Author's note: This is just a little Cam drabble I wrote late one night a while back and never got around to posting. It may have turned into a full oneshot if I had actually thought of a plot. Anyway, enjoy.

Disclaimer: Obviously I don't own iCarly.

It's almost not worth it anymore.

Carly watches from the distance as he holds her hand, he kisses her, he loves her, simply reminding Carly that she was supposed to be the one loving Sam, it was supposed to be her, always and it never will be. And she knows she should give up, she should let go. Because Freddie deserves Sam more than she does, because Freddie is, well, Freddie, loyal and nerdy and good at making Sam laugh and all those other things Sam hates and loves at the same time, and she is simply Carly, the supportive best friend, secretly hiding her cracks and scars behind the smiles of a heartbreak.

Yet she simply can't.

In a way, it is all her. In a way, the only reason Sam loves Freddie is because of everything Carly taught him to be. Because Carly is always telling Freddie how to treat Sam. Because Carly is always making sure Sam is okay. Because Carly is the one that knows Sam, Carly is the one that used to think she meant everything to Sam. Carly is the one that has always been there for Sam.

But Freddie wanted her. Freddie wanted her, and that was alright, because Carly was a girl, Carly was the best friend, Carly wasn't supposed to want her.

"She just... kissed me in the middle of a sentence."

"So kiss her back."

Words of advice were given on the evening between one visit to the mental hospital and the next. Carly knew that was what she would do, if she were Freddie. If she had a chance.

Freddie did. Freddie did, and that was where everything started. And then Freddie would brush her hair, the way Carly had wished she could have so many times before when she would watch Sam sleeping on her couch, her blonde curls all a beautiful mess. And then Freddie would take her out to dinner. And then Freddie almost broke up with her. And then Carly fell apart.

A bitter night of insomnia, pondering. Waiting. A voice. Her own voice, crying out, though almost without her consent. Almost as though she is detached from herself entirely.

"Sam."

In a way, she is. She shakes with sobs, she whispers and listens and nothing ever comes.