A/N: Hi. *pokes brain* Look at that. I wrote a fanfiction. It's short and plotless, but I accomplished something fanfiction-related, and that is all that matters right now. Credit goes entirely to sapphireswimming for getting into DP fanfic, which in turn, got me back into DP fanfic, and now we are writing togetherrrrr. This is the first of a bunch of oneshots we are going to write all summer. Like a challenge series, I guess. To keep in touch when we're away from each other. *reaches out*

I shall explain this one's informal inspiration at the bottom. For now, read and enjoy if possible.

IMPORTANT: When you see *heart*, please pretend it is a "less-than-three" (heart), as fanfiction will not allow less-than signs. Normally, I understand this, but I only need it for one very important plot point. -_-

Where is There?

Breathe. She had to remind herself to do this several times a day now, just to make sure she made it through. She had to make it through because people counted on her. People counted on her now—her and Tucker and Jazz—because the person all of them had counted on for so long…

Breathe.

Closing her eyes and settling down on the couch, she pulled out her cell phone and decided to fiddle with it to waste away the time before the next ghost attack came and sent her and her friends plunging into the dangers of the ecto-invaded world. But it wasn't so bad anymore. The danger seemed to lessen every day. It was as if the ghosts lost their drive, their motivation, when they realized who wouldn't be fighting them ever again…

Click. She pressed a random button on her phone angrily, berating herself for not getting over it fast enough and for letting it invade every waking thought. Granted, it had only been two weeks, and any normal person would still be in disbelief, staying home from school, sliding into dark depression…

But not her. No; her life was too supernatural and too concentrated on keeping others safe to fall into that stereotype. She never did conform to the expectations of society, anyway. Why follow their standards of the grieving process?

Nodding to herself, she decided to clean out her mass collection of text messages that had accumulated since the last time she'd deleted them. All of them, every time. She scoffed at those ditzy girls who carefully selected which text messages to keep and which to nonchalantly toss away forever. They would giggle with each other at lunch in remembrance of past texts, citing "I want to marry an enchilada lol" as their favorite late-night memory or the mushiest messages from their boyfriends that made their hearts soar…

She stopped right there before confirming the "Delete All" option. Biting her lip and closing her eyes, she fought back the overwhelming urge to let loose tears at this thought. She hated those girls for wasting their time with meaningless words typed in two seconds to appease their social necessities.

But she was willing to make one exception and one exception only.

She pressed cancel on the phone, something in her heart heaving a great sigh of relief at the action, and went through deleting conversations one by one instead. It was less efficient, for sure, but who needs efficiency when you're trying to waste time, anyway, right?

She went more and more slowly in her task, pausing shakily at every message as she got farther down the list, holding her breath in anticipation for that one she had remembered seconds before that fatal mistake.

There.

Involuntarily, she breathed in, her skin crawling with warmth and fear, and her head dizzy from seeing it again. This time, she didn't bite back as the droplets of water condensed around the corners of her eyes, and she allowed her finger to gently press the button on the message that still bore his name.

okay, i'll see u there. :) *heart*

She allowed her eyes to drink in the sight of that silly, simple message before closing them slowly and breathing shakily out. She hadn't realized until she heard herself breathe that she was effectively sobbing. She couldn't have that, so, placing the phone gingerly onto the coffee table—still open and bearing her sought-after message—she walked dazedly into the bathroom and, hands shaking, turned on the faucet, gathering water in her hands and splashing it onto her face messily to jolt her out of her haze. Her nightmare. But no amount of water would ever truly wake her up from this.

She looked at herself in the mirror above the sink and almost laughed. She was Sam. The girl who refused to be girly, who refused to conform to standards, who refused to cry. And here she was, in tears because of a text message.

No, she told herself. Not the text message. But the significance.

Two weeks ago—it was a Saturday just like today—she'd been lazily hanging around the house, procrastinating on homework and anxiously hoping someone would call to give her an excuse to do something. So when Danny had texted her, asking to meet at their usual hangout, she'd immediately responded with an ecstatic "YES! Please! :)," ready to bolt out the door then and there. She'd smiled and pictured him chuckling at her uncharacteristic enthusiasm. And she'd laughed when he'd sent that last text.

The sideways-heart at the end had puzzled her. But she didn't want to be one of those girls who read too much into platonic-love-less-than-threes, so she'd promptly thrown on her shoes and rushed out the door, heading for the awkwardly-named burger joint.

That jaunt down the sidewalk was the last time she could remember feeling happy.

Before she got there—long before—she heard the familiar sounds of a ghost fight. The laser-whooshing sound of an ectoblast, the screams of fear from passers-by, and Danny's occasional cries of pain as he miscalculated his opponent. Before she could think, she was running towards the sound of the brawl, checking her belt on the way to make sure she had a thermos on hand just in case.

And, suddenly, right when she got there, the world ended.

He came into her view, a lonely figure in the sky, until an unnaturally strong and brutal blast met with him, and his cry of pain became more like a strangled gargle of confusion as his powers shut off and he was sent tumbling to the ground from a height much too high.

From there, everything about that day was a blur to her. Even now, two weeks later, all she could remember was that panicked, adrenaline-filled feeling of her heart pounding and her stomach lurching from her body. Blurry visions of his body—her arms holding him as he, eyes closed, slowly faded away—lying bloody on the ground. How she'd forgotten about the anonymous ghost, who seemed to have forgotten itself, as though the victory were unexpected, until she heard the Fenton's come up behind her, having vanquished it before realizing what was going on.

And even then, they still had no idea what was going on. Frantic, they asked her all the questions. Because she had all the answers.

She remembered those one-word answers. Through her sobs, familiar words like Danny. Fenton. Phantom. Half-ghost. Accident. Fighting. Enemies. Hurt.

Love. Though she couldn't recall if that had been an answer to frantic questions or if she'd just said that to make sure he heard it.

She remembered answering similar questions from people after the ambulance finally got there. But by the time it did, she'd already given the answer to the final question.

Dead.

Still dead.

By now, the flashback of the hour had ceased running through her mind, and she finished wiping her face with a towel. Looking in the mirror, she gave another hollow laugh. Still crying.

But, for Sam, the girl who had all the answers, who knew everything about Danny Phantom—his favorite color, his secret life, that he had loved her too (the sideways hearts were never platonic between them)—she still had one question.

Slowly dragging herself back into the living room and dropping onto the couch, her hands weakly lifted the phone again and brought it around to read the message on the screen once more.

okay, i'll see u there. :) *heart*

The lack of capitalization—his laziness and façade that he wasn't as smart as his sister—the smiley face with no nose because they looked cuter that way. And the heart that meant someday, he would tell her exactly what it meant.

Except now he wouldn't.

Taking a deep breath, Sam glanced around the room, and, realizing she was alone, decided to ask aloud the question to which she did not know the answer.

"Danny…" she breathed, his name feeling strange on her lips, which frightened her more, "where will you see me?"

Her voice barely a whisper, she glanced back down at the phone, which had started ringing, making the message disappear as Tucker's caller ID popped onto her phone, signaling the start of another fight without their leader.

"Where is 'there' now?"

This was inspired by me randomly last night deleting my text messages and doing the very thing that I made Sam hate petty girls for in this. I came across the last text I got from my little brother-whose phone recently got destroyed in a fire...long story, but everyone's fine-and I was like, "Wow, that is the last text I will ever get from that phone!" So, obviously, not inspired by something so drastic, but I thought about how I could make it drastic...and Danny Phantom-related. And this came out of me today, only with the support of sappireswimming. :) Thank you, love! We shall have fun with this all summer! If only for each other. :P