Nowadays, there are two types of days that exist for me. The days I can feel you, and the days I can't.

Today happens to be a Type 2.

So far, it's a normal day; as normal as any Type 2 can get. I woke up in a cold sweat after subconsciously realizing you weren't next to me this morning.

You see, even though I can't see you now, I can still feel you, at least on Type 1s. The soft caress of your breath on my bare skin, the warmth of your hand curled protectively around mine. I feel you.

But today I don't. That frightens me more than anything else these days. Type 2s are becoming more and more common, and I'm afraid that one of these days, I'll lose you for good.

I sit up in bed, sobbing uncontrollably for reasons I can't explain in Marisa. She hears me, tries to console me, but it's no good. She tries to tell me that it's been four months but she doesn't understand what it did to me.

Marisa is used to it. After a few minutes of trying to do something about it, she gives up and leaves the room. Where she goes, I've never bothered to ask. Then I curl myself into a ball and try to overcome the shivers that overtake my body. This, too, is normal. On Type 2s, it's completely normal for me to retreat from the world and make hardly any human contact. I shake and cry, even scream occasionally. And nobody cares. At least, if they do, no one makes it obvious.

And when I finally feel confident enough in my ability to do anything without breaking down, I brush my teeth and leave my room in search of yours without bothering to change out of my pajamas. It doesn't matter anyway.

I practically feel my way to your room in the dark hallways, noticing for the first time that it hasn't quite reached dawn yet. Which promises a long Type 2. I feel the door before I see it, tracing my fingertips over the cork message board and the wooden letters that spell your name. S-A-M. Then I take a deep breath and push it open, already knowing it's unlocked.

It's dark inside, but I'm not sure why that surprises me. It's early morning, and you're the morning person.

"Tyson?" I whisper, tiptoeing to his bed and perching on the edge, carefully avoiding a glance in the direction of your side of the room.

Tyson grumbles, turning over until he lays on his back, using his arm to shield his eyes from the little bit of light spilling in from the hallway through the door I forgot to close. "Hmm? Oh, hey. Is everything okay?" He sits up, working the sleep out of his eyes as he waits for my response.

"Type 2," I reply quietly, hearing the tears still present in my own voice.

Everything is still for a moment. He knows exactly what I mean. Then without a word, he gets out of bed and gently shuts the door and locks it before striding back to the bed.

He takes only three steps to cross the room. His stride is long, unlike your short gait. If we ever walk somewhere together, which doesn't happen often, he has to purposefully slow his walk down to match my steps, whereas your steps perfectly match mine already.

Then, still without working a sound, he leans over me as he stands next to the bed, forcing me back onto the bed. I straighten myself out, making sure my head hits the pillow as he slides his body over mine.

This, too, is normal.

It's been like this for three months. It started on my first Type 2. I needed your touch, and I couldn't feel you. So I went to your room in search of somewhere I could feel you. But there was nothing. Anywhere. Your bed, your closet, your desk. Nothing.

But Tyson was there. Wondering what the hell I was doing walking around his room.

"It's his fucking room, too!" I had screamed.

A silence. Then all of a sudden, he understood. I could see it in my eyes.

And that's how it all started. I told him everything, explained how I couldn't feel you. Explained how I desperately needed to.

So he helped me. It wasn't you, but I wasn't completely numb anymore either. When I didn't feel you, I didn't feel me. So Tyson helped me feel.

His hands slide under my shirt, lifting it up and over my head before tossing it on the floor, his shirt quickly joining it. Then his hands expertly slide my pajama bottoms down over my hips. No fumbling, no curses. We've done this too many times. We know exactly what we're doing.

He kisses my jaw, carefully avoiding my lips. That's the deal we made. No kisses on the mouth. Too intimate, too…reserved for you. I just couldn't do it. He trails kisses from my chin to my ear, gently tugging on my earlobe. I feel it all, but it's still not you. I perceive pleasure, but it's not the same. This pleasure doesn't bring me happiness. It just brings me sensation.

The next thing I know, we're both naked, and he has a condom on. How I missed the removal of so many articles of clothing remain a mystery to me, but all I know is that I'm eternally grateful for Tyson. I don't know what I would have ever done without him.

Things move quickly, almost faster than I can keep up with. But I feel it. I feel every kiss, every caress, every thrust. And when I reach the edge, I scream your name. Tyson's face scrunches up.

This is not normal.

I usually call out your name. That is normal. It's the closest I get to feeling you on Type 2s. But Tyson usually keeps an impassive face, the proof that he understands, that he doesn't mind. So for a moment, I wonder why…

But then the pleasure overtakes me and I have no room inside me to wonder anymore. I can't think about anything but you. I imagine you're the one hovering over me, whispering sweet nothings in my ear as we ride it out together until we collapse. I imagine cuddling.

But that's not how it works.

After a few moments of heavy breathing to get down from the high, Tyson rolls to the side with his back against the wall, giving me space to get up.

I quickly dress, facing away from Tyson. Why I do, I don't know. We just had sex, and I'm shy about my naked body while I'm dressing. I know it's weird. But it feels wrong.

I'm sorry that I'm doing this to you. I'm sorry that he's doing this to you. I'm your girlfriend, and he's your best friend and roommate. I'm sorry for everything. But I can't live without you, and I can't feel you today. So this is how it has to be.

"Thanks," I mumble, glancing at him one more time before turning towards the door.

"Hey, wait," he says as he catches my wrist, preventing me from taking another step. "You can stay here, if you want."

My brow furrows as I refuse to look at him, glancing towards your bed instead. "I…I can't. I'm sorry. I need to be alone." And I wrench myself from his grip, running to the door and into the hallway as quickly as possible. Then I run all the way back to my room, slamming the door behind me and sitting in my chair, nock-kneed like a broken ragdoll.

Then I cry again. The sun is only just now beginning to peek through the slats in my blinds. Today is going to be a long, hard Type 2. Somehow, I don't feel any better. At all. What if there comes a day when I can't feel you, and nothing I do assuages the hurt?

My last resort. I grab my purse and leave again. Down the hall, down the stairs, down to the parking lot, into my car. Then I drive. Drive down the road until I get there. Pull over at the curve, leaving my car on the wide shoulder and running to the edge of the woods where I built the tiny white cross.

It's inconspicuous, so no one defaces it. I throw myself on the ground before it, wailing as if it were that day again. Getting the phone call from your mother.

"Sam's dead."

I try to stifle my cries, try not to attract any attention.

"Why can't I feel you?" I cry softly, reaching out to rub a small dirt clod from the marker.

There's no answer, of course. It's a Type 2. Even if you wanted to give me a sign, you couldn't. I can't feel you.

This isn't normal.

I curl into a ball again, laying there on the cold dirt until my bones start to ache. I don't want to leave. I don't want to leave you. But I have to. My teeth are chattering, my tears freezing on my cheeks. So I gather up enough strength to get up, say one last goodbye and start to my car.

"Hopefully I'll feel you tomorrow," I say, my voice breaking.

It's only a hope. It's one day to the next. Type 1 or Type 2, it's one endless string of days that I have to make it through. Some are easier than others, but they're all hard. I tell myself I can do this. I can survive. I want to live for both of us, but I can't do that if I can't move on.

And I can't.

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A/N: So here's the background on this. I was lying in bed last night, thinking about what I could possibly write for a challenge on another website that was called the "Happily Never After" challenge, and the only guideline was that the end couldn't be happy. And I was thinking something along the lines of smut, and wondered how that could possibly not end happily. So this is what I came up with. It ended up not even being that graphic, and it went on for a bit longer than I had intended. But I actually really like this. I'm considering turning it into something full-length, because I've already fallen in love with these characters, and I barely know them. Anyway, let me know what you think.