Title: From Across The Room
Part 11: The Countdown Begins
Rating: PG-13
Author: Alsepang
E-mail: alsepang@hotmail.com
Disclaimer: I hearby swear upon all that is sacred
to me that I do not own Bishoujo Senshi Sailor Moon.
I have no intention of using BSSM for profit motives.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

DECEMBER 20

       I saw him from across the room.

       It had been a cold winter's day, and the 
weather was as blank and icy as I felt within, 
the cold wind cutting across my cheeks like 
sharp blades of ice. Odd it is how much colder
the world can be if you love someone who can 
never love you in return. It hadn't been a mere 
crush, or a simple infatuation; it was an emotion 
transcending all that, because through all the 
pain, I could never hate him. It was love, love 
as I had never in all my twenty years felt for 
anyone, and the depths of my emotions stunned 
and frightened me. It was a love so deep that 
it hurt. I would have done anything for him, 
if called to do so.

       He never came again. I took to working 
feverishly and getting involved in more activities 
so that I was completely exhausted when my day was 
over. That way, I could just fall asleep, too tired 
to brood. It helped that he was not from my college
and I did not have to face the torture of seeing him 
day after day. But the nights were the worst, when I 
was alone in my bed-- thank God for Molly, for the 
comforting presence of another in the same room. 

    The story rang through the varsity halls, 
through e-mails and gossip sessions. *Everyone* 
appeared to know about him and I had to put up
with questions, teasing and jealous barbs from
girls who thought that Darien was in love with me. 
I was declared absolutely and unbelievably insane
for pushing him away. Strangers I didn't even know
(and some of whom I'd never even seen before) made
a point of stopping me in the halls to tell me what
they thought. The girls who stopped me to say that 
they couldn't see why Darien would fall for me hurt
me most of all, but the charade had to go on, so
I merely agreed pleasantly with them, pointing out
that I didn't see why Darien would ever fall for 
them either. He was, I informed them almost smilingly,
far too good for the likes of them. I hated college
intensely for a while. 

     Even Molly had decided to add her two cents' 
worth. 

     "I don't understand! He's so sweet!" she 
wailed. "He came all the way down just to look 
for you! Can you imagine that? He's gorgeous 
and charming and smart and sexy to boot! Now I
understand how you could fall so hard for him!
How could you give him up? He's a good man and
he loves you; he said so! Do you know how hard
it must have been for him to say that?"

     I lifted my head and glared at her, 
tightening my lips. Didn't they understand?
*He* *was* *never* *mine*. Did they expect 
me to believe him when he said 'I love you'?
He had come down because he had read the story
and because he had wanted to find me-- find 
that girl. I understood that. What I didn't 
understand was how he could just pop up and 
expect me to fall into his arms and profess 
undying love et cetera. And why did everyone 
else think the same way? How can you believe 
someone who doesn't even know the first thing
about you, the real you, and has never wanted 
to know you? How can you believe someone who 
declares a so-called love based on dreams?    


    "Give it up," I advised her coldly. "You 
people have no idea what this is about. He 
fell in love with his imagination of what I 
would be like. He didn't love me, the real me. 
My voice cracked, dying down to a whisper. "I'm 
not for him, he's not for me..." It was the same
old story, the same old tale, the same old tune 
playing over and over again...

    There was a short silence. Then--

      "Yet he sends you roses and gifts every 
week, and letters as well." Molly sighed. 
"And you send them all back, but you keep 
his letters. Why, Serena? Do you ever read 
them?"

       I swallowed. I hadn't dared to read 
them-- not at first, but curiosity had won 
out in the end.

       He wrote about himself, Molly. 

       He wrote about the few friends he 
had-- the few friends he had allowed himself
to have. He wrote about his life. He told me 
his dreams, his hopes, his wishes, his 
expectations...and more. With every letter 
I learned more about the man I loved-- and 
I grew to love him even better. 

       I wrote back. I wrote replies that I 
dared not keep in my laptop for fear that 
they would end up in print again. I wrote 
them on paper and kept them where an inquisitive 
friend would not think to look. I wrote replies
he was never going to receive, because I was
never going to send them.

       Molly scowled. "You're a coward, Serena. 
You don't dare to tell him that you feel the 
same way he does. Can't you see that he's 
hurting, too? You're being selfish!"

    I flared up, throwing aside the papers 
and pen, and stood up. "Do you call it 
selfish to tell someone the truth he's too 
blind to see? You've all been blinded by 
the stupid romantic eyepieces that you 
wear! I was there, with him, *all* *summer*, 
and he never took any notice of me! He was 
looking for a girl whose qualities I don't 
own! The only one who's hurting, Molly, is 
*me*." I was sobbing openly now.  "*I* love
him, but he doesn't love me! He comes and says 
he does, but it's all wrong! All wrong, because
it isn't the real me he loves, or thinks he 
loves..." 

     I wept. I could hear Molly stammering 
something and felt her try to hug me somewhat 
awkwardly, because my head was hidden by the
crook of my arm and I was more or less hanging 
over one side of the armchair. Nothing seemed to 
matter. All the pain and pent-up misery I had 
been keeping hidden was rushing out.

    And I still loved him. On this cold day, I 
happened to be in the next city with my four 
best friends, celebrating the end of the 
examinations and looking forward to the Christmas 
break. We were laughing and talking and by chance, 
we strolled past the Crown Café. Someone expressed
hunger and we trooped in to have refreshments. The 
café was just as I had remembered, but there were
festive Christmas decorations, and holly, mistletoe
and wreaths of tinsel hung everywhere. In one corner
stood a fir tree, all decked up with gold and silver 
ornaments and pretend gifts. Andrew was nowhere to be
seen. We slid in, all five of us, earmuffs, scarves 
and all, chattering.

     Then I happened to turn my head slightly.

     He was seated across the room in a small 
booth, head buried in his arms, slumped over 
the table, an empty mug in front of him. I 
drank in the sight of him, storing up the 
image of raven-black locks and the little I 
could see of him. 

    "What's wrong?" asked someone-- Lita, I 
think.

     I turned back. "Nothing."

     He never lifted his head once and I 
watched him hungrily, my heart swelling 
with love and tenderness, shot through 
with stark pain, as I rested my eyes on 
him. I don't know if the others noticed 
and I didn't care. All that mattered was 
that I was able to see him. It wasn't until 
we were well on our way out that I had 
an idea and asked my friends to go on 
first without me, promising to catch up 
with them at a point further down the 
next street.

     I waited until they were out of sight. 
Then I sprinted back the way we had come, 
back to a florist's shop we had passed. 
There I bought a rose in full bloom, the 
most beautiful red rose I could find, its
deep wine-coloured petals soft and velvety.
There was a small white card that came with 
it and I stared at it for a long moment. 
Then, swiftly, I sketched a rose and inked
it in red and green pens I borrowed from the
deeply interested florist, who watched me 
closely. I then wrote a few words: 'For 
you. Please take care of yourself-- rest 
well'. I omitted the bunny caricature this 
time and ignored the little voice at the 
back of my mind that hinted that I was 
probably going to have to buy him a Christmas 
gift as well.

     "Is that for your boyfriend?" asked the 
florist curiously.

    I smiled a little at her friendly interest, 
but shrugged my shoulders and said nothing. It 
hurt rather badly.

    "Ah." The florist nodded wisely. "I can 
see that he means more than anyone else to 
you. You must love him very deeply indeed." 

    I returned quickly to the café.

    He was still spread liberally across the 
table. I stood for a moment, looking down at 
him wistfully. He must have been exhausted. 
I silently laid the rose and card where he 
would find them when he awoke. I wanted to 
touch him, but feared to alert him to my
presence, which was the last thing I wanted. 
Involuntarily, I reached out and let my 
hand rest lightly on his dark head, feeling 
the silky softness of his hair underneath my
fingers. Tears blurred my vision and I bit
down on my lower lip. I wished that I had
the right to touch him like that. I withdrew
my hand.

    "I love you," I said under my breath. 
"I..." I stopped and clenched my fists, 
struggling to prevent the words from 
coming out, but they spilled from my 
lips nevertheless, in a whisper that would 
never reach his ears. 

    "I'll always love you."

(c) 2001 Copyright original storyline by 
Alsepang

Did you know?

In America, Japanese-Americans were interned in
camps. The same thing happened in the United 
Kingdom, where people belonging to nations which
were on the opposite side were also interned. You
may have read of it in storybooks or studied it 
in history. Anyone who was of enemy nationality, so to
speak, even if they were wholly innocent, and condemned
the actions of the governments of the countries
they immigrated from, was locked up.

Perfectly innocent people who deplored the 
actions of Germany and Japan, for example, 
were taken away to such camps because they
were either German or Japanese. These included
schoolchildren. 

Now these were orders approved by the American
President himself.

The internees suffered. It wasn't just the trauma,
which was undoubtedly terrible, but the conditions
at the camps were never very good.

I suggest that you go to askjeeves.com and type
in 'Japanese-Americans in WWII'. That is what I
did. I cannot write everything down, but I can
recommend. I would also like to say here that
Lady Altagracia, who e-mailed me, said that this
was something not well-covered in American textbooks.
For myself, I learnt a little about it, but I'm
not American. I'm South-east Asian and I live here,
in SE Asia.

Now ask yourself: what would you have done in 
the Allied governments' places?