Disclaimer: I don't own Sonny With a Chance.

A/n: This takes place in Sonny &Chad's late teens or early twenties, and it's in Sonny's POV. Reviews are love, and thank you for reading. (:

S u n r i s e .

It's dark outside when I wake up in your empty room, untangle myself from your arms, and tiptoe downstairs.

Your house is dark and cold and empty, and you only have vanilla flavoured coffee, which is fifty times too sweet, but I have it anyways, and I flop down in a kitchen chair, and stare out your back window, trying to breathe normally.

I've already finished half the coffee, and it's gone cold, and golden dawn is glittering on the horizon when I hear you coming down the stairs, and into the kitchen.

And I remain looking at the bittersweet sunrise, half full of hopes and nightmares, and hold the cold coffee cup, pretending I haven't heard your footsteps. I pretend I don't feel your gaze, like acid, burning my shoulder blades. I pretend that you aren't there, with eyes of regret, and sadness in the lines of your face, and that it's only me, staring at the sky, still wishing you'd never leave.

But wishes don't come true. We both know that.

I shouldn't have believed you, that it wouldn't matter. I shouldn't have listened, because really, who on earth could make this moment less awkward and painful? Not us. We shouldn't be here. I should be at my own place, not yours, which is empty and cold. I don't like looking at the room, because I see the lack of furniture, and it turns my chest to ice.

The truck's outside, I know that. I know I should just let you go, but I'm not good at that. It seems so wrong for it to end like this – no confessions, no tears, no promises we couldn't keep anyway. But we know better than to be cliché, don't we? We know we won't speak again. We know we'll miss each other, but we know we'll learn how to move on. It's nothing really, not love, not all that important, what we're leaving behind.

But then, why is this moment awkward?

It shouldn't be. It wouldn't be, you insisted. It wasn't like we were doing anything wrong, you said. It was like old times sake. It was your last night, and you just wanted to spend it with me. It wasn't wrong.

But then, this shouldn't be either.

But the very essence of being here is wrong. It never used to feel wrong. I loved your house, so different from your parents' mansion, a step of your own independence, a small, comfy place for you. It never felt wrong to kiss on those white sofas, or hear your old clock chime, or sit in this seat and drink coffee and watch the sunrise. And the sunrise never seemed bitter or hopeless, it held a thousand opportunities and chances and beginnings. And now it looks like an ending.

But then, back then, we were young and naïve, and in love, they said, and we couldn't see past each other. And the tabloids loved us, you with your arm around my waist, pressing a kiss to the top of my head, and me laughing, cheeks flushed, so happy. Romeo and Juliet, they said, but they never remembered that they ended in tragedy.

Well, neither did I.

Your patience unnerves me, but I don't speak, because there aren't words. I have nothing to say to you, and if I found honest words, I wouldn't have the courage to speak them anyway, so really I should stay as part of the silence and shadows of this house that never used to hold anything but sunshine.

Your gaze is a weight on my shoulders, and so, I'm forced to turn and face it. You look sadder than I thought you could, for a man who insisted this meant nothing. But no matter how many times you lie to yourself, it never really stops the truth.

It doesn't stop this moment from being wrong.

But then, your grey shirt and boxers still fit me the same, and this moment still feels the same. And maybe that's the reason it feels wrong – because it really feels right, and nothing's felt right in a long time.

And your eyes are the same. I guess it's been a long time since I've looked in them, but there they are, blue-grey, like the sky and ocean, and right now, like sadness.

Your hair is still gold, but it doesn't shine like it used to. You don't brag about it anymore, but then, you don't brag about anything anymore, least of all yourself. You don't sparkle anymore, because you grew up, and that was your innocence that glittered, and that's gone now. It's the same as the disappearance of my smile. Maturity isn't as beautiful a place as I always thought it would be.

You look at me and then past me, maybe because you don't like this moment, maybe because it truly is a lovely sunrise, maybe because you don't have anything to say either. What words do you offer to someone who used to make you smile? Someone who forced you to grow up? Someone who you'll never see again?

Maybe you're speechless too.

I could do something. I could make you coffee. But your coffee is too sweet, sugar I choke on. I like coffee bitter and black these days, maybe because the bitterness stays in my life like you won't anymore. I can't make you coffee because it means you'll be one step closer to walking out that door.

"We could write, " you say suddenly, breaking the heaviness of the silence by a forcedly light comment.

But I don't listen, because, really, you don't mean it.

"Don't," I tell you matter-of-factly, proud that my voice doesn't crack on the word. "We aren't going to write and you know that."

You place your hands on the back of the chair next to me, and look at the ground. You know as well as I do that fake promises won't help anything, but you don't know what to do in the silence.

And I hate the silence, because it makes me remember.

Movies roles, you said. Opportunity, chances, fame, glory, possibility, you said. New York, and I don't know when I'm coming back.

The funny thing was, you should have been happy telling me it, because you had no reason to stay, and it wasn't as if I cared anymore, and you were going to be even more famous, and everything was just great. But you didn't sound happy, in fact, you sounded pretty damn pained, and as if you wanted me to tell you not to go and give you a thousand reasons why not, possibly starting with, I'd miss you too much.

But I've never told you I'll miss you, have I?

No, I told you that that was great, and so lucky, and fantastic for your career, and have a great time Chad, won't that be fun!

And you took it, and believed me, because no one's ever said I couldn't act.

But we're here, now, and I don't want to lie to you when you walk away from me for the last time, because I'm always lying to you, and lying to myself, and I shouldn't, because I'll miss you like hell, and I don't know how I'll fucking breathe without you.

Because I already miss you. I miss you because it's not like it always was, because we aren't the way we were, because it hurts to look at sunrise now, because it used to feel like heaven to sit in your kitchen and drink coffee, and now it feels like hell.

I swallow roughly, and continue to look out the window. I'll be damned if I tell you that. It doesn't matter, anyways. It's not like it changes anything.

"I'm sorry," you say, unexpectedly. I turn to look at you, but you're looking at the floor, unable to meet my eyes. I feel like I'm about to cry, but I won't let myself, not in front of you.

"For what?" I force myself to ask.

You look up, and you're biting your lip, and you look close to tears and utterly hopeless. I hate seeing that look on your face. You never look hopeless.

You look so different now, than how you used to. I've never had a chance to look before now, but there are more lines in your face, your eyes hold more strength, and the naïve boastfulness had disappeared. It's the face of an adult that's staring me down, and that makes it harder to look you in the eye.

We weren't doing anything wrong, you said.

I don't know why I listened to you. I should have known better than to be here for a moment like this. It wasn't even as if I slept with you, just beside you, but letting you hold me through the night, the way you used to, hurt just as much. And it forced me to be present for a goodbye I was trying to avoid.

You swallow the tears. Now you just look strong. You're not asking anything of me anymore, you're just going to leave, and I'm going to have to fucking deal with it.

You open your mouth to say something, and the doorbell rings.

And the movers come in for the last of your furniture, including the bed you held me last night and the coffeemaker with the sugar-ridden coffee, and you just stand there and watch and I pretend I can't hear any of it as I watch the sunrise smoulder through the trees.

And so, we are left alone in the empty house, with the sunrise waning behind us. I don't have words.

You look choked. I force myself to speak. "Your clothes," I say, looking down at myself, at your grey t-shirt and boxers.

"Keep them," you say. "They look good on you." I look up, surprised.

You swallow, and tentatively lift your hand to push back a strand of my hair. "Goodbye, Sonny."

I just look at you, because I don't have words. I should be telling you to stay, but I can't find it in me to do so.

And you pick up your bags, and put them in your car, and I stand there in the driveway, and you look at me awkwardly, and ask if I need a drive. And I tell you no, I'll walk.

And you nod, and back out of the driveway, and I walk home in your clothes, not even noticing the looks I get, and I see a stand with a tabloid with the screaming headline, Chad Dylan Cooper LEAVING Mackenzie Falls For Good? and I abruptly burst into tears, and end up sitting on the curb, sobbing desperately into your shirt for close to an hour before calling a taxi.

And that's the last day I see you.

--

And we move on.

And sometimes, I wonder what would have happened if I had only told you to stay. Sometimes I wonder if love is greater than fame and success and money. But then I remind myself that wondering doesn't do anything, doesn't change the right now that I am living in, and that regretting something doesn't change it.

You become the star of your drama-ridden movies, and I become the princess of comedy. And we smile, still, and laugh, and pretend it doesn't hurt, for months on end, because we're adults, which means we can handle pain.

And I was right. We don't write a single letter.

And we rise to success, and we begin to forget. I don't remember the way your eyes sparkled, or how sweet your coffee tasted or why it hurt to look at sunrise. But then, we always said we'd let go.

And we date other people, and no one remembers. The tabloids and magazines mention us, half-heartedly, as a used-to-be, maybe should-have-been, now that we were with other people, my new Romeo, your new Juliet, people we are meant to be with. We used to be something, they say, and look, now we don't remember each other.

And we don't remember, because, why would we? After all, it was nothing really, not love, not all that important, what we left behind.