Dear Keltie,

I AM proud of you. I was getting worried...all of your letters were so sad, and I hated to think of you isolating yourself. Of course you have friends-you are lovely and anyone with eyes should be able to see that.

I was thinking about what you said, about being addicted to feeling sorry for yourself, and how that night when you were walking home, you just wanted to punish yourself so you'd have more to feel bad about?

Scott used to say that teenagers exist inside of their own bubble, and even when you try to look outside of that bubble, everything is weird and swirly and multicolored and it's hard to see things with any kind of perspective. Which is why you shouldn't be too hard on yourself, because you know what? Everyone else is in a bubble too. Ben and Leah are in their own little bubble and they can't see how much they're hurting you, just like you were in your bubble and didn't realize you might have hurt Jack. We're all just floating around, bumping into each other occasionally.

I asked Scott if things became clearer as you got older-if the bubble ever popped-and he laughed and said: "Not really. But it does get bigger."

Your bubble is getting bigger, Keltie Matthews, and I'm really proud of you.

As for things with me...well...

Logan is giving me the cold shoulder. I know I should be more concerned about imminent death, but I'm not. More accurately, I don't want to be. I have other concerns

Like Logan coming down the hall just as Bobby was pushing me up against it. Is it weird that I am embarrassed by this? I mean, Bobby was my boyfriend. Now that I can touch, is it really so wrong that I enjoyed making out with him?

It was just the look on Logan's face...I can't describe it. Now I'm feeling totally confused, guilty, and mad at myself. It's so frustrating that this is how it is again.

It seems like that's how it's always been with Logan, and thats how it's always going to be. I never know where we stand. We used to sit on the porch and chat about life, and on those nights, I fall asleep with a smile on my face, sure that we are the best of friends. But we can go for weeks at a time without speaking, and that's when I begin to feel unsure. I start tiptoeing around, until we have another night like tonight, a night I'm sure we can't come back from, when it seems like everything must have changed.

Because the problem is, I do want things to change. Anyone with a set of eyes can see I've always been a little...infatuated, with Logan. I mean, the guy saved my life. Twice. More than that-he was there when I needed someone. Whether I can call him a friend or a mentor, the guy irrevocably changed my life, and I never let myself doubt that it was for the better.

Jubilee and Kitty have known how I felt for ages, although by now they've gotten used to not mentioning it. Bobby, too, in a way. It's waned, on and off, since I met him. After Liberty Island, probably, was when it was at it's worst. Back then, though, I was still dealing with having other people's thoughts in my head, and weird powers I didn't understand. I spent the first few weeks turning everything in my sight into magnets. I mean, things that never should have been magnets. Like Hank's toolbox. Or Scott's BMW. And I was trying to quit smoking, despite never enjoying it in the first place. I can't even talk about the nightmares.

But even those weren't as bad as the other dreams. You know. THOSE kinds of dreams. I'm blushing just thinking about them. How can I explain? It was like I had free cable in my head, and the channels were 24/7 Skinemax. I'm talking graphic, vivid dreams that couldn't possibly come from my own imagination. With my newfound libido, not to mention the natural hero-worship that comes from someone saving your life multiple times-well, lets just say I was infatuated with a capital I.

Then I started concentrating on school, and I made new friends, and suddenly there was a boy-a really cute, sweet boy-who was interested in me, and everything started to get a lot more normal. I know, you're thinking "How normal could life at mutant high be?" but it was as close to normal as I could imagine. We didn't party or go to football games or prom or any of the stuff I'm sure you do all the time, but we went to the movies and did homework and pulled pranks on the teachers. Either way, life became a lot more...regular. Scheduled. Predictable. In a good way.

When Logan first came back, I was relieved, and a little anxious, but I had firmly thrown myself into being "Bobby's girlfriend" and that-not to mention the attack on the mansion, absorbing John, falling out of, and then crashing the jet-kept me pretty occupied. I knew how he felt about Jean, and if not, I certainly did once she died. We all dealt with things in our own way, and his, it seemed, was talking to me. It didn't occur to him that I might have other things to do. He'd find me in the library, or making a snack, or once even in the middle of the night. "Hey kid," he'd say. "Feel like taking a walk?"

It didn't occur to him that I'd ever say no. It never occured to me that I could.

That's how we got so close. I'd say that we were already close, what with me absorbing him several times, but this was different. Mostly we walked around the grounds, sometimes not even speaking. I alway liked the spring the best. I didn't feel self-conscious about being covered up, and my Southern sensibility found comfort in the fact that I no longer had to deal with the cold Northern winters. Logan liked the fall. I postulated once, on a day I was feeling particularly deep and observant, that it was because he was more comfortable with death than life.

"No," he had replied, a hint of amusement in his voice. "I like the colours."

I found out these things about him-things I doubted anyone else had ever known. When he's distracted, he'll still go out of his way to step on a particularly crunchy looking leaf or twig. For someone whose biggest liability is his inability to sneak up on people, I found this endlessly amusing. He also, I learned, could speak several language-many of which he didn't remember learning.

I did more listening than talking on these walks. It helped me sort out some of the things in my head. Memories or feelings that had no significance until he explained them. I never came right out and asked-I think just the reminder that I knew so much about him and he so little about me would have freaked him out. But then, maybe that was why he felt comfortable talking to me-because he didn't have to explain himself.

Not to sound bitchy or possessive-I know Logan belongs to no one, least of all myself-but I doubt that Jean ever knew these things about him. Or that he knew anything about her, for that matter.

Jean wasn't a huge sharer, but just being around her you picked up on things. Like her warmth, and her intelligence. But just like with Logan, I also knew things I'm not sure anyone else did, except maybe the Professor. Scott was so deeply in love with her I think even if he could feel the conflict inside of her, he ignored it. Jean and I spent a lot of time together, mostly, I think because she was fascinated by my ability and what role my mind had in controlling it. Also, we shared a not so subtle addiction to old sitcom re-runs. Sometimes when neither of us could sleep, we'd stay up watching I Love Lucy or The Golden Girls, and she'd tell me things-about her day, or planning her and Scott's wedding, or growing up as a telepath.

This is going to sound crazy, I'm fully aware, but I got the sense, sometimes, that there was more to Jean than even she knew.

Of course, the things I sensed don't make any more sense to me now than they did then.

I know, though, when Logan talks about Jean, that he didn't really know her, not the way I think you need to know someone to be truly in love with them. Not that knowledge is required for love. Clearly, I loved Logan when he saved my life. And though I can hardly claim to "understand" the Professor, I love him for everything he's given me.

But Logan will never know how Jean sprinkled chocolate chips over her popcorn or how she cried at those commercials that ask you to sponsor a child in Africa. He's never seen her stay up all night with a kid who was homesick or vomiting and still be bright eyed and bushy-tailed the next morning for classes and X-Men meetings. He's never seen how truly in love she was with Scott, or he with her.

By the same token, he's never run into her before she had her coffee in the morning, or when she got too busy to get her eyebrows waxed or her hair blown out, or when she was having trouble with her telepathy and took her frustration out on her friends.

I guess he'll never get a chance to know or see those things now, but that doesn't stop him from dreaming about her, fantasizing about her, idealizing her. Jean was an amazing person, but she was far from perfect, and I don't think Logan gets that. Because she was taken away so early, it's like she's still this perfect picture in his mind.

I used to think I'd give anything to have him think of me like that, but I don't think that's true. I'd always be worried about disappointing him. I'd way rather have him know me-really know me, like I know him-and love me anyway. And I suppose I'd rather have him love me as a friend than not love me at all.

It's a moot point, anyway. Not only does he probably think I'm too young, but I mean, come on. I can barely function as a teenager. How could I even compare to the women he's had? How could I even compare to Jean?

Ugh, listen to me rambling on! I don't even know where that came from! I guess I just have a lot of time to think, and I've been doing an awful lot of that lately. John too. I guess being told your life expectancy is suddenly drastically shortened will do that to you.

Anyway, those are my thoughts for the day.

Love, Rogue.

Dear Rogue,

I've been thinking a lot about love lately. I've noticed that no one seems to know anything about it. My aunt told me to wait until I found a boy who "took my breath away" before sleeping with anyone. "Ew," I said, when she brought up the topic. My Dad told me that good relationships are often based on timing. I asked them both if good relationships had anything to do with love at all, and they couldn't answer me.

Leah seems to think being in love is having that person be the center of your life. She's ditched all her friends, not just me. Ben doesn't seem to feel the same way. I can tell because when she met him at his locker this afternoon he told her that he didn't remember making any plans, and that he was going to play hockey with his friends. She looked crushed, but he brushed it off. It was almost enough to make me feel bad for her. Almost.

I used to think that having someone love me would make all my problems go away. But that's pretty stupid, isn't it? Because everyone has problems of their own. Most people are so busy keeping their own heads above water that they can't stop to rescue us as well.

I thought a lot about your letter, and what I have to say is this: I think Logan is selfish. Really, extremely selfish. You let him pour even more of his mind into you, and he doesn't even try and get to know you better? Come on.

I mean, I know the guy saved your life x number of times. Obviously, I can see why you're so smitten with him, but I don't think you-or he-are giving yourself enough credit. You flew the jet, you stopped John from killing those cops, you saved yourself when Logan almost killed you. If anyone could give Logan a run for his money, it's you, woman or not.

That being said...I know you've been through more than I can imagine, and you've had to grow up way faster than I have, but you're still only 18. What business does he have telling you about his love for your teacher? Why doesn't he want to hear more about your life? It's not an equal friendship if he's doing all the talking.

I know this because I used to do the same thing with Ben. I used to feel privileged, even, when Ben would share his problems with me. Like he was giving me permission to try and make him feel better. I feel almost sick thinking about how happy I would get just listening to him tell me about his D in Math class.

If love is all about understanding the other person, like you said, how could Logan love you, if he doesn't even know you? How could I have ever thought that Ben loved me?

I'm starting to think maybe we've blown this whole "guy" thing out of proportion. Maybe what's most important is that we can give ourselves what we need, rather than the other way around.

If Leah were here, she'd tell me I was hovering dangerously close to the "militant feminist" zone, but what do I care? She could do with a little more feminism, the way she's been acting.

Love and hairy-legged feminists,

Keltie.

Rogue,

Even Keltie can see that Logan could never be interested in you. Did you read that line: How could Logan love you?

How is it, Rogue, that a 16 year old has to tell you what we've been telling you for years?

How is it that you're still not getting it?

Sincerely,

THE COLD HARD TRUTH ASSOCIATION

Rogue,

It's time to make a decision: Are you going to: (please check all that apply)

[] Wait around, letting boys kiss you without any say in the matter?

[] Lie back and let this disease slowly kill you?

[] Let life pass you by?

[] Spend your remaining days in a hospital bed?

[] Playing cards with your former arch nemesis ?

[] While the potential true love of your life avoids you like the plague?

[] Grab life by the balls, get up in its face and scream, "I'M NOT GONNA TAKE IT ANYMORE!"?

Kindly inform us of your decision ASAP. Please allow 6-8 weeks for shipping and processing.

Sincerely,

Life Decisions Made Easy, Ltd.

Dear Rogue,

That was oh so smooth. Really, we don't even know why we're surprised anymore. Even when you try to do something Brave and Daring for once in your life, you still chicken out at the last minute.

Go bury your head in the sand. You're not even worth the (hypothetical) ink being wasted on this letter.

Sincerely,

The Association of Teenagers

Keltie,

I really thought that the next time I would be writing to you, it would be to say one of the following two things:

"You're going to be so proud of me."

OR

"I've made a huge mistake."

Unfortunately, I cannot start this letter with either of those things (and not just because the letter has already begun, making it impossible to start with either of those things, anyway). I can't start the letter like that, because I haven't even DONE anything.

I wanted to be brave. I wanted to be a bombshell, a vixen. I wanted to have moxie, to be sassy, sexy, and alluring. I wanted to be completely and totally devastating.

The truth of the matter is, I'm none of those things.

Except maybe devastatingly pathetic.

I suppose I'll start from the beginning.

In the last week, I've been kissed by two boys. That's 50% of kisses that I've received in my life. Both times, I was taken entirely by surprise. Both times, I had no say in the matter. Both times, I barely even had time to react, let alone respond, before the whole thing was over.

And you know what I've been thinking, Keltie? I've been thinking that I might die soon. I've been thinking that even if I don't die soon, this whole thing with my skin isn't going to last forever. I've been thinking that if I'm going to be kissing anyone, I should get a say in who that is.

I've been thinking that I'd really like that person to be Logan.

SO. This is what I did: I told John to cover for me. He wanted to know where I was going of course, but I told him that it was none of his business. He didn't like that response, but I figured by the time anyone figured out where I was, my objective would be accomplished, and one way or another, I'd be on my way back to the hospital.

The walk to the hotel wasn't too far, but it was cold. My teeth were chattering by the time I entered the lobby, although that could have had more to do with nervousness than the temperature.

I knew the floor Logan was on, but not the room, so I followed the smell of cigar smoke (I'm guessing his size was enough to prevent the staff from enforcing the "No Smoking" ban) to a room at the end of the hall. I took a deep breath, praying for bravery, while my stomach flipped over.

I knocked.

I heard water stop, and a moment later Logan opened the door, nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist. His usual scent of cigar smoke, leather and testosterone was replaced by the scent of generic soap.

"'The hell you doing out of the hospital?" he asked, his voice gruff. It snapped me out of my 6-pack induced trace.

I smiled and slipped by him into the room. "Hello to you too, Logan. Lovely day, isn't it?"

I honestly don't know where that glibness came from. It certainly hadn't made it to my knees, which were shaking as I slid my scarf off.

He looked into the hallway, and, after a moment's hesitation, closed the door. I sat myself down on his bed, noticing that the sheets had been hurled into the corner of the room.

"Why are you here, kid?"

"I'm bored!" I pouted. "I'm sick of the hospital. I feel absolutely fine. John is driving me crazy and Bobby pretty much left after the...encounter you stumbled upon." He ran a hand through his hair, saying nothing. "I've read every book I can get my hands on about this stupid virus, and since I'm pretty much going to die-"

"You're gonna die." His head snapped to look at me.

"-I don't want to spend the rest of my time in the hospital." I finished. I clasped my hands in my lap and waited for his reaction.

He sighed. Turning around, he walked into the bathroom. When he came out he was wearing a pair of jeans and a grey t-shirt. Leaning against the doorframe, he considered me. I raised my eyebrows. "What did you have in mind?" he said, grudgingly.

I grinned. "I want to get drunk."

He exhaled a large breath. "Yeah, right."

"I'm being serious," I said, as he crossed the room and threw open the curtains, wincing at the bright light.

"I like that you think I'm not." He leaned down and started digging for something in his bag, which I noticed carried quite a lot. How had he known Scott would ask him to stay so long? I wondered.

"Why not?" I said. "I'm young and reckless and I've done all these crazy things but I've never had a beer in a bar. I'm not going to die without getting totally and completely hammered at least once in my life."

"No, you're not." He said. "Because you're not goin' to die. Will you stop saying that?"

"If you take me to a bar and get me loaded."

"No."

"Why not?" I whined. "If you say 'Because I said so' you lose any and all cool points you might have."

He just shook his head at me, still digging in his bag. "Lots of reasons," he said. "Not the least being that you're underage."

"Not in Quebec." I protested.

"So go to Quebec."

"Take me to Quebec."

"No." He closed his bag and stood up. He tossed me the object he'd been searching for. It was a Blackberry, identical to the one Scott had just purchased.

"What's this?"

"Scott gave it to me. I don't know how the hell to use it."

"And you want me to show you? That's your alternative suggestion?"

He made a face at me. Comical. "I want you to call him and ask him what you just asked me."

"Pffft." I spluttered. "Right."

He gave me a look. I sighed. "You're getting soft, Logan."

"Maybe." He said. Then a moment's hesitation. "'What do you mean, soft?"

"Well, for one, you just called Scott 'Scott' instead of a snippy little nickname. And two..."

"Not taking an underage girl to a bar at two o'clock in the afternoon when she's dressed like jailbait does not make me soft," he interrupted.

I continued like I hadn't heard him "...next thing you know you'll be staying at the mansion longer and longer...reading bedtime stories to the kids...wearing socks with sandals..."

He snorted. I vaguely wondered how he got his hair to stay like it did when mine usually wouldn't obey maximum hold gel, a flat iron, or the laws of gravity.

"Staying here in Boston, and being Scott's bitch is just the first step-"

"Hey," he said, looking me straight in the eye. "I'm here because of you, not Scott." His eyes held mine, and I felt a catch in my throat as my next sentence died on my lips. I caught his message loud and clear. He was saying he'd put up with everything to this point, but I was taking it a step too far. I didn't know if was guilt or a twisted sense of honour that's kept him from taking off, but I do know what his eyes were saying: Don't push your luck.

"Okay," I said, despising how small my voice sounded. My plan went out the window. It was pretty obvious that whatever I'd expected, whatever reaction I'd hoped for, was now completely out of the question. I felt drained of energy all of a sudden, and my resolve just weakened. I closed my eyes and lay back on the bed. I suddenly wanted to throw up. Was this how it was always going to be? Was I only ever going to be with boys who could make decisions for me? Was I never going to be able to decide these things on my terms? An image of myself, as a lonely, acquiescent virgin on my death bed floated through my mind, and I shook my head. That wasn't going to happen.

"Kid?" Logan asked. I cringed at the endearment.

"I'm not feeling well," I lied, standing up. "I'm going to go back to the hospital."

He grabbed his jacket. "I'll go with you."

"No!" I said, jerking my head. "I mean, no. I'm fine. It's just down the street." Before he could say anything I threw open the hotel door and walked out. As soon as I reached the stairwell I sped up, racing down the stairs so I could be out of his sight in case he tried to follow me. Once outside I set off in the opposite direction I'd come in. I found the first bar a couple of blocks away, and that is where I am sat now, writing this letter.

Pathetic, right? I'm going to die soon. I have literally nothing to lose, and I still couldn't even go through with it.

Anyway. I'm getting good and drunk. It's decided.

I guess being a college town, Boston has some pretty strict policies on ID, but I have about 10 personalities and 8 months on the road under my belt. I know how to order drinks like a seasoned pro, and I know how to tip so that the bartender doesn't ask too many questions. This one, to his credit, has been refilling my bourbon and Coke without me even having to ask.

It's funny though, because I'm not really feeling it. I've had about 5 of these now, and I feel a little lightheaded, but it's nothing like I imagined it would be. Have you ever been drunk? Is this all it is?

What am I saying? Of course you have! Because you're pretty and popular and go to parties all the time. I wish I could be more like that.

Several guys have approached me, but I've turned them down. I've decided that if I'm going to do this, (whatever "this" is-I haven't exactly decided yet) I'm going to be picky. Taking control, you know? It's pretty much the only thing I can control at this point.

Logan's right about one thing, though. I do look like jailbait. This is going to be even easier than I hoped.

I'm just going to order a couple more drinks, and then I'm going to go talk to those guys playing pool in the corner. The blonde one is kind of cute...

Wish me luck!

Rogue