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Reply to Michelle K. or visit her websitePosted to the RoswellSlash mailing list September 20, 2002
Title: Moments (1/1)
Author: Michelle K. (CageyGrl@yahoo.com)
Archive: Yes to RSA. Others ask.
Spoilers: 'Ch-Ch-Changes' and 'Panacea.'
Summary: "She misses Maria."
Disclaimer: 'Roswell' is not mine. Don't sue.
She misses Maria.
It's a normal emotion, she supposes. A friend goes away, you're supposed to miss him or her. It doesn't have to be a big, horrible thing. It doesn't have to feel like there's a hole inside you that can't be filled.
In fact, it shouldn't.
But that's exactly how Isabel feels.
She's not sure why; she's a friend, not a lover. She's not sure how Maria was suddenly elevated from a hanger-on of their precious inner circle to someone she couldn't live without.
'I still have Jesse,' she tells herself, and she wonders why that doesn't comfort her. Jesse is her husband; the man she loves; the person she's supposed to care about most.
But she'd trade Jesse in a minute to have Maria waltz back into Roswell.
She misses her, and she misses those little moments that she stole for herself.
Those moments when they'd be talking (mostly about Michael) and Maria's hand would casually brush against her arm.
Those moments when Maria looked happy and Isabel could pretend the joy was for her.
Those moments when she'd watch her body in motion, see her legs move, notice when her skirt would ride up on her thigh.
Those moments when she could perfectly picture what it would be like to have her fingers glide against her skin.
Those moments when she could imagine Maria screaming her name in passion, whispering her name in love.
And, inbetween all those moments, the tinier slivers of time when she could convince herself that those thoughts weren't wrong.
But, now, all those moments are gone. She can't pretend about anything. She can't pretend that the thoughts meant nothing; she can't pretend that they'll go away.
She can't pretend that Maria will ever be hers.
And, most of all, she can't pretend that Jesse is a good substitute.
But there are no options. She can't leave her life and latch onto Maria's; she doesn't have a reason to want her. She can't live this life and continue to feel hollow; she's spent enough years feeling nothing.
She wonders when she'll see Maria again. Maybe it'll be on the cover of a magazine or a CD; maybe it'll be on TV. Maybe it'll only be in her dreams, when she can let all her defenses wash away.
But, she wonders, when she sees her again - sees her as an image instead of a person - if it will be as powerful as all the times she let her eyes linger on her while only a few inches separated them. She wonders if she'll be able to sustain herself on a few music videos, a few strains of her honey voice wafting to her ears.
She wonders, and she doesn't want to wonder anymore.
She misses her, and she doesn't want to miss her anymore.
She wants her to come back, come back to where she can still have a little piece of her. Even if she'll never know, even if she can never tell her. Even if it's nothing but a few seconds of the week, she needs her.
She needs those stolen moments. She needs to be alive, if only in her reveries.
She wonders if she'll ever have those moments again. She wonders how long she could exist without them.
She thinks it won't be very long at all.
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