Hemorrhage.

If John was my trigger, than Nick was something else entirely. Nick noticed when I started getting thinner. Nick appreciated it. He wrapped his arms around me and held me close and called me “tiny.”

Nick was the first boyfriend I’d ever had - the longest relationship I’d ever had, too. We dated since the beginning of freshman year up until the end of sophmore. It was a hard relationship, because we didn’t go to the same high school. Nick was a good guy though, most of the time. He made me laugh and he was comforting.

He wasn’t John, though.

It killed me, but he wasn’t John.

Nick had left soon after the hug, barely pecking me on the lips before darting out of the parking lot, walking swiftly to where a white van waited on the corner.

I still felt like I was in shock. Had that really just happened? It felt surreal, having Nick back in my life again.

After we broke up, that was it. We didn’t talk. We didn’t text. Most of the time if we were at the same party, he took up one side of the house while I had the other.

That’s just how it was. I didn’t understand why he wanted to be back in my life now. What had changed?

I was lying across my bed, my hands tucked underneath my head comfortably. I was bored. I was anxious. John had just sent me a text message, telling me that he was on his way over because he wanted to talk about some stuff.

Stuff.

I hate the word ‘stuff’. It was a vague word, like ‘something’ or ‘maybe.’ What did they even mean?

I shuttered out a sign, resting my hands lazily on my abdomen. I knew that my mother would let John in whenever he knocked - he was like a weakness to her. She loved John. She loved everything about John - his way with words, his breathtaking looks, and his stuttering shyness. My mother wanted me to marry John, even though she didn’t say it in so many words.

I heard his footsteps as he bounded up the stairs and tried to mentally prepare myself for this. What was it going to be like, the awkward conversation we were most likely going to have?

He opened my door slowly, peeking his head inside cautiously. When he saw me lying on the bed, his body seemed to release some tension. He smiled at me, and I attempted a welcoming smile back.

“Hey,” He greeted, his hand lifting in a wave.

“Hi.”

“How’re you?” He asked, shutting the door behind him as he walked deeper into my room. He stood awkwardly in front of my bed.

“Fine.” I replied, sitting up and crossing my legs Indian style. I used my hand to gesture that he could sit on the free spot of the bed. He smiled at me politely, before graciously accepting and sitting down, his legs awkwardly hanging off the end. He was too tall for my twin. When he laid down straight, his shins dangled.

“That’s good.” He nodded, before an awkward silence ensued during our small talk. “So…what are you doing Thursday night?”

“Why?”

John looked nervous, and he played with his thumbs. “There’s a show. For us, y’know. It’s at Riley’s, the venue, and I was wondering if you wanted to come.”

I had to hide the surprise on my face. He was inviting me to a show? Did that mean something had changed now? Did that mean that we were friends? Friends invited their other friends to their bands shows, didn’t they?

“What time?” I asked him, looking up at him with widened eyes. I wanted to go, which surprised me more than John asking me. I would have figured that I wouldn’t have wanted to go.

Shows were great, yeah, because they were free music, but there was also a lot of judging. You had to wear exactly the right thing (skinny jeans, never flares or boyfriend), a good t-shirt (preferably v-neck and never, ever the band t-shirt of the band you’re seeing) and the right shoes (Vans or Converse were acceptable, but running shoes and flip flops were generally a no-no. Your hair had to be done correctly (and you needed bangs, man, oh, you needed bangs) and you couldn’t wear too much make-up or else you’d be classified as a groupie whore.

I didn’t need that kind of pressure.

“Nick’s band starts at 5:30, and we go on at 6.”

“Nick’s going to be there?”

“Yeah, he is kind of in A Rocket To The Moon. Him and Halvo.”

“Oh.”

“Can you go?’

“I have to go to thera--the store. The store. I have to go to the grocery store. With my mom. Yeah. I need tights. Yeah, tights. I’m running low on tights, y’know, and they’re really vital and everything.” Two years and my lying skills had not gotten any better.

Tights? It was June in Arizona. It was 76 degrees when I woke up at nine. All you needed were shorter than short shorts and tank tops. Which I had a problem wearing, but whatever.

And at the grocery store? Which grocery store, super Wal-Mart? Last time I checked, Whole Foods didn't carry tights.

John looked skeptical and unbelieving in my excuse, but shrugged. “Okay. If you can make it, that’s chill. If not, whatever.”

I looked at him apologetically. “I’m sorry. I’ll try to make it.”

No, I won’t.

“It’s okay.” He smiled at me. “I know that you’re trying.”

I’m not at all.