***

I am, but not fully. My body is sitting in the drivers seat of my car, but my mind is elsewhere. It's on an empty tundra in the wilderness, climbing a mountain or fighting off a bear. It's racing with thoughts, disconnected and unrelated, but impossibly numb all at the same time. My mind is anywhere but here.

I sit eerily still at the steering wheel; I want to run away, but I also want to charge in there, tackle him to the ground, and do what I came here to do. I want to prove that I am just as terrible as I think I am.

The outline of Maxwell Dwyer flickers in the window of the door ahead of me. His house is gigantic, and an absence of cars in the driveway tells me that he's home alone.

I've been to boys houses like this before. My guess is his parents never came home for longer than they had to, jumping off to some business trip or another Bahamas vacation, leaving their son all too happy with the house to himself, but deep inside, they leave him wanting to feel that comforting bubble of people around him.

I've seen many cases like this. They don't turn out well. Need an example? Go to Bryce Walker.

My hand trembles as I reach to open the car door as if it's trying to hold me back or somehow stop me, but it doesn't work. With some difficulty, I manage to swing the door open.

Then I find that I can't force my legs to step out of the car. I sit, turned out in the position to hop down from the drivers seat, but I'm paralyzed. Everything inside of me is telling me to stay put. I don't care. I grit my teeth, forcing myself to move and biting back tears as if it is physically paining me to take a step out of my car, which it almost does.

Then I'm at the door, and my fist refuses to knock on the hard wood panels. I want to scream, just to feel all the badness in my body flying past my parted lips and expelling itself before I even think about pretending to hide it, but I can't. I hold myself back.

Max sees me at the door. He doesn't give me a chance to knock and immediately opens it, smiling at me brightly as if seeing me for the first time.

I'm stiffer than if I was at a business meeting, and I slip past his outstretched arm before he has the opportunity to hug me.

It's odd, really, to be avoiding a hug when you think about what I was here for, but I know why. I don't deserve the warmth that comes with an embrace like that, or the closeness of another human being. I'm a catastrophe waiting to happen, I damage anyone I meet. Not that I care about Max in particular, but no one else should get hurt because of me.

Max stands a few feet apart from me. My gaze flickers quickly to the door, thinking of an escape, but then we make eye contact. I've always had a soft spot for pretty eyes. They paralyze me.

Hazel shone in Max's most prominently, with grey and blue hues appearing once I look deeper into them. They are a pale, sharp color. Multiple shades swim in them; bright turquoise, sea blue, bottle green, and baby blue. The shades swirl together to create a color resembling the shade of a blade of grass, the same hue as the churning ocean and the steely sky of a thunderstorm.

I stand frozen in his eyes, and don't even realize how close he is to me until I can deny it no longer, and he's one bad decision away from contact.

His hands catch my waist, hard. Though his fingers are the only thing touching me, I feel disgusting and dirty. The force of his touch is so powerful and strong that my mind briefly flashes to how Bryce's hands felt on my hips that night at the Clubhouse, and I gasp out loud from the pressure of his grip.

Max smiles crookedly, obviously mistaking my gasp for one of pleasure. His other hand finds my waist, suddenly yanking me towards him. I stumble a little and find myself pressed against his chest.

"Wait, I—" Realizing the gravity of my situation, I start to protest. My lips part ever so slightly to say something, and he takes it as an invitation.

Then, with no time to even take a breath, Max kisses me. It's less of a soft falling and or more of a collision into my lips. His athletic body is pressed into my tiny frame, so tight that I can't move.

Max's lips clash with mine. It's nothing like Clay, there's none of that unspoken promise that I feel when it's Clay's lips against mine, and none of the sweetness that Clay has. Max doesn't stop. He doesn't hesitate, nor does he pause to wait for me to reciprocate before continuing like Clay always does. Instead, Max takes what he wants.

His kiss is impossibly deep, so much so that I can't move my mouth away from him, his one hand right at my waist and the other lifting me up into the air. Max is rough and powerful, and I can't stop thinking about that night at the Clubhouse.

This loss of control of my movement that I'm now experiencing is far too familiar, and I can hear both Bryce's and Marcus's voice ringing in my head as Max's hands clutch at my waist.

"You see this shit?" Marcus had said, pointing to me with tears streaming down my face. "She doesn't know that just makes her even fucking hotter!"

I had cried out against Bryce's hand, maintaining desperate eye contact with Justin. I had prayed for him to help me. He could have said anything to get them to stop, one word would do, but he never did. I never forgave him.

"You fuck her first but keep her quiet, I'll go make sure no one is here." Marcus's voice had said to Bryce before leaving.

I remember how Bryce stood over me, ignoring my cries. My body refused to help me. I told it to fight, scratch or bite him, but it disobeyed. That was when I blacked out, and continued dropping in and out of consciousness until Clay found me.

Clay. I need Clay.

I can't be here.

My hands fly up to his chest, pushing him away from me. It doesn't work, he's too wrapped up in the kiss to realize that I wasn't reciprocating, and my weak pushes are no match for his strong build. I try to move away from him, but my head is trapped as his hands move to my hair, pulling me somehow even deeper into the kiss.

I have to go, I have to find Clay and get out of here.

I'm gasping for breath, trying my best to soundlessly talk to Max, but he doesn't notice. I don't think he would try to keep me trapped here, it's not his fault I'm paralyzed.

I throw my head to the side, trying to move my face away from his lips.

And Hannah Baker is there.

Hannah sits in the corner of the room, legs crossed and eyes questioning. She looks tangible somehow. Her form is no less real than my own hand or Max's shoulders, now blocking half my vision.

Hannah turns her head to me. I'm frozen, staring at her open-mounted. There's so much I have to ask.

"This isn't you, Izzy" Hannah whispers, her voice achingly distant. It echoes in my ear, and I know Max can't hear her. My conversation with Hannah is entirely in my head.

"Hannah," I breathe out.

"You need to get out of here," Hannah tells me urgently. "You love Clay. Get out of here!"

I close my eyes, unable to bear looking at her but never wanting her to leave. "I'm trying..."

"I have to go," Hannah whispers, looking over her shoulder at something I can't see. "Clay loves you. He needs you. You need him. I could never tell him that, but you can. Get out of here before it's too late."

"Hannah!" I scream, but it only vibrates against my head. Hannah Baker is gone, again.

Then Max does exactly what I need him to do to snap back into reality. He grabs my hips and pulls me into his lap, and I'm suddenly reminded of Clay.

Everything that surrounds me is somehow Clay. Hands are at my waist, just like Clay's always found themselves. I breathe the distant smell of soap and leather, the memory of his kiss, how his arms felt around me, how they envelop me.

Panic fully sets into me. I need to get out of here.

I open my mouth to say something, to scream or whisper, anything to let him know that I needed him to stop. I can't breathe. I keep opening my mouth, but no sound comes out.

Max doesn't know what he's doing. He thinks I'm here because I want to be, not because I wanted to prove a point to myself and ended up making one of the worst choices of my life. He doesn't know, and I can't tell him, for my voice is failing me.

"Max," I croak, trying to crane my neck away when he pauses to take a breath.

For a brief moment, Max moves down to latch his lips onto mine again. Then he stops, leaning back and watching me quietly. "You okay?" he asks breathlessly.

My heart breaks. I feel terrible for him. "I'm sorry," my voice is so quiet it's hardly even there. My eyes do all the talking; silently communicating with him, pleading for him to finally understand me.

Then, something in his eyes clicks. He pulls away. Max backs up, sitting upright on his bed and staring at me. Max realizes with furrowed eyebrows that his hands are still at my waist, and retracts them with a very certain air of awkwardness. His eyes are darting around his room in thought; I desperately want to know what he was going through his head.

Does he think I'm a slut? I think to myself as the silence settles uncomfortably. Is he angry with me?

"I am so, so sorry," I murmur honestly. Max is silent. My hands fold in my lap, and it takes every bit of strength in me to not tap them furiously together.

I can't show any weakness in front of him. I can't have another night like the Clubhouse. I can't let him think I was easy to ruin.

"Okay," he says quietly, eyes latched onto mine.

My eyebrows scrunch, uncertain. "What?"

"I get it," his voice is louder. "I don't know what happened that made you come here, but it'll get better."

I stare at him. "Max, I—"

"Don't say you're sorry," he states authoritatively. "You're not supposed to be here with me. Something happened, I can see it in your eyes."

Max turns to look at me. He holds his eyes in mine, and I have the odd feeling that he's reading me and all my emotions like a book. To be fair, they're everywhere, splayed out across my face for anyone to read clearly.

"I think you're the most beautiful girl I've ever seen. I never thought that I'd get you here, be able to actually kiss you..." Max reaches out forlornly to touch my face, but he yanks it away before making contact. "That is 100% certain."

Max stands up from the bed, fixing his shirt and extending a hand out to me. I accept it, letting his ridiculously strong arms lift me to my feet.

"Go to him," he states certainly, his eyes examining mine carefully.

"Go to— what?"

"Isabelle," Max whispers. "Go to Clay. You love him, I can see it in your eyes."

I wish I could have mistaken it, but I see the faintest of glimmer pain in the swirl of his green gaze.

Max lets go of my hand, and I know the conversation is over. He walks me to the staircase, standing a considerable space away from me. My hand touches the doorknob and he drops his head to look at his feet, undoubtedly blinking away tears. I instantly feel nothing but the purest of guilt.

Great. This is fucking great, I think bitterly. You came here to prove you are a terrible person, and I guess what you did. You made Max cry, you bitch.

I turn to face Max, still staring intently at the floor, pale eyes trained on the white tile. He looks up at me with the saddest shimmer in his gaze. My heart aches as I spin around, running to him and almost falling on my ass from the slippery tile. I collide into him, ignoring the "oomph" of surprise that escapes him.

I don't kiss him. I'm not promiscuous and I don't make a single movement to allude to anything more than it is: a hug. Oddly comforting and broken-hearted hug, with thousands of unspoken words. My hands loop under his arms. His hands are at my shoulders, showing nothing less than a friendly embrace.

It's hard to believe that minutes ago, I ducked under his arm to avoid the simplest of human gestures. Now, I sway on the spot, a complicated, surprising understanding passing between us.

Then his arms pull back, and I step gracefully out of the hug. He looks at me oddly. The same sadness is still prominent in his eyes, but they have a certain hardness of resolution.

My hands reach for the door, then I stop. I turn to face Max. "Why were you in my house that night?"

"What?"

"When you found my Dad," I say bluntly. "Why were you in my house?"

Max's face instantly flushes. "I was looking for you... I thought it might be romantic. I was throwing rocks at your window for forty minutes."

I stare at him, unable to comprehend this.

"Then I heard a thud," Max continues, clearing his throat. "I was worried it might have been you, that you were drunk or something. I saw him in the window, just in the floor. I'm so sorry."

My head nods, but my mind is in utter disarray.

I turn to the door, it opens, and I'm gone. I am out the door without a second to lose, rapidly descending the slippery stairs. The moon is high above me, as the porch lights on the last illuminated house at long last flickered off, enveloping the long street into a blanket of night.

I jump into my car and drive recklessly, breaking the most amount of laws I can possibly do in one night. Then I find myself at Clay's house, leaping out of the car door and knocking rapidly on the door.

Clay answers the door. Stupid, kind, smart, selfless, beautiful Clay Jensen. His pale blue eyes glitter even in the darkness of night, and his smile is bright, totally unknowing as he grins warmly at me.

"Ellie!" he exclaims as he steps out of his house, anxiously closing the door behind him. I hear distant shouting from within the house and I grimace as Clay turns to face me. "What are you doing here?"

I do the very thing that I swore I wouldn't. I start to cry. I'm a terrible person, but Clay doesn't seem to think I am. He wraps me into an embrace, tighter and much more personal than Max's. It's deep and connected, arms finding their familiar resting places in each other's bodies; his hands at their usual place on my waist with mine circled around his neck.

"I'm sorry," I whisper into his ear.

Clay holds me a little tighter. "It's okay. Why would you be sorry?"

"Max. He kissed me — or I kissed him — I'm not sure," I stutter nervously. Clay shows no reaction. "But I love you, Clay, so I left. I didn't want to kiss him. I got out of there as soon as I could because I love you so much and—"

"Hey," he interrupts me softly. His voice is quiet and deeply reassuring, no tone of the betrayal or sadness that I was expecting. "It's okay. I know you didn't mean to." We separate, but he keeps his fingers stubbornly intertwined with mine.

"But I went over to his house. It was me, Clay, you deserve so much better."

"No I don't," he murmurs, a sympathetic gleam in his incredibly blue eyes. "Don't say that, Ellie. I know you didn't want to. I promise."

I nod, accepting his words. "I didn't want to kiss him, but I still went there. I'm still a terrible—"

"Don't finish that sentence," Clay warns softly. "You think you're some terrible person, but you're not! And I don't know how to make you see that."

Clay lifts my head with his thumb so I can look steadily into his eyes. They're still that constant, swimming ocean of icy blue. I'm lost in them.

He kisses me, and it's not like Max. It's soft and quiet, like a fluttering bird or a gentle summer breeze.

His kiss embodies the color blue. I feel icy surges of emotion when his lips touch mine, and salty waves of love course through me. It's blue like a clear sky, one you look up to and admire even when you've seen it so often. It's the smell of a fresh pair of jeans or a flowing stream, the color of blue diamonds layered on your neck, or a musical bluejay.

Blue has always been my favorite color. And everything about Clay Jensen is blue.