I Won't Call This Hell

I could accept the fact that John had broken up with me. I have, already, just having him here, explaining, that has been enough. I can leave now, I think, subconsciously, I look toward the door, scoot off of the bed, walk towards it, grabbing my bag on the way.

"Lynnette," I wrap my fingers around the heavy door knob; my eyes close. He's calling me.

"Yes?" I whisper, still. His answer better be quick, because I'm ready to bolt. Like always.

"Don't," he says, and one of his hands slides behind my neck, the other reaching for my hand. My bag slides off my shoulder, to the ground, with a thud.

I had thought this was it. We'd said it. We were done.

Only John kept surprising me.

"Don't," he said, again, softer, pulling my chin up so I could look at him. "Not again. Let's not do this again, not now."

Then, just like that, I crumbled. I shook, in his arms, and he held me. He whispered to me, over and over again, one thing. Don't leave. Not just yet. I'm not done. I let him hold me, for now. I know that most girls, in this moment, would feel pitiful. Disgusting. Worthless. I'm crying in a boy's arms, acting a child; ten minutes ago I would have felt just like those girls. Not now, though. Not now.

"You heard what I said, didn't you?" John asked, easing us both to the ground. I wasn't shaking, I wasn't crying. I was curled in his lap, staring straight across, at the full-length mirror hanging there, reflecting our image back at me."That was just the beginning of what I have to say. I'm not done; you can't go."

I watched him talk, through the mirror. Watched him watch me watch him. Watched myself.

We looked so close, so real; intimate. But my tears were still sticky on my cheeks and both of our faces flushed. His hair was a rumpled mess and he was talking fast, trying his best not to, but he was; he wanted to get every word out, and get it out right. He was good at that. I knew he could do it, so I just sat and watched.

"I don't think you're pitiful. I don't think you're stupid. I'm not laughing at you on the inside, thinking about how dumb you are for crying. I'm here, and I'm just like you. I'm here, I've been stupid, I've been hurt, I've been wrong. Just like you. Maybe more so than you have. Heh, never thought I would say that. But.. the thing is, I don't think you understand. I've said it, but I don't think you understand. You've told me, so this time I'm going to tell you. For real.

"I've never liked a girl like I've liked you. Breakups have never been much to me. Sure, they stung a little, but they wore off. We broke off two weeks before tour. I thought I'd be okay by the time it was time to hit the road, but I wasn't. The guys said maybe the shows would take my mind off of things, off of you, but they didn't. They said time would do it's course, but it didn't. I don't think they really meant what they said; they were always talking about missing you and calling you when they thought I wasn't listening. Only I was, and I wanted to call you, too, but I figured you were over me.

"I did this to myself. I've been bitching at myself in my head all fucking summer, sulking around about not having you, not talking to you, and it's all my fault. I sound like such a little bitch, fuck. I can't do this. Just.. here."

Moving out from under me, John stood, pulling his phone from his light jeans and handing it to me. Then, he was walking around the room again, hand parting the sea of his hair, huffing. He looked back at me, a hand sliding across his face, the other shaking at me.

"Messages, drafts," he mumbled.

I pressed a button, allowing the screen to light up. There, just like moments ago, was our faces. I remembered the day this photo was taken instantly, considering the little pictures I allowed myself to take part in with John. This picture was taken by one of the boys, Kennedy, I believe, on a little outing into the city with the guys. John and I had been walking somewhere in the middle of the group, holding hands and listening to the conversation pursue. There wasn't much to say; everyone was just throwing little ideas out about things they could do on stage if they got accepted on Warped. John wasn't contributing, and I had no idea, so we were just walking, holding hands, together.

It was probably a little after six and the sun was setting and you could see the rays coming through the buildings and alleyways. One second we were walking and the next John was tossing his phone out to someone, pulling me close to him and kissing my temple.

I looked up at John again, but he wasn't paying attention now. He was resting on the edge of my bed, staring at the ground. I did as I was instructed and followed the buttons to messages. Two unread texts from Jared, Pat, Garrett, Kennedy, Vito... everyone, mainly and one missed call from Mom, a few unheard voicemails and.. 67 drafts.

I glanced up at John, but his back was turned to mine still. I looked back at his phone, scanning over the unsent messages.

We're playing Las Cruces in a few days... think you can find a way up?
Various other messages copied this, only filled in with other city names. Pittsburgh? Indianapolis? Buffalo? Boston? Miami?

Then there were more messages, in between, the like.

Hey, the guys and I have been meaning to talk to you. We're having a blast, but we all miss you. Call me when you get the time?
How are you doing? We miss you. Maybe we can talk sometime?
How are you doing? I miss you. Can you call me?
I'm going to call you later. Around 4? Your classes are over by then, right? You only have math and Illustration Techniques on Tuesdays, right? If it's a problem, text me.
I'm sorry! I've been meaning to talk to you. Call me?
I fucked up. Call me, please.
I'm going to call you soon. Please answer.
I fucked up so fucking much, you don't understand how much I miss you.
I miss you so much.
I'm an idiot.
I was on stage all afternoon and I wish that I would just die of heat stroke because this sucks.
Can you please meet us sometime? We miss you. I miss you.
What the fuck was I thinking?

I look up at John. He's facing me now, finally, just staring at me. At my hands. At his phone. At his heart.

"You're not pitiful, Lynn. You're brave. So much braver than me."