Mikaela feels her patience thinning the more time she spends in this club. The strobes of colorful lights, she finds too bright and flashy. The music, too loud. And your boyfriend, too rude.

"Don't talk about her like that," She spits, the words leaving her in a hiss. In spite of the noise in the background, it's clear your little lover hears her. At this point, however, Mikaela cares not. She only came here for your sake; she's never cared for your stupid group of friends that never appreciate you.

Much less that man she wants to toss her drink in the face of. But, no, Mikaela's a grown woman. Patient? Not so much.

Mikaela's been your friend for years, and oh how it hurt her whenever you'd show up clung to a new man's arm. It's not as though she herself hasn't been with men before, but your taste in them is, for lack of a better word, horrible.

They never treat you right. She, on the other hand, would never praise you with crude remarks and dirty smirks. Her lips, often red with the lipstick she borrows from you, would be soft against your cheek and lips; careful.

She stands from the booth, taking your hand in the process to pull you up and away from the hands of him. Truly, truly, if the guy treated you right and was a loving boyfriend, she'd swallow her feelings like she would needles and be happy for you nonetheless. But he doesn't.

Mikaela slides you in front of her frame, guiding you out of the club before you can get a word out. Her head pounds for more than just one reason tonight.

She hasn't told you that she's been kicked out of her home. Her parents hadn't been too elated when they snooped through her things and found a diary, containing the feelings she's held for you for years. To them, women were meant to be with men.

Frankly, she finds herself a little pathetic and thanks you for your naïveté these past years. How you haven't noticed the little trinkets that would suddenly go missing each time she visited, she doesn't know. That one shirt she borrowed from you, she apologized for never returning as she had "ruined it with paint".

In reality, she's just been using it as a pillowcase. Still does, considering it was one of the few items her parents allowed her to take apart from belongings she bought herself. It's a crappy apartment, the one she's been living in for the past seven days as she looks for a better one.

She pulls you to the side, hands sliding away from your body as she takes a step back. It's scary, just how deep you've nestled yourself between her ribs and into the flesh underneath to keep it beating without knowing.

Her confession might ruin this friendship. You're her dearest friend; her greatest love, and biggest hurt.

"I don't know how to say this, I..." Her tongue feels too heavy, and for once, she can't bring herself to look you in the eye. "Forget them. Please, just come with me tonight."

With her heart in her throat, Mikaela extends out her left hand, the other holding the keys to her motorcycle. Surely, your boyfriend — hopefully, soon ex — is coming out here any second now. She can only hope you'll follow her to the end like she would for you.