She's dreaming. She fell asleep at her desk and this is her subconscious telling her that she should've stayed in Florida and gone on a cruise instead of heading back to Roswell before school started. All because she bumped into Max Evans, because bumping into him has thrown her plan of attack all out of whack. Liz had it all clearly outlined with her internship, her classes, her goals, the scholarships she was eying and the corresponding essays she was already planning on writing. Bumping in to Max was not on that outline, he wasn't even a sub-point to any of those bullets. He was part of some whimsical notion that amazing things happened to normal people, a poorly thought out rough draft that had already been balled up and tossed in the trash months ago.
Dreaming or not dreaming, at least she's not dreaming of Max. That would only be adding insult to injury, and she was through with being hurt and pushed aside.
Though apparently not when it came to being messed with for reasons that were beyond her, because it's quickly becoming apparent that this isn't a dream. (Mindwarp? No, Tess couldn't hold it together for this long and it's been hours.) She's on a boat in the middle of the ocean and she's not dreaming. She's not in Roswell, she's not at her desk, she's not filing those folders Congresswoman Whitaker had left for her to take care of, not locking up the offices on her way out—
"This isn't happening." Denial is strong with this one. Sometimes. A realist with a dreamer's denial streak. "This can't be happening."
Not again. It was supposed to be over, the crazy part of her life. No more aliens or FBI agents, no more running, hiding, and being scared all the time.
Slumping down against one of the walls just outside the changing room near the pool, Liz pulls out her cellphone and tries to dial home for what has to be the millionth time, but nobody answers. Not the Crashdown, not her parents, not Maria, Alex, or Kyle — not even Max, whose number she dialed in a last ditch effort to raise someone. Anyone.
ᴏᴛᴀ
Dreaming or not dreaming, at least she's not dreaming of Max. That would only be adding insult to injury, and she was through with being hurt and pushed aside.
Though apparently not when it came to being messed with for reasons that were beyond her, because it's quickly becoming apparent that this isn't a dream. (Mindwarp? No, Tess couldn't hold it together for this long and it's been hours.) She's on a boat in the middle of the ocean and she's not dreaming. She's not in Roswell, she's not at her desk, she's not filing those folders Congresswoman Whitaker had left for her to take care of, not locking up the offices on her way out—
"This isn't happening." Denial is strong with this one. Sometimes. A realist with a dreamer's denial streak. "This can't be happening."
Not again. It was supposed to be over, the crazy part of her life. No more aliens or FBI agents, no more running, hiding, and being scared all the time.
Slumping down against one of the walls just outside the changing room near the pool, Liz pulls out her cellphone and tries to dial home for what has to be the millionth time, but nobody answers. Not the Crashdown, not her parents, not Maria, Alex, or Kyle — not even Max, whose number she dialed in a last ditch effort to raise someone. Anyone.
He doesn't answer.
"...this is really happening."