Words Said:
Still
by Mace

As I drive down the freeway just over the speed limit, I can’t help but worry. He could have a girl friend. He might not love me. He could be disappointed, think I’m needy. His opinion of me matters more than anyone else’s. It’s how I survived high school, the stares, the snickers, the rumors. I knew he thought I was a good person, that what and who I was mattered. Even Angelus thought that, or he wouldn’t have gone after me.

I look terrible right now, not even remotely awe-inspiring. I’m wearing a pair of black sweat pants, a white halter top, and some ratty, old slaying shoes. Most of my make up has worn off. I look like I left in a hurry. He’s seen me looking worse, but it still bothers me. I grew in L.A. I know about all of the beautiful people, the rich people, and even the kind people. Did he find someone prettier, older, younger, someone who needs him and loves him more than me?

I know where he lives. He sent me his address on a small piece of white paper in a small white envelope in case I ever needed his help. That’s how I knew where to send Oz with the Ring of Amara. Even if I didn’t know, I could sense and feel him out.

I turn on the radio out of habit, but I don’t hear it. My eyes are focused on the empty stretch of highway, my mind on what I’m going to say. I’ll tell him how I always knew he was never Angelus, how I survived because I knew he loved me, and I’ll thank him for it. I’ll tell him everything I did in Los Angeles and how guilty I felt about send him, completely without fault, to Hell. I’m going to explain Scott and why I dated him, how I wished he was Angel.

I’ll tell him about Parker. Will it hurt him? Will he hate me for being unfaithful? Will he be able to see it in my eyes? Will he know that I pretended Parker was Angel even though there was no comparison? That I had to bite my lip from saying Angel’s name? I knew that Parker was done with me when I woke up. The feeling was all wrong. Angel, if he’d had the choice, would have stayed. I compare every guy I see or meet to Angel. It’s not fair to them. They’ll never measure up.

Then, I tell him how I finally understand what he said. I’ll tell him that I thought he wanted to move on. I’ll tell him I though he didn’t love me like I loved him, that he wanted someone older, more like him. He’s so quiet and calm, and I can be so jumpy. He’s dark, and I’m light. I always thought we were perfect for each other. And if I’m wrong, well, I know Angel would never rub it in. I can go back to Sunnydale. This is it. My cards are all gonna be on the table.

It seems like no time before I’m in Los Angeles parked in front of his building. There’s a big, black, expensive car parked in front and another, smaller red one. The black one is Angel’s. I don’t know about the red one. The windows in top floor are all open, and lights are on. I glance at the dash clock which reads three-after-one and turn off the engine. The clock fades off, and everything is silent. I walk across the street and onto the sidewalk in front of Angel’s building. Taking a deep breath, I open the front door and go in.

Angel’s talking to some pretty woman with blonde hair.

"Yeah, I look around and see what I can find, Angel," she says.

Angel’s eyes meet hers, and he smiles gratefully. He doesn’t see me.

"Thanks, Kate," he replies.

She turns to leave with a smile, and she sees me. She smiles again at me, pitying me. I think she thinks I’m one of those girls Angel helps, the ones that get beat up by their boy friends or are stalked. She leaves, and I walk in. Now, I know he knows I’m there.

"Buffy," he says.

That one word is filled with so much emotion and anguish I can’t help but feel guilty for causing it. His eyes move from my eyes to the floor and back up, making sure that I’m okay. I know he can see the pain I’m in. I know it.

"I thought you were coming," he continues, "but I wasn’t sure."

He takes a few halting steps forward until he’s just a few feet [about a meter or so] in front of me. I open my mouth to let everything come pouring out, the anguish, the guilt, the loneliness. I get ready to tell him the entire speech that I wrote on my way to Los Angeles. I hope I right. God, let me be right. I wet my lips, but something’s wrong. It doesn’t work the way I planned.

"Can you . . . Do you still love me?" I ask.

<< So much for my speech, >> I think, slightly disgusted at myself.

His entire body moves. His eyes look at me differently. His mouth falls open slightly, and he stares. I can tell he doesn’t want to answer, wishes the words had never left my mouth. The blonde woman must be his girl friend. She’s older than me. His eyes search my face, looking *at* something that I don’t think I knew was there.

"Do you still love me?" I repeat, unable to accept what I already suspect is true.

I feel so stupid.

I feel like I’m going to fall over dead where I stand.

THE END

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