I hate this passionless life I've begun to lead. I don't know when it started exactly, but it feels like forever since a smile reached my eyes or all the death and destruction on television saddened me. Every morning, I get ready for school and then sit on the end of my bed and stare out the window. I watch the people muddle through their lives. I don't consider where they are going or what they are actually trying to accomplish because I find I don't care.

When it's time for me to go to school, I crunch down the snow-laden sidewalks. Every step I take sounds like the snow is cracking its knuckles at me, I being the one who dared to break its white purity. I don't care about that either. Not that most people think about the feelings of inanimate things, but I generally do seeing as food is a big part of my life. That reminds me, I forgot to eat breakfast.

My high school is a large, dirty, red brick building with shaded windows. The snow that flurries down around it makes it look even gloomier than usual. Every time I walk up those steps, I can't help but think about how many people have wasted so many years of their lives in this place. This domicile of nothingness. My fellow students swarm up the steps to escape the cold, wintry air, and into the prison of a place without a thought to why. They just do. We just attend school. Why? I don't know. Apparently it's the law.

I linger outside until the bell signaling first period rings. I like to stand out in extreme weather. Well, extreme for Seattle. It's below freezing outside and the snow smacking me in the face isn't helping me maintain body heat. But I don't care. Being in the center of the storm is helping me feel more alive for a little while.

The late bell chimes and I finally head inside. The linoleum floor squeaks from people dragging their wet shoes across it. The overhead lights feel especially bright today and in my eyes. Why do school always have lights on when its daytime? The stairs are made of a thick rubber covered in small bumps to keep people from slipping. Every time I look at them I can't help but picture some poor girl or boy running late for class and SLAM! They go face down on the drenched linoleum, backpack flying away. In my current state of mind, would I help them up? Would I stop and crease my expression into concern? Or would I laugh? I used to hate people that laughed when others got hurt. But now… would I feel anything at all?

My first class of the day is Algebra 2 with Mrs. Bailey. It's on the second floor and off to the left. I trace the path without thinking about it. Why does everything in life become routine, become commonplace? My teacher is tall, thin, and lacks every curve normally associated with women. Her hair is dark and cut short, her eyes are small and brown. Back in September, when the school year had started and I first met her, I thought she was gay. It was just an observation, not an accusation. About a week before Thanksgiving she announced that she and her husband were expecting their second child. I felt like a douche at the time, but I don't really feel anything anymore so it doesn't matter.

She smiles at me when I enter like she always does. "Good morning."

I nod my head in response. I'm finding that words are necessary less and less.

I sit in the back by the window because I'm one of the few Mrs. Bailey trusts to sit that far back and still pay attention. I drop my bag next to the desk and sit. The snow is still falling ever thicker. I went to church with a friend once and her priest told me rain was God's tears. So what does that make snow?

Since I sit in the last row, only two people are next to me. The boy directly in front of me is named Ryan and he has brown hair. I never really see his face, so I probably couldn't pick him out of a lineup. But he smells good and he wears nice clothes, so I don't mind having him so close. The boy to my right is ADHD in human form. His hair is bright red and his face is covered in freckles. Every day he brings in new toys to fidget with during class. Mrs. Bailey doesn't stop him because it's the only thing keeping him quiet while she teaches. Every other day he flashes his blue eyes my way and asks if I'd like to go out with him sometime. Every day I say no. I don't remember his name. It doesn't feel important enough to remember.

I wonder how long I lived based entirely on my feelings and ignoring the facts. Right now, all I can do is look around and observe what is. Not what I think is there or happening, but what is actually happening, good or bad. I open my notebook and scribble down what Mrs. Bailey tells us to remember for the next test, but I'm not really paying attention. I haven't in a long time. School is one of those things I feel only needs one ear. I feel? Those probably aren't the right words for it. Its one of those things I use only one ear for. No feelings involved.

Right before the bell rings to end class, ADHD boy nudges me. "Hey, hey."

"What?"

"How about you and me have dinner and then go to a movie Friday night?" He grins in what he probably thinks is a charming way. I just stare.

"No, thanks."

The bell goes and I grab my bag to head out. My locker is on the first floor, so its back down the rubber steps and back through my imagination and its injury driven thought bubbles. My locker is filled with pictures from a time that I don't really remember anymore. Pictures of my friends and all of us smiling during the good times we've shared. I shove my Algebra book into my locker and close the door on my memories. They don't seem to mean as much to me as they used to.

Art is my second period this semester. I think the title of the class is something more specific like Painting or Drawing or something like that, but Mr. Donahue covers everything, so I don't really care. Not that I would care anyway. Mr. Donahue is my favorite teacher, if I cared to put them in places, and I don't. He's forty-ish and going bald. I like his optimistic attitude and his desire to capture reality on canvas. It's interesting.

Last week we started the sketches for our project. This month's project is called 'Most Desperately' We're supposed to figure out what we want most, need most, or live for in this world and sketch it, then paint it. That's probably the reason for all my ponderings. I can't figure out what I desire the most. I want to say for my dad to come back, but I can't. I know that isn't it. So I sit on my stool and doodle on my otherwise blank paper. I'm not a very good artist. Nobody at my table can figure out the pictures I scribble in the margins. I can't either.

I sit with two other girls and a boy in this class. I honestly don't know any of their names and their faces are a blur to me. I start to feel like going back to sleep around this time, even though its only about 8:30 in the morning or something like that and I just got up at seven.

The bell for third period rings and breaks me out of my sleepy glaze. Third period is English and one of my better classes of the day. Not because of Mrs. Ferguson, but because my best friend is in that class. She seems to be the only one who breaks this lack I seem to suffer through most of the time. But then I get around her and I feel and I need and I want to be more. Be more of what? I don't know.

After a quick trip to my locker, I plop down in my seat next to her. She's asleep in her seat; her head resting on her hands, her breathing even, as if she had been there for the last couple hours instead of mere minutes. She peaks an eye open at me and grins.

"Hey." She says, stretching.

"Hey."

"Man, I so don't want to be here today. Can you imagine the incredible sledding experience we could be having if we weren't here?" She rambles. "I mean, Seattle hardly ever get very much snow and they're going to hold us in this place while the world outside turns white and wonderful. What happened to the better days when we'd get school off for half an inch on the ground?"

I shrug. "Gone."

"Gee, way to be a cynic." She goes to continue her rant, but Mrs. Ferguson walks in and tells her to stop talking.

English is boring. It isn't even worth observing. So I didn't. I let my eyes squint and studied my best friend's profile. She's so pretty.

Fourth period Spanish. I'm not big on foreign languages, but I'm required to take a couple of years. This is my second. I think I'll drop it next year. My guy friend Freddie is in this class. Notice I said guy friend. Not boyfriend. Guy friend. Freddie being my boyfriend kind of creeps me out so don't think like that.

He's always excited about something, it seems. Every time I see him, he's on the balls of his feet, bouncing up and down and babbling. Today is no different. "Enrique brought food!"

Our teacher has us call him by his first name. He thinks it ups his cool factor and makes him popular with the students. I think it's awkward. "Cool." I mutter in reply to Freddie.

"You aren't excited?" He demands, giving me a look like I'm ridiculously weird for not being excited.

I shrug.

I think that's what my life has been reduced to: nothing but a shrug. The shrug of the indifferent. Why must I feel like this now? In the middle of my sophomore year of high school, shouldn't I be feeling something? Anything? Where is that famed teen angst or the drama normally associated with my age group? Am I supposed to be the one creating it? Hell, I don't know. Life doesn't come with an instruction manual.

Enrique starts class the same way every day: he lets out a stream of Spanish that none of us understand and then laughs. I think these streams are actually jokes, but that doesn't make me understand him any better. Or maybe he just laughs at the expressions of confusion on everyone's faces. That's the only memorable part of Spanish.

After forth period is lunch. I'm actually not a big fan of the lunchtime thing. I don't like the rush of people fighting to get the tasty, soft cookies or the freshest batch of fries. So I don't take part in at all. I slip into the courtyard and watch my hair get covered in the flakes drifting down from the grey sky. It feels beautiful to me. And yes, I mean feels. She has this effect on me, that best friend I was talking about. She makes me see some beauty in my days.

If she makes me see beauty, than why aren't I eating lunch with her? The answer to that is plain and simple: I can't. I can't eat with her because she'll expect me to participate actively in conversation and show expression in my face. But I can't. I can't give her that and I really don't want to disappoint her. She would be disappointed too. When we were younger, she always told me that I'm the one who saved her from herself. How could I have done that for her and be like this? I couldn't. So she can't know about my lack of… well, everything.

I'm not eating anything for lunch even though I skipped breakfast. Its not that I'm anorexic or somehow opposed to eating, I'm just not hungry. I don't know why. Normally I'm the one going back for seconds and thirds. But lately, I can barely bring myself to have the first course. Is eating something for people with passion? There's no way my lack of is filling my stomach instead of solids. I'll have to eat dinner tonight. My pants are feeling looser and I'm already skinny.

Fifth period is Biology with Mrs. Johnson. I trudge back upstairs to her classroom, but its more my mood than a dislike for her class. Mrs. Johnson is over six foot tall and bounces at the head of the class while she teaches. I'd never met someone who got so enthused about meiosis before I took her class.

Mrs. Fisher's World History, my sixth period, is right down the hall from Biology, which makes for an easy transfer. I've been a good student my whole life, but for some reason, I've fallen asleep every day this semester in her class. I just can't bring myself to stay awake to hear about who used the Silk Road and why. Not that its boring to me, I actually find history interesting. Then again, I used to find human behavior interesting in general, so that's probably the stem. Anyhow, I'm not really sure how this class goes because I take my seat and crash.

As I fight my way home through the snow, I honestly can't believe how long a school day is. I mean, first period starts at 7:25 in the morning and here I am finally on my way home at half past 2! I want to feel angered by this, but I can't. The inclination just isn't there.

I arrive home cold and wet and tired. School is so tiring. There on the couch, though, is my best friend. She's sprawled across the cushions, holding a bowl of popcorn.

"How did you beat me here?" I question.

"Ditched after fifth." She answers automatically, eyes staring deep into the television. "I feel like you and I need to talk."

"Yeah?" I mumble, dropping my back and shedding my outer layers.

"Yeah. Well, not really talk, but more like this."

Before I can respond or jump out of the way, she leaps on all fours off the couch and tackles me to the ground. She's laughing her ass off as she pins my limbs, but I'm not as amused. I wish I was, but I'm not.

"Come on, Carly. You know that was funny." She chuckles, leaning down close to me.

I shrug. "I think I broke my spine."

"Oh, come on. I don't weigh that much." She sits back onto her haunches so I can lift myself up to face her.

I look around. "Sam, who let you in?"

She grins as she acknowledges the lack of anyone else present. "Spencer."

"I don't see Spencer anywhere."

"He… left. After he let me in."

"Right."

Her smile falters and she stares deeply into my eyes. "We really do need to talk, Carly."

"About?" I encourage.

Sam tilts her head to the side to study me. "Are you feeling okay?"

"Fine." I nod.

"Good. I don't want you to feel sick when I tell you this." She gives me a half smile. "Hopefully you won't feel sick afterwards either."

"Oh god. You didn't do something to Freddie, did you?" I used an expression of horror, but I didn't feel it. So what?

She shakes her head, but I don't feel relief. I didn't need to. "This has nothing to do with that dork."

"Than what is it?"

She's still sitting on me and she shifts uncomfortably. "Carly, I… I'm in love with you."

We stare at each other for several minutes.

"What?" I finally say.

I feel something. I know I do. Its there, whatever it is. But I can't figure it out. I don't know what the tightening in my gut means. I don't know what this is.

"I'm in love with you." She repeats.

"I-I don't believe you." I tell her, my voice jumping a little. Doesn't that break mean I feel something? Yes. There is something. Fear? Happiness? Anger? Confusion? I don't know. But it's something. And something's better than nothing.

"What? How can you say that? I'm in love with you. I really am." She bobs her head.

"Prove it."

And she does. After a glance around my brother's loft, she leans forward and presses her lips to mine. It's slow and easy and more like a friend kiss than anything else. She pulls back after a second and we stare at each other. It didn't feel weird or anything, but we've never kissed before.

This time, I initiate because I know I'm feeling something and I want to pull it out more. My hand curls around the back of her head and I drag her lips back to mine.

A passion, a kind I haven't felt in so long, comes over me. My bones feel like they are slipping out of their joints and my muscles shake with energy and anticipation. My head buzzes not with observations, but with sensations.

This kiss feels less friendly and more intimate. At first, our lips just push against each other, but I deepen it. I drag down her chin and slip my tongue in her mouth. Her taste sends shockwaves through my system and I need more. I caress her tongue with my own and thrust my hands deeper into her golden locks. She tastes like chocolate milk and cantaloupe, but it seems to me that that is really the perfect combination for a kiss.

This time when we separate, we both climb to our feet and take several steps away from each other. She licks her lips repeatedly and I would swear that she was shaking. She grabs her coat from the rack by the door and turns back to look at me.

"I got to go home." She states and I nod. "I'll see ya tomorrow."

She's out the door and I'm following after her to peak out the peephole. Sam has paused outside the door and appears to be talking to Freddie. I press my ear to the door to try to catch a bit of the conversation.

"… Work?" Freddie was saying in a voice an octave deeper than his natural one.

"I guess so." Sam responds in her melodic tone.

"What did she say when you told her you were in love with her?" Freddie questions.

"She said she didn't believe me." Sam's voice.

Freddie asks, "Did she have a reaction besides that?"

"No."

"Damn, I thought that would be enough to shock her back into being the old Carly."

"Apparently not."

"Well, I guess we'll just have to try something else."

"Guess so."

"Good try though, Sam. I thought for sure you confessing your love for her would be the thing to do it."

"Me too."

"Are you sure she didn't have a response?"

"Yeah, I'm sure."

I lean against the door and clutch my heart. Up to this point, I had been so sure I wasn't experiencing any emotions. But in order for me to feel this broken on the inside, I had to have been.