yearbook.

And Freddie Benson holds his breath like he's about to dive into the ocean; which, in a way, he is. An ocean of love.

He sucks at metaphors.

The school year is ending. It's the last rehearsal for the last episode of iCarly, and he's ashamed to admit that his hands shook a bit when he held the camera for a test. It doesn't feel like a show is ending. It feels like someone's dying.

But that's not what's on his mind right now.

Carly had bounced into the studio with a book clutched in her hand. This was no ordinary book—oh no. It was their yearbook.

"Our senior yearbook," she'd said. "Isn't this exciting?"

Freddie had chosen not to comment on the sad overtones in her voice. None of them felt ready for this. Even Sam's usual craziness had seemed forced. Gibby had been slumped in a corner until he was needed. It was like all the joy had been sucked from the studio.

After the rehearsal, Carly had retrieved her yearbook. "Sign it," she'd demanded. "I want you guys to sign it first."

Sam had snatched the pen immediately and scribbled something down that made Carly giggle for minutes. Gibby had only signed his name, but scrawled it large for the world to see.

Now it's Freddie's turn. He's taken the pen, but he's looking at it like it's from an alien planet.

See, he knows that this might be his last chance with her. None of them have really talked about their plans, but he knows that they don't involve seeing each other every day. Carly has big dreams.

So he holds his breath, writes something quickly, shuts the book, and returns it to Carly, who smiles. "Bring yours tomorrow," she says, to all of them, although he feels as if it was directed mostly at him.

Freddie Benson, the eternal optimist.

That night, he more than second-guesses. He's up to fifteenth-guesses when he loses track and decides it's time to sleep. Difficult, with that image floating in his mind's eye. Her yearbook. His name.

"Be mine?" he'd signed, because last chances were wild and if it made things awkward, well, so be it. At least he could say that he'd tried.

He refuses to think of how well it could turn out. He tries to tether his hopes to the ground. She won't reply. Or she will, but only to say, "Oh, Freddie, you've never changed." Which, he supposes, is mostly true, after all.

She seems no different the next day. Did she read it at all? he wonders. Dutifully, he had brought his yearbook, along with a truckload of anxiety. Everybody signs them, but he doesn't want to read it until after they're clear the final time. Better to get all the pain over with at once.

Then it becomes a blur of counting and laughing and crying and time passing far too quickly, until he sets down the camera for the final time in this studio. There's a hush, and then a wave of hugs, wet, teary hugs. They all decide to go to the Groovy Smoothie, but even there he can't help thinking about that night so long ago when he held her in his arms.

And at some point, they go home.

Now he sits on his bed, taking a deep breath again. He's read everybody else's, so much what he expected. He shuts his eyes, opens them again. Traces with his finger to her name and finds her.

Carly Shay.

She had only signed one word.

"Always," he reads aloud.

And it's like the sun finally started shining.