn’t care anymore – like a man possessed, he pushed past the crowd and knelt down next to her.

It was her.

It was her.

For the love of God, IT WAS HER.

Her eyes were closed. Those beautiful, dark brown eyes. Desperate, he called her name once, twice, clutching at her hand with the urgency of a man possessed. The waitress knelt beside him, feeling for a pulse. Her expression was frantic, but at the same time, it was somber too, as if she knew of the tidings to come.

She looked so peaceful, so serene…

He looked to see if she was breathing.

Her chest wasn’t rising up and down, like it should be. Like it had to be…

“SHERRY!!” He yelled, shaking her. “Wake up, please… I know you’re Sherry… you are, aren’t you?? You are…”

“You know her?” The waitress asked, surprise evident in her voice.

“Sherry…” his voice dropped to a whisper. The world around him collapsed into nothing but petty impediments. “Don’t die, you can’t… I have to tell you something…”

Suddenly, he felt a slight pressure on his hand, the one clutching hers. Her eyes fluttered open, her lashes thick against her eyelids. “Shane?”

“Sherry,” he said hoarsely. People were starting to talk rather loudly behind his back. He ignored them. All that mattered was Sherry now.

He waited as she strained to speak. It was indescribable, how strongly he felt for her. What was it? It was something he couldn’t fathom out, but she needed to live. She needed to. She needed…

“I already called 911,” the waitress said, her voice trembling.

“Shane…” she said weakly, her hand dropping down to the road she was lying on. Blood pooled around her, her face ghastly pale. “I wanted to…” she coughed, blood coming out of her mouth. He shook his head, trying to keep his tears back. “To say… I…” She tried to raise her hand. “I don’t know how… how you know… my name…” It was getting increasingly difficult for her to speak. “But I just…”

“Yes?” he whispered.

“I l-love…”

Her eyes slid shut, her hand going limp in his hand. Her head lolled to one side, blood trickling in a steady stream out one side of her mouth.

“NOOOOO…!!”

He clutched her hand, shouting her name over and over again. Oblivious to the stares he was getting, he didn’t care that someone had already identified him – he had taken off his sunglasses. Nothing mattered anymore.

She wasn’t dead. SHE COULDN’T BE… he hadn’t yet told her…

“Mr. Garton,” the waitress said gently (albeit unwillingly), putting a hand on his shoulder. He didn’t ask how she knew it was him, even though the answer was obvious. “I think Sherry’s passed on. There’s nothing-”

“No,” he said desperately. He looked down at her face, still beautiful in his eyes even with cuts and blood adorning her pale skin. The muffins were crushed by now, a memory of what could have been prevented had he taken the initiative to stop her.

She hasn’t died…

“Hey, he’s Shane Garton!”

“What’s he doing? Is she an ex-girlfriend or what?”

“She’s probably already dead, look at her…”

The last time he could ever gaze upon her face.

A salty tear fell on the gravel. The ground welcomed it – it hadn’t been raining for three weeks running already. Greedily feeding upon the droplet; disappearing forever into the dark-coloured stone…

The last time.

The wail of the ambulance siren was unheard to him. The frenzied talking of the people, the species which puzzled him so, he did not hear. The hustle and bustle of everything going on, he wasn’t aware of. For that was just unwarranted noise to him now. For he didn’t tell her…

“I love you, Sherry Kingston,” he whispered.

It'll be a day like this one
When the world caves in
When the world caves in
When the world caves in.

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A/N – I do not own the lyrics of The Blues by Switchfoot, as well as the Los Angeles Times, Converse, Stephen King and any other brands/whatsoever. I DO own the storyline and characters, though.

I wrote this on the spur of the moment, so it isn’t very good to me. Well, plus the fact that I sacrificed my studying time to do this... oh yeah, I’m in deep shit. But here’s a BIG thank you to Lientje46 for helping me pinpoint a weak part of this before I posted this up! Check out her story Sick Cycle Carousel (which I beta), it’s definitely worth more reviews.

Review, muchos gracias! (:

(Edited.)