AN: This is basically Max II (known as Maya in ANGEL) coming clean with herself and admitting a lot of things. She also paints some scathing portraits of Max and Fang. I realize that a lot of people don't like Max II, which is why I decided to take a peek inside her mind. Let me just say: she is one angry bird kid.

There are no names used in this, as far as I remember. Max II is the narrator, "she" is Max, and "he" is Fang. But I'm sure you could've figured that out on your own.(:

Setting: I guess this takes place some time in book seven. Some moment that the three (Max, Max II, Fang) came together. If you don't like that explanation, then we can say it takes place ages after ANGEL, when all is well. When doesn't much matter.

Oh, and, just for clarification, I'm not a big fan of Max II myself. I'm all for FAX, and I think that life was sooo much easier with Max II dead in book three. But JP just had to bring her back...

Enjoy!

Musings

I don't know why people think I should be like her. She's nothing impressive. She's absolutely useless, something I remember from the time that I spent in her place, pretending to be her. That was absolutely horrible.

I glance at him, sitting beside me. Part of the time, I think he's just like the rest of them: he only wants me to be her, because he can't have her. But then there are those moments when I think he might actually appreciate me for…me. Not for my lookalike.

I've spent my whole life being compared to her, someone I didn't even meet until a year ago. I hate it. It makes me feel so worthless, and she shows no mercy. I know she despises me, and she knows that the feeling is returned. I wonder if shadows hate what they shadow, if reflections hate what they reflect.

Because everyone sees me as her, or thinks that I should be her, I haven't been able to develop my own persona. I feel flat, two-dimensional. I'm like a paper doll that can't stand on its own, that's at the mercy of the wind.

She never smiles. Her mouth is frozen in this perpetual scowl. Her eyebrows are always slanted down, like she's pissed off at you, no matter who you are or whether or not she knows you. Her eyes are small and muddy, just the ugliest shade of brown imaginable. Her nose is just a series of lumps, one on top of another, presumably from the many times it's been broken.

I swear she looks down on the world, on everything. Like she's better than me, better than you, better than all the rest of us. It's disgusting.

I don't know why he wanted to bring us together. He knows how I feel about her, and I know how he feels about her, too. He's so in looove with her. He thinks she's amaaazing in every way. Well, I hate her guts and think she's a freak, just like the rest of us. Screw her.

I catch him looking at her. It's the same way I see him looking at me sometimes. Those are the times when I'm sure he doesn't give a damn about who I am. He just wants me around because I look like her. I bite down on my lip and avert my eyes. So let him be in love with her. I don't care. I shouldn't. It serves him right for messing with me like this. He's like that mythological guy who was doomed to love someone (or was it something?) that could never love him back. Her heart is colder than ice and harder than steel. She's never loved him and she never will. I don't even know what he sees in her. He's so much better than she'll ever be.

He quickly lowers his gaze when she turns, so that she won't notice him looking at her. I roll my eyes, wondering how I ended up watching the show the two of them are putting on again. They're so pathetic.

But that's when I see that he's not the only one stealing glances: she's staring at him, too. Scratch that. She's checking him out. He isn't watching her, instead shoving his food around on his plate. She just looks him up and down repeatedly, like she's memorizing him.

And then the weirdest thing happens: I swear I see her smile. Like, her lips curl up at the corners until it can be considered a grin. What the hell? This isn't right. She's not supposed to smile.

Before he can see this, she starts to scowl again. There. That's better. It suits her much more than the lovesick grin she'd just been wearing. That face made me want to barf.

He says something to her, but I can't stand to process the words. Instead I admit to myself that I actually do know why he brought us together, and the reason isn't either of us, not me or her. This is about him. This is about his silly emotions. He couldn't care less about us reconciling. He just wants another shot at the girl he can't have. He wants her back.

I wish he would have thought of that before he left her. I mean, why did he dump her if he would just end up coming back to her? He's so stupid. He should've just left, gotten over it, and moved on.

Then I wouldn't have to be sitting her and watching this infuriating display of emotional constipation. I want her to start yelling at him, to insult him in every way she can. Tell him that he's completely unattractive, that his hair makes him look like a girl, that he smells like Bigfoot pissed on him, that he's a crappy leader, that he's an idiot, that he'll never succeed in anything, that she had a concussion when she was possessed to kiss him, that she never loved him, and that she hates him more than Dracula hates garlic.

And then, when she's pissed him off sufficiently, I want him to start shouting back. I want him to stand up and start telling her how ugly she is. How just looking at her makes him gag. How she's a horrible kisser, and he only ever kissed her because he felt sorry for her, sorry that no one could ever really love her. How he's so glad that he finally saw reason and left her. How she's a terrible leader and teacher and mentor. I want him to scream that if she has to save the world, we're all screwed. I want him to hurt her so bad that she'll cry. That she'll lose this stupid act that she's better than everyone else and that she's invincible. I want him to defeat her and leave her poor little soul broken.

And that's just the words. When words have said all they can, I want her to lunge at him, like she's ready to kill him. I want them to beat each other to a bloody pulp. I want them to hit and punch and kick and scratch, like a pair of alley cats fighting for territory. And I want them to fight each other until they can't anymore, until they can't move.

Until they're both dead.

And then I could just walk away.

But I know none of that will happen, aside from maybe a couple instances of raised voices. She won't crack. He's a bad liar. I won't get what I want.

I never get what I want.

The whole cycle seems to start over. They don't look at each other. He gazes at her. She soaks him in. They talk for a moment.

This is my hell.

I hate this. I hate them. I hate that he made me come with him. I hate that she thinks she's better than me. I hate myself for not being able to measure up to anyone's expectations. I hate that everyone wants me to be her.

I used to think that he was different. I used to believe that he wanted me because I'm a unique individual, or at least, I should be. I fooled myself.

Now I see the truth: he wants her. I look like her and sometimes I think I even act like her. Snotty, pompous, bitchy.

I hate that. I hate that I'm so much like her, even though I don't want to be like her at all.

He wants her. I look like her. He can make do with me, but I'm nothing to him.

I'm not worth anything to anyone.

I let my hands ball into tight fists under the table. It feels like my bones might pop out of my skin, tear right through. I would rather that to being here.

His hand is in the middle of the table, halfway between him and her. Her hand is three inches away.

I hate him for putting me through this. I hate her for not caring how I feel.

My nails dig into the skin of my palm, though they shouldn't. I bite them to keep them short. But I'm pressing so hard that my raggedy fingernails are carving shapes into my hand.

I think that, most of all, I hate myself. I don't know why it is, but I'm too much like her. We look alike. Half the time we think alike. We talk alike, walk alike, behave alike. I hate it. I hate her and I hate me.

Her fingers reach toward his. I feel a bit of blood on my hands, my own blood. Stupid, jagged nails.

Whatever happened with me and her, whatever made us this way, it's affecting whatever is happening with me and him. Someone up in heaven, if there is a heaven, hates me, and I hate him/her/it back.

As if there aren't enough commonalities between the two of us already, we even feel alike.

Too much in common:

She hates me.

I hate her.

She lies to herself.

I lie to myself.

She puts up an act.

I put up an act.

She's in love with him, no matter how much she acts like she isn't. I know; I can see it. He's in love with her and she's in love with him. It all works out beautifully: true love leads to happily ever after.

Of course, then there's me. You'll just have to overlook me in this fairytale, because if they get their stupid happily ever after, I don't get mine. My happiness doesn't exist.

They skip off merrily into the sunset.

I stay behind in the dust.

They laugh.

I cry.

The world is so unfair. Why do I have to exist? All I've lived is a miserable life in someone else's shadow. And shadows mimic their owners.

We're so much alike, me and her.

We hate. We lie. We cheat. We steal.

And, last of all, we love.

She loves him.

But I'm in love with him, too.

I know I don't stand a chance. He already loves her. He wishes I was her.

But I'm not her. I've tried and I've failed. I'll never be her.

He'll never love me for who I am. I can never have him.

Life would be so much easier if we all just hated each other.

That way, no one would get a happily ever after.

AN: Tell me what you're thinking in a REVIEW.