NOW.

When Kennedy Mcmillen opens her door, she finds Colette Evans standing outside. Her eyes are as grey as the thunderstorm raging outside, her beautiful blond hair blowing behind her. She reaches out, fingers about to trace the corners of Kennedy's face. She opens her mouth, and her words come out as a strained whisper.

"I'm sorry."

Kennedy wakes up with a start, sweat lining her forehead, hands crumpling her blanket. She pants, reaching out for her glass of water and chugging it down. That's another thing Colette Evans had robbed from Kennedy - sleep. Ever since the shooting, she hadn't been able to close her eyes without death staring right at her. Behind those shut lids always seem to be a new nightmare; Colette, the kids she shot, the past she couldn't cling on to, the old Kennedy, the day of the shooting.

But Kennedy Mcmillen sleeps anyway, because a part of her is certain that her dreams hid some repressed memory. She refuses to believe that Colette had transformed before her very eyes, and she did not see a thing. She refuses to believe that Cole was hiding that monstrous part of her. She refuses to believe that she hadn't known her best friend at all.

Kennedy sits up, one leg dangling off her bed. She reaches out and grabs her rose-gold picture frame, holding a photograph of her and her friends. Colette is beaming, her blond hair messy but still beautiful, her body the perfect frame for her tiny gingham dress. One arm is snaked around Khalid's waist; to which he seems utterly pleased about, with his lips pressed against Colette's flushed cheek, his jawline accentuated. Cordelia DeLuca is in the photo too, alongside Amelia Dawson, Veronica Santiago, Marisa Lee, Cory DeLuca and Marcus Andrews.

But what strikes her the most is herself; the old Kennedy staring right back at her. She thinks it's terrifying and amazing how she can exist as two separate entities simultaneously: there, in the photograph, is the Kennedy-that-was with her wide smile and confidence and here, herself, a shell of that girl. The Kennedy-that-was and the Kennedy-that-is stare at each other, somehow connected and separated by time and space. She wishes the two could merge, that they could meet in the middle of ecstasy and depression, and find comfortable happiness.

She loves Colette, and she resents her and most of all, she misses her so damn much. Every inch of her, every layer, every piece - they crave their other half. They crave Colette Evans.

Kennedy reaches out for her phone, fingers trembling.

kennedy; 3:09 am;

hey, you awake?

Kennedy lies back down, waiting and hoping for her screen to light up.

khalid:

hey, yeah. can't sleep?

kennedy:

not a damn blink.

khalid:

same here :( wanna meet up somewhere?

kennedy:

i'm down. gridstreet's open 24h, if you want?

khalid:

sounds good, see you in 5.

Kennedy stands up wearily, unsure of what she's doing herself. She finds a comfortable sweater and pulls it over her head, before switching her boxer shorts for denim ones and sliding her feet into her trusty Birkenstocks. She catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror, and she can practically hear her best friend's critical voice.

"Really, Kenz, that?" Colette would have said, tsk-tsking. "Undress yourself, you, and come to momma." Colette had actually said that to her, in a distant time and another world. Kennedy was about to go out with Cory DeLuca, and she had just worn a cropped sweater and jeans.

Colette had dug through her wardrobe, before surfacing with a tank top and a black denim skirt. "Wear this."

Kennedy acceded to her request, only to find that the skirt fell mid-thigh. "Cole. I can't wear this."

"But you like, look so hot," she had pouted, walking over and tugging the skirt in an attempt at modesty. "So sexy, Kenzie. Smoking."

"This isn't me, though."

Colette had given her a one-over, her bottom lip still jutting out in a pout. "Ah, fine, you prude. You have a figure that's to die for, and you insist on not wearing skirts. Kennedy, you have legs for years - not days, years. I don't think I'm even as tall as your damn legs."

Kennedy had laughed, rolling her eyes. "You're beautiful, Cole," she said, sliding into a comfortable pair of skinny jeans.

Colette examined herself in the mirror critically, before beaming. "Oh, babe. I know."

Kennedy can't help it when her lips tug into a small smile at the memory. That was Colette Evans - confident, poised and the best damn friend Kennedy had ever had. Her hands curled into fists, fingernails digging into the soft wood of her vanity.

Where did we go wrong?

She wonders that, more often than not, and that question plays on her mind over and over again. It's what she thinks about as she sneaks out of her home, it's what she thinks about as she walks to Gridstreet.

What snaps her out of her reverie is Khalid al-Fayet, sitting at a dusty booth, raising his hand in a wave. She can't quite believe he actually came, that he answered to her 3am text despite her earlier freak-out. That's what she's always seen in Khalid, why she gave Colette her wholehearted approval despite not knowing the brainiac - she sees the kindness in him.

She walks towards him and slides into the booth, sitting directly opposite him. "Hey," she says. "Sorry for freaking out...earlier." Kennedy shrugs. She's never been the socialite; the reason she had climbed the ranks of popularity was all because of Colette. Colette's death and shooting had only made her social ineptitude more obvious.

"Hey, I got you a coffee," Khalid says kindly, pushing a hot cup of coffee towards Kennedy. "And don't worry about it, okay? I freak out a lot too. My therapist says it's part of the healing process."

Kennedy snorts. "According to them, everything is."

Khalid laughs, a smile erupting on his lips. Kennedy remembers late-night runs with her friends. They would all sneak out and cram themselves into their booth at Gridstreet. More often than not though, it was just her, Cole, Cory and Khalid. At first, it was because they were the insomniacs; or rather, Kennedy, Cory and Khalid were insomniacs while Colette suffered from a severe case of fear-of-missing-out. Then, after Kennedy and Cory got together, it was the four of them going on double-dates. Without two of them there, it felt wrong. Empty. Incomplete.

"Well," Khalid says, sobering up. "Are you...healing?"

"Healing," Kennedy repeats, the word rolling off her tongue dryly. "I suppose. I mean, I walked into school without getting an anxiety attack, didn't I?"

"That you did." Khalid raises his cup of coffee, and she's not sure if he's being ironic or serious. "To healing."

Kennedy raises her cup. "To healing."

They clink their mugs, and she raises it to her lips, the heat scalding her tongue, the bad coffee infusing her tastebuds. The two sit in silence, staring at the dark depths of their coffee.

"Feels empty without them, huh?" Khalid finally says, breaking the silence.

Kennedy sighs. "It does," she says, feeling a need to fill the awkwardness. Sure, Kennedy and Khalid are, and always have been, friends; but they hadn't been all that close. They were always friends by association, they could joke around in group settings, they sat together in a room full of strangers. But meeting up on their own, texting privately - it wasn't part of their friendship contract. She has to try, though, because they're all they have left.

"I really miss her," she finally says. "I really miss them."

Khalid's dark eyebrows knit. "You haven't spoken to Cory?"

"You have?"

Khalid purses his lips. "I...tried."

Kennedy lets out a bitter laugh at the thought of her ex-boyfriend. A part of her misses him, a part of her wishes that Colette had better aim. "He'll never speak to us."

"He'll speak to you."

"He won't," she snaps. "After Marisa...after what Colette did to them...it was a miracle Delia even spoke to me."

"Delia? Cordelia DeLuca spoke to you?" Khalid asks, eyebrows shooting up his forehead in surprise. "Wow. I'm afraid she'll spit at me if I walk too near her."

Kennedy shakes her head. "No. You know that's not true. They're your friends too."

"Only because of Cole," Khalid says. "They reached out to you, didn't they?"

"I guess but -"

"Not to me. They hate me. They only tolerated me because of Cole."

"They were your friends -"

"Until I turned their best friend into an extremist, right? An Allah-loving, innocent-killing crazy girl." She's never heard so much bitterness in Khalid's voice before. "I turned their perfect, pretty, smart Golden Girl into a killing machine."

Kennedy strains to find words. She presses her lips together, unsure whether to lie to him or tell him the harsh truth. She thinks of his best friend and his therapist, both of whom are probably doing all the lying to him. "You're right. That's what people are saying," she admits, trying to channel Colette so that she sounds nicer, softer. "But just because they're saying that doesn't make it true. Maybe for now, knowing is enough. And you know for a fact that that isn't true, and one day, everyone else will too."

Kennedy sees Khalid's hands shake, quivering as he grips the table. "But do we really know, though?" Khalid asks, his voice low and shaky. "Do we really know what happened to Colette?"

"We don't," Kennedy says, surprised that for once, she's more put together than he is. "But we can find out."

"Find out? How?"

Kennedy shrugs, leaning forward. "I mean...she must have left something behind. She couldn't have just...there has to be something."

Khalid looks at her with hesitation, as if he just wanted to get over the incident as fast as possible, as if he wanted to erase Colette from his mind instead of digging deep into every crevice of every memory with her. "The police -"

"Don't know her like we do," Kennedy finishes. "We could find out, Khalid."

"You're being ridiculous, Kennedy."

"Here me out -"

"No," he snaps. "We shouldn't stop our lives even more for her. I'm all about talking, but to delve back into...all of that? No. We miss her, yes. We can't hate her, yes. But to reabsorb ourselves? To willingly throw ourselves back into that mess? What we should do is forget. Forget about her and move on."

"But don't you miss her -"

"The memory of her," he corrects, shaky hands curling around the cup of his coffee in an attempt to steady them. "But not what she became."

"Which is why we need to find out -"

"You need to find out," he corrects decisively. "Kennedy -"

"Khalid -"

"Well," a voice suddenly says, snapping the two of them out of their argument. "Kennedy Mcmillen and Khalid al-Fucker."

Kennedy looks up at the speaker - a tall, leggy half-Japanese and half-American girl that could only be Rikoo Clarke. An ugly smile ripples across her beautiful face. "What?" she bites. "The casualty count too small for you? Planning to continue what Colette started?"

Kennedy raises a cool eyebrow. "Oh, yes, exactly," she drawls. Hit by a wave of anger and bravery, she adds, "In fact, we're even looking up spells to bring Colette back from the dead. There's one I'm particularly fond of, actually. It involves sacrificing an ugly, half-Japanese, Elissa Waters-wannabe virgin who doesn't know how to fuck off and mind her own business."

Rikoo stares at her with her big dark eyes that taper at the ends, small mouth parted in shock. "You're twisted."

"Oh, don't stand too close now, Rikoo," Kennedy purrs, a smirk playing on her lips. "You know what they say about crazy. It's contagious."

a/n: MERRY CHRISTMAS Y'ALL!!! I hope you spent it having fun with great people, eating great food and getting great gifts! feliz navidad! love y'all x