Summary: "Replace this dull life, with you."

Warning: Fem slash. Don't like it, don't read it. There might possibly be some mature scenes a lot later on. Possibly. So just putting that out there too.

Author's Notes: Alright guys. It is FINALLY here, the sequel to 'Shakespeare Wrote!' Who's excited? Lol. I am :) Sorry it took so long for this to come out. I was kinda dealing with stuff that, let's just say, didn't put me in a romantic mood at all. XD To other Liley authors whose fic's I've been neglecting to review- I apologize, seriously. It makes me feel guilty. XD But I've been taking a Liley break. Hopefully, posting this prologue will get me back in the swing of things :)

A huge thanks to all of you that messaged me about a sequel and the praise that I'm still getting for 'Shakespeare Wrote' seriously makes my day whenever I get it :)

So, this fic is for all you guys who wanted a sequel. That's correct people, it is for you, cause I love you guys that much. Lol. I know it starts off depressing, but unlike 'SW' it will get better. Promise :)

Disclaimer: I in no way whatsoever own Hannah Montana. Nor do I own the title of the fic. It belongs to the band Hawthorne Heights.

Screenwriting an Apology

Prologue

Lilly

Often, I pictured what my heart could possibly look like now a days.

I'm still alive, so it must be beating. But it's swollen. So it thumps out a slow, agonizing rhythm.

There aren't many, tiny punctures in it. Instead, there's a huge, gaping hole right smack dab in the middle.

When I feel especially morbid, I picture the blood oozing from the open wound, blossoming outward, staining my clothes.

Sometimes I feel poetic, and I picture the heart shattering into a million tiny pieces.

Usually though, I tend to lean towards the macabre.

Every now and then I'll think a sword had pierced right through it. But never really a bullet. For some reason, it's always a shiny, silver rapier (probably my poetic tendencies again).

I picture all these things happening to my heart. I give the permanent ache a physical existence. I make it real in my head- to keep me from going insane, mostly.

Because I know I wasn't shot. I wasn't gutted through with any sort weapon. A magical button wasn't pressed, allowing it to burst apart. No seams were undone, revealing the insides of it.

Nope.

I was healthy. I breathed. I lived.

But it hurt just as it might if I really was dying.

Everyday, when I laid down to sleep, and every morning when I woke up again.

I was living only in the technical sense of the word.

--

Miley

Every day, I had a recurring dream.

It started as I woke up next to a beautiful man of wax, with a square jaw and brown eyes. Then I went to rouse two little children- mine, if you can image that- for school. They moaned, and groaned about how they wanted to stay sleeping. My dream self would silently agree with them. After they were all looked after, I tended to myself. I dressed professionally, always. My husband would gaze at me through half open eyes, grinning goofily at the fact that I looked so put together.

I'd make lunch for my kids. They would kiss me goodbye and I watched them get on their bus. Sometimes I wished I could have gone with them.

In his bathrobe, my husband would make me coffee while I looked over papers for my work that day. He'd kiss me goodbye as I walked out the door.

I worked. I worked many hours. Trying to be a mediator for a divorcing couple wasn't as easy as you'd think, not in this dream.

Around noon, I'd get a call from my husband, letting me know how his own case was going. He was a defense attorney.

I'd get home around eight. My kids were there by then, just finishing their homework. My daughter would beg for me to watch her dance routine. Her brother would hang around his dad, watching him as he ate or turned on the local news.

I would tuck my kids in. They always told me they loved me.

I would spend time with my husband, going over practical things that needed to be done. And every night, as I drifted off to sleep, I acknowledged the fact that I wasn't dreaming. That even though it felt unreal, I was alive, despite the fact that often, I wished I wasn't. Because even though I had children to live for, sometimes the pain that would eat away at me at night was too much.

Whether I liked it or not, this was the life I had chosen.

Comments? Questions? Concerns? lol. Leave your thoughts.