say I love you

"Simon, Clary's here!" My mom screams up the stairs. I glance at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, still unsure about which shirt to wear. I guess it's too late now (I'm not even sure why I bother, my shirts go black, black with logo, flannel, black with band name).

I trudge across the landing, stopping at the top of the stairs to look down at Clary. And there she is, beautiful as always (I'm cheesy but it's true). "Hey, loser," she smiles. Her red hair is up in an approximation of a bun; she struggles to contain it- as she has told me multiple times.

"Hey, midget." I've grown in the past few months and I'm now a good three inches taller than her. She rolls her eyes but reaches a hand out to me. I gallop down the stairs past her and out the door.

"Have fun, you kids. Go wild!" My mom shouts after us. I cringe at the woohoo that follows. Clary laughs. "Where to?" She always asks, which is unnecessary considering we always go to the same place.

"Starbucks?" I joke. She hits me with her purse and I yelp, which I think is very manly. "Or how about-"

"Java Jones? Sounds good."

We walk down the neon-lit sidewalk, joking and laughing, her hand tucked into my elbow, comfortable for her, somewhat electrifying for me. God, I'm an idiot. I wince into the darkness at just how in love I am.

Considering we have all night, it's slightly disappointing that I fall asleep next to my coffee at half eight. Clary elbows me hard in the ribs and I jerk awake just in time to applause for the awful 'indie-folk' band that is currently playing. You know, tonight was meant to be kind of big for me, but to put it simply: This. Sucks.

I poke Clary in the arm and a whispered conversation begins.

"Let's get out of here."

"We can't, it's rude."

"Can you hear them? I don't care if it's rude. They just played a song called "Bohemian Raspberry."

She giggles. "It's ruuuuude, Simon."

"Okay, but if they play Wonderwall I swear-"

"Then we're out of here."

Strange enough, the next few chords sound suspiciously Oasis-like. We have escaped by the chorus (the fact that I checked the set list before they started is irrelevant).

"Seriously now, where to?"

I think about it. I'm staying at Luke's with Clary, and his curfew (unlike her mother's) is 1:30. That leaves 5 hours, and Pandemonium is shut. "Food?" I say, for want of alternatives.

We find the nearest diner, lit up in pink neon lights. Our shoes squeak on the black and white chequered vinyl floor. We ignore the two guys making out at the bar and old woman stirring her coffee with a plastic spoon.

"Hey y'all, take a seat," the blond bar tender says unenthusiastically. Ah, the best of New York.

We slide into a booth and peroxide woman drags herself over. "Welcome to Kacey's, enjoy your meal. Two hotdogs?" She drawls miserably.

"I'm Jewish," I grin. "And vegetarian."

Blondy looks at me, deadpan, for a second then screeches "HEATH" and a huge, hulking hairy guy comes out of the 'staff only' door behind the bar. Our waitress slopes off, checking her nails, and the man, whom I assure is Heath, lumbers over to us. "Yo, dudes, what's up! I'm Heath, liiiiike Teeth but not, dude! Like, cool, bro. Veggie burgers?"

My shy/awkwardness is switched back on at 'bro' so I shrink into the booth while Clary says "Thanks. Plus two fries, and, uh, two beers, thanks."

I almost laugh. We're seventeen, and not the oldest looking seventeen-year-olds you've ever seen.

"Right, bruh, awesome, like how old are you kids?" I've decided Heath is kinda terrifying, in a good way.

"Twenty-two," Clary says, and I back her up by throwing in a "bro," and then immediately cringe because I just said "bro."

"Riiiiiiiight, sure you you are, haha, yeah DUDES." But sure enough in a couple minutes we both have cold, foaming beers in front of us.

I chat with Clary about TV, and listen to her moan about her overprotective mom, all the while fighting a mental battle with myself.

Say it- (well you've missed that opportunity)

Just say it- (now you can't it's too late)

Say it-(give up, you never will)

Do you know how much it hurts to say I love you and have no one say it back? Me neither, but I don't want to find out.

I'm not gonna lie, a lot of tonight is a bit of a blur. I think there's dancing, possibly fireworks, and there is definitely alcohol. Snapshots of New York flash in my memory- Chinatown, a rollercoaster, an old fashioned movie theatre on Broadway, a 1920s jazz bar (don't ask.)

I'm not entirely sure how at midnight we end up at Target, in the fruit and vegetable aisle. "This is sooooo pretty," I mumble, holding a pineapple up against my face. "You looooove itttttttt," Clary teases, and for some reason I'm really embarrassed that she thinks I'm in love with fresh produce.

"I mean, it's not that pretty," I ramble rapidly. "You know, there are prettier things. Like, uh, diamonds, aaaand Jennifer Lawrence, plussss, um, uh," I look at her shyly, rocking on my toes, "you."

She smiles gratefully and hugs me lightly. In the tacky supermarket lights she looks like a modern fairy, her hair a red neon halo around her head. Her deep green eyes are slightly glazed with fatigue and most probably drink.

I grab her hand and she spins into me, and we begin a wonky waltz that ends when I fall into a display of baked beans, which topples and goes skidding across the floor.

We both curse violently and scuttle out the shop, trying to contain our laughter. As we spill out onto the street Clary cackles like a witch, tripping in her heels. I catch her before she falls and she yells my name, delighted. She says it again, her face close to mine, in a whisper.

"Simon."

So I say it, what I always meant to but thought better of, and I say because nothing's ever been truer.

"I love you, Clary Fray."

She freezes.

Turns around.

"Let's go home, Simon. It's late," she says softly, and sets off down the street.

Do you know how much it hurts to say I love you and have no-one say it back? I do, and I wish I didn't.