Disclaimer: All characters belong to Marvel. Story belongs to me. The time I spent writing this belongs to my POHS instructor, Dr. Mellone. You can understand my dilemma, of course—"Listen to boring lecture on Nitrous-oxide or Write fic?"—but I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t. Title is from the Janet Jackson song of the same name.

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I never liked being alone. I don’t think anyone does, really.

You can call a person a loner if you want. Logan considers himself a "loner." It doesn’t mean he likes it, just that he is especially good at coping with the dull ache of loneliness.

I’ve never been a loner.

I’ve almost always been alone, of course. My early years are a blur of cold hands, runny nose and empty belly. I don’t think about those days much. Mostly I remember abandonment. It was a touchless existence full of cold mornings, hot nights spent hiding under my covers. Hiding from the darkness, the emptiness of that house, of that life.

Raven took me away from there before I could be destroyed by the loneliness. I would have done anything for her—just so long as she didn’t leave me behind like my mother had. I remember the first time she and tried to go out without me. I was about 12 at the time, old enough to put myself to bed. They thought it would be okay, progressive even, to show they trusted me, thought I was responsible and all that. I threw such a fit, kicking and screaming on the floor. I think I even cursed. Irene was appalled; Raven was confused. That’s how I ended up on my first terrorist mission.

There is nothing easy about loneliness. No matter how long you have to endure it, it never gets simpler. When my powers cut me off from the hugs and kisses and touches I needed so desperately, that dull ache became sharp. Irene bought me gloves and long sleeved shirts and high-necked sweaters. But the older I got the more the collars choked and the sleeved itched and the gloves got lost. It was like they were a barrier, not just to protect me, but to keep me separate, to keep me alone.

I couldn’t bare it.

Raven tried to be supportive. She wanted me to use my powers, to master them. It took her a long time—too long, maybe—to realize I was using my abilities, not for the sake of the cause or as a "public declaration of my mutation" (her rhetoric, not mine), but as a narcotic. I did my fair share of drinking with the boys and I have inhaled a time or two, but my real high, my real salve, was touch. It put an end to the ache for a while. You can’t be alone when you are consuming another person’s soul, experiencing they life and memories. It got so I couldn’t stand to be alone with my own head, abandoned to the tedious realities of my own thoughts.

Once I had felt that close to someone, so enveloped in another being, I couldn’t go back to alone. So I didn’t. I touched anyone, everyone, and I wasn’t alone. Only, sometimes I was and that sharp ache would double me over with pain, like a permanently empty belly. I would have to find someone, anyone to fill the space.

I was addicted, on so many ways, on so many levels, that absorbing Carol Danvers served as the ultimate high. I was never alone after that. She was with me, everyday, all the time. Late at night, when the rest of the world was far away and I could have been trapped in the loneliness, she was there beside me. Sure, she was angry and violent and did her best to ruin my life. But at least I wasn’t alone.

Eventually, it was too much, I overdosed togetherness and I had to get help. It was both the best and the worst thing I have every done for myself. I had to go back to being alone, but I found a place where I thought I would never be lonely. There was always someone around, in the mansion or on the grounds. I was never abandoned, per se. That should have been enough, and I convince myself that I didn’t need touch.

Every addict knows you take it one day at a time. Not me, I quit cold turkey. I locked myself away so tightly that every so often I had to break free. Longshot was the most notable but there were other flirtations with most of the guys, even one or two of the girls. It wasn’t always sexual. My needs are much deeper, more insistent then any libido. I can’t be alone even when I am.

Then there was Remy. It’s not fair, you know. He didn’t have to choose me. I used to hate him for it, for wanting me when he could never have me. Then I loved him for it, for the constancy of his desire no matter how many Queen Anne tables I broke over his head. I pushed him away for his own sake, not for mine. I need so badly, the addiction is so strong, and I couldn’t trust myself not to hurt him. But I couldn’t let him go entirely and let the isolation take hold again. That sort of dichotomy makes for a messy relationship, a lonely kind of love.

Now that we have severed our ties and crawled back into our respective holes, I can feel it creeping up on me. The ache of aloneness, the hunger for touch—they engulf me entirely at times and I would give anything to have anyone. Peter was ready and willing and maybe even eager, but perhaps I flatter myself. Neal is available and Logan is still alone. I continue to weigh my options, consider the possibilities.

There is one thing I will not stand for, one choice I cannot make.

I hate being alone.

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