Title: Dreams

Author: LLE

Email: saturnchild@hotmail.com

Rating: I'll say a PG-13, just to be safe.

Pairing: S/N

Disclaimer: I don't own these people, not now, not ever. I'm not making any money off of this, which sucks, since I could really use some. Don't bother suing, unless you're interested in attaining 8 Harry Potter books (4 in Danish and 4 in English), a second edition copy of "Tropical Storm" (which has been read 10+ times since I got it two weeks ago), about two tons of boring school books and/or a sporadically functioning cellular phone.

Author's Notes: Sorry about the no-see no-post thing I've had going lately, guys. But between graduation and a new job, there hasn't been much time. Add to that the fact that I've recently moved, and only just now have decent internet again, it's been a little hard for me to get anything on the web. With any luck, updates on "Forever", the "First Time" series and maybe even "Winter Wonderland" (if anyone even remembers that *snicker*) are soon to follow.

Dream. Such a fragile word, isn't it?

It's something you expect everyone to do a some point, if not most of the time, and yet, I doubt that anyone has ever assumed that I dream of anything.

I, after all, have everything a human being could need. I'm wealthy, clever and popular. I have a best friend who would probably do anything for me, even though she knows that I'll stab her in the back if I see a need to. My power makes all of my peers fear my wrath.

Except for one...

Amazing. The bane of my existence is also the sun my whole world revolves around.

Not even my Platinum can buy me a clue as to how the Hell that happened. At first, she was lower than dirt. Just another freak from the unpopular crowd. Then, one day, she talked back to me.

I was impressed. The lowest of the low, talking back to me? To Nicole Julian, the reigning Bitch of Kennedy High? From that moment on, she became my most worthy adversary. Her quick one-liner comebacks became vital if I were to stay on my toes, so I made sure to pick a fight with her every single day.

But gradually, something changed. Before I knew it, I needed to hear her voice more than I needed air to breathe. I needed to see the passion in her eyes when we fought, more so than ever before.

So, naturally, I picked more fights with her. I even went as far as to ask B about her, so my lines would slash closer to her heart. In order to see her passion more fiercely, I had to get her more angry. And to do that, I needed to hurt her.

I did, and I still do. The cracks about her father are particularly effective. One of them actually made her cry. I didn't see it myself, but I followed her into the Novak, unseen of course, and her her sobbing quietly in one of the stalls.

That night was the first time I cried since I scraped my knee when I was five years old.

So you see, I don't have everything. I might have money and everything that money can buy, but in the end, that's not what matters. The only thing that really counts, and the only thing that I don't have, is love.

I feel it, and I crave it like my mother does bourbon, but I continue to diminish my chances at actually being loved, simply because I don't know what else to do.

I do dream.

I dream of Sam McPherson, and with her, a world where I hadn't made her curse my very existence.

That dream, unfortunately, is all I can ever have.