Katiqua1982
Cadet
<span style='font-size:17pt;line-height:100%'>LIES OF LOVE</span>
Authors: Kat and Mel -- aka Katiqua1982 and mel7tea7
Disclaimer: We don’t own Alias; we just write about it.
Rating: PG ??? Who knows! You can be the judge!
Summary: Will, first person POV, missing scene from ‘Rendezvous.’ Funny Angst - take one.
A/N: This was written for the sd-1 August fic challenge. [Challenge elements: missing scene for a Season One episode, use the title of the episode the in your fic, and an injury of some sort.] It was a lot of fun for us to write. We tried to be angsty, but a lot of it just came out as funny, so, its sort of funny angst. Thanks to Linda for beta-ing this for us!
HOPE YOU ENJOY IT!
The sky, why isn’t the sky more engaging? I’m flying back to L.A. and I’m staring out the window, just trying to get lost in the clouds. But I can’t. There is nothing that can hold my attention, and I can’t stop thinking about what I just saw in Paris. I hear a woman calling someone’s name. Why the person doesn’t answer is beyond me, and I’m starting to get annoyed. Just when I am about to get out of my seat and explode at this person, I realize the stewardess is calling me—Patrice Lafont. At least, that is who I am supposed to be, for my cover, so I can get back to L.A. without getting myself killed. I tell her that I don’t want anything to drink. Actually I do, but I just don’t feel like being bothered by a strange French woman when I am trying to understand how the hell I got into this predicament. I think she can see the wheels turning in my head, because she gives me a strange look before she continues to ask the others on the flight what they would like to drink.
I could be dead right now if it hadn’t been for Sydney. Wait, what am I saying? I almost died because of her! Sydney. I hate that name right now. Who is she? I mean, who is she, really? She has lied to me. She has been lying to me for, well, I don’t exactly know how long, but probably longer than I would like to know. I am angry. I feel it welling up inside of me and I’m ready to lash out at anyone who looks at me the wrong way. I am angry because of the lies and angry because of the truth, but more than anything, I am angry because I believed the lies that she told. How could I not have seen this coming?
The flight back to L.A. is a long one, and I hate flying. But not as much as I hate Sydney Bristow. I stare out the widow trying to entertain myself. More than anything I am trying to avoid thinking about the truth and the lies. Maybe this is all just a really bad dream, and any minute now I will wake up. I will wake up and Sydney will still work for a bank that makes her keep the most ridiculous schedule I have ever heard of. I have had some pretty strange dreams so this really isn’t as unreasonable as it might sound. Ok, maybe it is, but its absurdity pales in comparison to what Sydney just told me.
I have to suppress the sarcastic laughter that almost escapes my mouth. Sydney Bristow is a spy. That is the most ridiculous thing that I have ever heard, and I have come across some pretty interesting things working in journalism. I’m used to hearing stories, and I know how to sort out the fact from the fiction. I am usually a pretty good judge of what is real and what isn’t, but this time I just don’t know. I don’t want to believe it. Honestly, the thought of Sydney with a gun scares the hell out of me—but I saw it. I think that’s what throws me off. It makes absolutely no sense, except for the fact that I saw it. Maybe witnessing her go all espionage and kung fu like on me is what scares me so much. I may be almost blind without my glasses, but there is no mistaking that that was Sydney Bristow that I saw in that nightclub in Paris. There’s something, somewhere, yelling at me that she’s for real.
I sit back, analyzing the concept that Sydney could possibly be a spy, while trying to prevent myself from hyperventilating from the absolute shock that has overcome my mind. Sydney is my best friend, and it’s to be expected that I don’t want to believe that she has lied to me. Sydney is not a spy. She can’t be. Or maybe I am just in denial. Who wants to believe that their best friend has been lying to them? Best friend. That is an interesting concept, because in reality I have been ‘friends’ with a complete stranger all this time. I know absolutely nothing about what her life is like and only now am I beginning to see the real her. If I were to be honest with myself, I’m not even sure that I want to know the real her, not if it involves shooting a gun while doing roundhouse kicks from table to table. I admit, her skills were impressive, but that is something I would much rather only see in action movies.
I am so bored. There is plenty that I could be thinking about, enough to keep me busy for the next decade, maybe longer. It is driving me insane and the more I consider the situation, the worse I feel. On the other hand, I realize that Sydney’s news will sit inside of me like a time bomb, and I’ve only got so long to defuse it. It’s not easy. To be honest, I guess I don’t want to know. I think it’d be easier to be conflicted and uncertain than it would to be sure that Sydney has lied to me, always. I’m afraid. I’m afraid that if I explore this, I might uncover a world of pain and regret. A probability I’m not the least bit fond of. Having determined my motivation behind ignoring what I saw, I continue to try to distract myself from thinking of her. I reach for my bag in hopes of finding something that will grasp my attention for at least ten minutes. My hand finds the passport that I have been given for my cover story when suddenly it hits me, and I think I understand why she asked for my sister’s passport.
******
“Meet me on the roof. That's perfect, though. Some guy just totally hung up on me. I got an hour to kill, want to get some lunch? What happened to your face?”
Looking up I notice her bruised face and have to wonder how that happened.
“I need your help. I can't explain this. You've just got to trust me.”
“Of course,” I don’t hesitate to answer her, though the moment the words leave my mouth, I realize that I’m going to have a hard time trusting her on this.
“I need to borrow one of your sister's credit cards with at least a three thousand dollar limit. I'll pay her back. Can you get it?’
“Syd, what is this? You owe somebody some money?”
“There's something else. Do you know where Amy keeps her passport?”
*******
If that wasn’t the strangest request I have ever heard, I don’t know what would be. I was confused at the time, but I wanted to help her out so I just let it slide. Now that I think about it, Sydney doesn’t look a thing like my sister. How did she pass off for Amy in the first place? I mean the hair…huge difference.
Just trust me? Was that supposed to make me feel better? Because it sure as hell didn’t work. How can I trust someone that won’t explain why she needs my sister’s passport and credit card, or even why she has a huge bruise on her face? I don’t know what I can trust from her anymore. I have been lied to and betrayed by someone who I thought was my friend. How many other times she has lied to me?
She always had to leave for the bank at the strangest times, last minute business trips, traveling all over the world, just for a bank. It makes me wonder, where was she really going?
*******
“I got to go to work,” she paused, “I’m sorry.”
I couldn’t believe it. It was Christmas Eve. What bank calls employees in on Christmas Eve?
“Okay, this is ridiculous. Can we have a talk about what you do for a living?” I voiced my incredulity.
She seemed angry, frustrated, though I couldn’t tell who the emotions were directed towards. “I know. There are these bankruptcies…” she trailed off, and I couldn’t help it. This couldn’t be considered as anything other than insane.
“Okay, you know what? It doesn’t even make sense anymore. No one works as hard as you do. It’s not like you’re a brain surgeon, getting a call in the middle of a night to save a life,” I didn’t even pause for breath to continue, “I mean, there are bankruptcies. How much are they paying you to live like this?” When I finally did take a break, I could see Syd, clearly trying to control her emotions.
Maybe I hit a nerve, because she answered me abruptly, “Not enough.”
I was sick of all of it by then. Aware as I was that Sydney didn’t want to work on Christmas Eve any more than we wanted her to, I proposed an obvious solution. “I’m actually going to call them and quit for you right now.”
“Will, I can’t quit my job.”
”Damn it Sydney, why not?” I stood then and walked across to her, to make my point perfectly clear. “Why? Why? Because, like, you just have to be, like, the greatest banker?” With all the time she spent at work, she’d have to be.
“Will, it’s my job, I want to do it well.” She was calm, at least compared to me.
But she wasn’t telling me anything I didn’t already know. Not prepared to drop the argument yet, I plunged further in. “Okay, congratulations, me too. But at what cost? Syd, I think…I think you’re acting like a numpce.” Maybe not the best word choice. But it was true.
Finally showing some real emotion, Sydney almost exploded, “Look, to you, my job might seem pointless and stupid but it’s not. It’s far from pointless, and if you knew what I dealt with everyday, you might even thank me for doing my job so well!”
If that wasn’t a strange statement, I’ve never heard one. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Nothing. I’m going to work. I’ll see you guys.”
**********
I thought she was crazy. Her job never gave her a break; she was always out of town, or being called to work in the middle of the weekend. And I don’t know many people who would go into work on Christmas Eve without chewing their boss out first.
What could be so important that she dropped our happy evening like a hot potato when work called? I mean, I know Sloane is a jerk, but couldn’t he let her have a merry Christmas? Spirit of the season and all that jazz. Apparently not. He had to drag her in, and have her do what? Why would any client be trying to sort out business deals on Christmas Eve? They wouldn’t, I know. But noting that, it leaves me with one realistic possibility, and it is one that I don’t want to be true—Sydney is a spy.
No—I will not let it be true.
Sydney Bristow cannot be a secret agent for the CIA.
Sure, she left town at short notice quite regularly. But she was just helping out the clients and making sure she did her job to the best of her ability. After Christmas, she’d had to disappear with no notice because a client had run into trouble over the break. That’s completely understandable, except that it’s difficult to run into trouble when it’s a holiday and you’re not even in business, which left a sizeable gap in the reason for her disappearance.
I guess I just don’t understand why she has to lie about all this—if it is true. Why the bank cover? Why can’t she just say that she works for the government, but can’t disclose the specifics? Individually, I guess nothing she’s said has set any alarm bells ringing. But there’s been a buzz, something a little weird about each explanation, or lack of. If I look at them one by one, maybe, I could convince myself that she’s kidding, and this is just a really good practical joke. The journalist in me, though, sees the big picture.
It’s the little things that were just kind of strange, like all of the times she ran out of the apartment after getting a ‘wrong number’ phone call. How many people actually get that many ‘wrong number’ calls? Once a month? Twice at the most? I seriously don’t even remember the last time I got one. But Sydney, she gets them all the time, and it’s always someone asking for Joey’s Pizza. There isn’t even a Joey’s Pizza in L.A, at least not that I’ve ever heard of. I bet that it is just some code to go meet for a secret rendezvous for her next ‘trip for the bank’.
She always acted so strange when she got home from her ‘trips,’ like she really missed us, even though she was only gone for a couple of days. But she was distant too; cautious about answering our questions about her latest meeting. I realize now, how carefully she formulated her answers. Why didn’t I notice it then?
*********
Francie walked over to Syd, pancakes at the ready. I was eating the chocolate chips out of the jar, Francie was cooking, and Sydney had just finished pouring herself a drink.
“Oh my God. What happened to your arm?” Francie asked, and I looked up. The arm was heavily bruised, but Syd tried to brush it off.
“Oh. Oh. On the flight back from Seattle, this guy hit me with his carryon, pulling it from the overhead.”
**********
Clearly she had been stalling while she thought up a lie to explain the bruise. I’m trying to prevent my brain from filling with horrific possibilities as to how Sydney had acquired the injury. The thing I have to wonder is, if the suitcase was big and heavy enough to give her that bruise, it had to have been much too big to be a carry on. And given that she hadn’t even been to Seattle, I don’t doubt that it had nothing to do with a careless passenger.
I guess the thing that hurts most, is what I’ve done wrong. There were so many times I could have helped, comforted her, hell, just sat there and let her be honest. I almost managed that once, but I didn’t understand. I couldn’t really help.
**********
I opened the door when she knocked. The tears streaming down her face caused my heart to skip a beat. Sydney’s a tough girl. I haven’t seen her cry, except in the most extreme circumstances.
I tried to give her something, anything. “Hi.” Great Will, just what she needs. “What’s the matter?”
“Is Jenny here?”
“What?” I thank whoever might be listening for the fact that something has gone right, and answer, “Oh. No. Come on in, come in.”
She sat on the couch, and I sat across from her, on the coffee table. She still wasn’t talking, and I was starting to feel a physical pain. I finally break the awkward silence. “What’s wrong?”
That didn’t work. Maybe she didn’t want to open up. I moved to the couch, rubbing her shoulder. “Hey,” I almost whispered, “come here.” She leaned back into me and took my hand.
We ended up lying on the couch, Sydney still resting against me. I decided to try again, in case she wanted to talk. “Can you tell me what’s wrong?”
She finally spoke again, “I just want to stay here for a while, if that’s okay.”
I was amazed that Sydney, usually so vibrant and confident, would be this broken. I wanted to fix it, everything, but there wasn’t much I could do. I tried, “Of course.”
**********
God, how many other times had she been hurt? Times when I couldn’t do anything at all; I couldn’t even hold her as I had that day. I want to cry. I know she’s finally being honest with me. Seeing her obvious worry in Paris just makes me feel worse that I ever doubted her motives. And now I understand that all the lies she kept painfully hidden, were obscured out of her love for her friends. I wish I’d known sooner. I wish she didn’t have to go through the pain by herself. Most of all, I wish she could lead a happy, normal life. The next time I see Sydney, I know what I've got to say.
I was thinking on the way back, what your life's like. What you have to go through. What you have to keep from your friends. How hard that must be. Syd... I don't love you because of what you do, or what you don't do. I just love you.
<span style='font-size:11pt;line-height:100%'>THANKS FOR READING!!
PLEASE REVIEW!!</span>
xoxo
Kat and Mel
Authors: Kat and Mel -- aka Katiqua1982 and mel7tea7
Disclaimer: We don’t own Alias; we just write about it.
Rating: PG ??? Who knows! You can be the judge!
Summary: Will, first person POV, missing scene from ‘Rendezvous.’ Funny Angst - take one.
A/N: This was written for the sd-1 August fic challenge. [Challenge elements: missing scene for a Season One episode, use the title of the episode the in your fic, and an injury of some sort.] It was a lot of fun for us to write. We tried to be angsty, but a lot of it just came out as funny, so, its sort of funny angst. Thanks to Linda for beta-ing this for us!
HOPE YOU ENJOY IT!
The sky, why isn’t the sky more engaging? I’m flying back to L.A. and I’m staring out the window, just trying to get lost in the clouds. But I can’t. There is nothing that can hold my attention, and I can’t stop thinking about what I just saw in Paris. I hear a woman calling someone’s name. Why the person doesn’t answer is beyond me, and I’m starting to get annoyed. Just when I am about to get out of my seat and explode at this person, I realize the stewardess is calling me—Patrice Lafont. At least, that is who I am supposed to be, for my cover, so I can get back to L.A. without getting myself killed. I tell her that I don’t want anything to drink. Actually I do, but I just don’t feel like being bothered by a strange French woman when I am trying to understand how the hell I got into this predicament. I think she can see the wheels turning in my head, because she gives me a strange look before she continues to ask the others on the flight what they would like to drink.
I could be dead right now if it hadn’t been for Sydney. Wait, what am I saying? I almost died because of her! Sydney. I hate that name right now. Who is she? I mean, who is she, really? She has lied to me. She has been lying to me for, well, I don’t exactly know how long, but probably longer than I would like to know. I am angry. I feel it welling up inside of me and I’m ready to lash out at anyone who looks at me the wrong way. I am angry because of the lies and angry because of the truth, but more than anything, I am angry because I believed the lies that she told. How could I not have seen this coming?
The flight back to L.A. is a long one, and I hate flying. But not as much as I hate Sydney Bristow. I stare out the widow trying to entertain myself. More than anything I am trying to avoid thinking about the truth and the lies. Maybe this is all just a really bad dream, and any minute now I will wake up. I will wake up and Sydney will still work for a bank that makes her keep the most ridiculous schedule I have ever heard of. I have had some pretty strange dreams so this really isn’t as unreasonable as it might sound. Ok, maybe it is, but its absurdity pales in comparison to what Sydney just told me.
I have to suppress the sarcastic laughter that almost escapes my mouth. Sydney Bristow is a spy. That is the most ridiculous thing that I have ever heard, and I have come across some pretty interesting things working in journalism. I’m used to hearing stories, and I know how to sort out the fact from the fiction. I am usually a pretty good judge of what is real and what isn’t, but this time I just don’t know. I don’t want to believe it. Honestly, the thought of Sydney with a gun scares the hell out of me—but I saw it. I think that’s what throws me off. It makes absolutely no sense, except for the fact that I saw it. Maybe witnessing her go all espionage and kung fu like on me is what scares me so much. I may be almost blind without my glasses, but there is no mistaking that that was Sydney Bristow that I saw in that nightclub in Paris. There’s something, somewhere, yelling at me that she’s for real.
I sit back, analyzing the concept that Sydney could possibly be a spy, while trying to prevent myself from hyperventilating from the absolute shock that has overcome my mind. Sydney is my best friend, and it’s to be expected that I don’t want to believe that she has lied to me. Sydney is not a spy. She can’t be. Or maybe I am just in denial. Who wants to believe that their best friend has been lying to them? Best friend. That is an interesting concept, because in reality I have been ‘friends’ with a complete stranger all this time. I know absolutely nothing about what her life is like and only now am I beginning to see the real her. If I were to be honest with myself, I’m not even sure that I want to know the real her, not if it involves shooting a gun while doing roundhouse kicks from table to table. I admit, her skills were impressive, but that is something I would much rather only see in action movies.
I am so bored. There is plenty that I could be thinking about, enough to keep me busy for the next decade, maybe longer. It is driving me insane and the more I consider the situation, the worse I feel. On the other hand, I realize that Sydney’s news will sit inside of me like a time bomb, and I’ve only got so long to defuse it. It’s not easy. To be honest, I guess I don’t want to know. I think it’d be easier to be conflicted and uncertain than it would to be sure that Sydney has lied to me, always. I’m afraid. I’m afraid that if I explore this, I might uncover a world of pain and regret. A probability I’m not the least bit fond of. Having determined my motivation behind ignoring what I saw, I continue to try to distract myself from thinking of her. I reach for my bag in hopes of finding something that will grasp my attention for at least ten minutes. My hand finds the passport that I have been given for my cover story when suddenly it hits me, and I think I understand why she asked for my sister’s passport.
******
“Meet me on the roof. That's perfect, though. Some guy just totally hung up on me. I got an hour to kill, want to get some lunch? What happened to your face?”
Looking up I notice her bruised face and have to wonder how that happened.
“I need your help. I can't explain this. You've just got to trust me.”
“Of course,” I don’t hesitate to answer her, though the moment the words leave my mouth, I realize that I’m going to have a hard time trusting her on this.
“I need to borrow one of your sister's credit cards with at least a three thousand dollar limit. I'll pay her back. Can you get it?’
“Syd, what is this? You owe somebody some money?”
“There's something else. Do you know where Amy keeps her passport?”
*******
If that wasn’t the strangest request I have ever heard, I don’t know what would be. I was confused at the time, but I wanted to help her out so I just let it slide. Now that I think about it, Sydney doesn’t look a thing like my sister. How did she pass off for Amy in the first place? I mean the hair…huge difference.
Just trust me? Was that supposed to make me feel better? Because it sure as hell didn’t work. How can I trust someone that won’t explain why she needs my sister’s passport and credit card, or even why she has a huge bruise on her face? I don’t know what I can trust from her anymore. I have been lied to and betrayed by someone who I thought was my friend. How many other times she has lied to me?
She always had to leave for the bank at the strangest times, last minute business trips, traveling all over the world, just for a bank. It makes me wonder, where was she really going?
*******
“I got to go to work,” she paused, “I’m sorry.”
I couldn’t believe it. It was Christmas Eve. What bank calls employees in on Christmas Eve?
“Okay, this is ridiculous. Can we have a talk about what you do for a living?” I voiced my incredulity.
She seemed angry, frustrated, though I couldn’t tell who the emotions were directed towards. “I know. There are these bankruptcies…” she trailed off, and I couldn’t help it. This couldn’t be considered as anything other than insane.
“Okay, you know what? It doesn’t even make sense anymore. No one works as hard as you do. It’s not like you’re a brain surgeon, getting a call in the middle of a night to save a life,” I didn’t even pause for breath to continue, “I mean, there are bankruptcies. How much are they paying you to live like this?” When I finally did take a break, I could see Syd, clearly trying to control her emotions.
Maybe I hit a nerve, because she answered me abruptly, “Not enough.”
I was sick of all of it by then. Aware as I was that Sydney didn’t want to work on Christmas Eve any more than we wanted her to, I proposed an obvious solution. “I’m actually going to call them and quit for you right now.”
“Will, I can’t quit my job.”
”Damn it Sydney, why not?” I stood then and walked across to her, to make my point perfectly clear. “Why? Why? Because, like, you just have to be, like, the greatest banker?” With all the time she spent at work, she’d have to be.
“Will, it’s my job, I want to do it well.” She was calm, at least compared to me.
But she wasn’t telling me anything I didn’t already know. Not prepared to drop the argument yet, I plunged further in. “Okay, congratulations, me too. But at what cost? Syd, I think…I think you’re acting like a numpce.” Maybe not the best word choice. But it was true.
Finally showing some real emotion, Sydney almost exploded, “Look, to you, my job might seem pointless and stupid but it’s not. It’s far from pointless, and if you knew what I dealt with everyday, you might even thank me for doing my job so well!”
If that wasn’t a strange statement, I’ve never heard one. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Nothing. I’m going to work. I’ll see you guys.”
**********
I thought she was crazy. Her job never gave her a break; she was always out of town, or being called to work in the middle of the weekend. And I don’t know many people who would go into work on Christmas Eve without chewing their boss out first.
What could be so important that she dropped our happy evening like a hot potato when work called? I mean, I know Sloane is a jerk, but couldn’t he let her have a merry Christmas? Spirit of the season and all that jazz. Apparently not. He had to drag her in, and have her do what? Why would any client be trying to sort out business deals on Christmas Eve? They wouldn’t, I know. But noting that, it leaves me with one realistic possibility, and it is one that I don’t want to be true—Sydney is a spy.
No—I will not let it be true.
Sydney Bristow cannot be a secret agent for the CIA.
Sure, she left town at short notice quite regularly. But she was just helping out the clients and making sure she did her job to the best of her ability. After Christmas, she’d had to disappear with no notice because a client had run into trouble over the break. That’s completely understandable, except that it’s difficult to run into trouble when it’s a holiday and you’re not even in business, which left a sizeable gap in the reason for her disappearance.
I guess I just don’t understand why she has to lie about all this—if it is true. Why the bank cover? Why can’t she just say that she works for the government, but can’t disclose the specifics? Individually, I guess nothing she’s said has set any alarm bells ringing. But there’s been a buzz, something a little weird about each explanation, or lack of. If I look at them one by one, maybe, I could convince myself that she’s kidding, and this is just a really good practical joke. The journalist in me, though, sees the big picture.
It’s the little things that were just kind of strange, like all of the times she ran out of the apartment after getting a ‘wrong number’ phone call. How many people actually get that many ‘wrong number’ calls? Once a month? Twice at the most? I seriously don’t even remember the last time I got one. But Sydney, she gets them all the time, and it’s always someone asking for Joey’s Pizza. There isn’t even a Joey’s Pizza in L.A, at least not that I’ve ever heard of. I bet that it is just some code to go meet for a secret rendezvous for her next ‘trip for the bank’.
She always acted so strange when she got home from her ‘trips,’ like she really missed us, even though she was only gone for a couple of days. But she was distant too; cautious about answering our questions about her latest meeting. I realize now, how carefully she formulated her answers. Why didn’t I notice it then?
*********
Francie walked over to Syd, pancakes at the ready. I was eating the chocolate chips out of the jar, Francie was cooking, and Sydney had just finished pouring herself a drink.
“Oh my God. What happened to your arm?” Francie asked, and I looked up. The arm was heavily bruised, but Syd tried to brush it off.
“Oh. Oh. On the flight back from Seattle, this guy hit me with his carryon, pulling it from the overhead.”
**********
Clearly she had been stalling while she thought up a lie to explain the bruise. I’m trying to prevent my brain from filling with horrific possibilities as to how Sydney had acquired the injury. The thing I have to wonder is, if the suitcase was big and heavy enough to give her that bruise, it had to have been much too big to be a carry on. And given that she hadn’t even been to Seattle, I don’t doubt that it had nothing to do with a careless passenger.
I guess the thing that hurts most, is what I’ve done wrong. There were so many times I could have helped, comforted her, hell, just sat there and let her be honest. I almost managed that once, but I didn’t understand. I couldn’t really help.
**********
I opened the door when she knocked. The tears streaming down her face caused my heart to skip a beat. Sydney’s a tough girl. I haven’t seen her cry, except in the most extreme circumstances.
I tried to give her something, anything. “Hi.” Great Will, just what she needs. “What’s the matter?”
“Is Jenny here?”
“What?” I thank whoever might be listening for the fact that something has gone right, and answer, “Oh. No. Come on in, come in.”
She sat on the couch, and I sat across from her, on the coffee table. She still wasn’t talking, and I was starting to feel a physical pain. I finally break the awkward silence. “What’s wrong?”
That didn’t work. Maybe she didn’t want to open up. I moved to the couch, rubbing her shoulder. “Hey,” I almost whispered, “come here.” She leaned back into me and took my hand.
We ended up lying on the couch, Sydney still resting against me. I decided to try again, in case she wanted to talk. “Can you tell me what’s wrong?”
She finally spoke again, “I just want to stay here for a while, if that’s okay.”
I was amazed that Sydney, usually so vibrant and confident, would be this broken. I wanted to fix it, everything, but there wasn’t much I could do. I tried, “Of course.”
**********
God, how many other times had she been hurt? Times when I couldn’t do anything at all; I couldn’t even hold her as I had that day. I want to cry. I know she’s finally being honest with me. Seeing her obvious worry in Paris just makes me feel worse that I ever doubted her motives. And now I understand that all the lies she kept painfully hidden, were obscured out of her love for her friends. I wish I’d known sooner. I wish she didn’t have to go through the pain by herself. Most of all, I wish she could lead a happy, normal life. The next time I see Sydney, I know what I've got to say.
I was thinking on the way back, what your life's like. What you have to go through. What you have to keep from your friends. How hard that must be. Syd... I don't love you because of what you do, or what you don't do. I just love you.
<span style='font-size:11pt;line-height:100%'>THANKS FOR READING!!
PLEASE REVIEW!!</span>
xoxo
Kat and Mel
