Dichotomy.

Rewind to before I made this God-awful mistake.

Better yet, rewind to before I ever met Brendon.

“But that’s my favorite line,” he protests, clutching his guitar. His eyes meet mine with flickers of irritation. “I’m not getting rid of it.”

“Fine. Then no touching me in public,” I state, as I strum a few chords on my acoustic. He glances at me from where he’s sitting across from me in the very back of the bus as we barrel down some highway or another. I’m referring to yesterday, after a photo shoot, when his hand lingered on my lower back long enough that even Spencer noticed.

It’s been a week since the last hotel, and subsequently a week since either of us have gotten any.

He scribbles down a few lines in his notebook before replying, not looking at me.

“Fine. As long as you stop acting like this when we’re alone.”

He ignores the murderous glower I fix him with.

“Fine,” I snap back, already annoyed at his presence. He glances at me again.

“That’s no way to start off,” he retorts. I roll my eyes. He’s enjoying this. His hand slips onto my knee. I open my mouth to tell him off but then he says, “We’re not in public.”

I don’t reply.

“Not in the mood?” he says, still teasing, but there’s something else behind his words. He takes his hand back and his tone changes when he looks at me again. “Why don’t we just talk, then?”

“I don’t have anything to say to you,” I state, still glaring at him. He’s glaring back at me, but I don’t know why.

“Can we just…talk? For a minute? Christ.” He shakes his head and finally looks away from me. “Do you realize I don’t even know anything about you?”

“You know plenty,” I say, selfishly. He gives a slight roll of his eyes and I’m guessing he’s so bored of writing and I’m here, so my talking to him will have to serve as entertainment, seeing as everyone else on the bus has already gone to sleep. “Fine. You want to know about me?” I ask, as if he hasn’t already guessed or figured things out for himself.

Of course he knows.

He doesn’t say anything, just stares at me.

And he’s not even staring in his stupid smirking way, and he’s being quiet for once.

It throws me off a little as I begin my life story crammed into thirty seconds.

“I can’t stand my mother and I haven’t seen my dad in years. I fucked my last lead singer, and what’s worse is that I loved him. Biggest mistake I ever made. The only one who likes me is my dog, and Tom – most of the time. I ended up with you two and the worst part is that I actually like it here,” I ramble in one breath. “And I fucking hate that you know anything about me,” I say, my throat suddenly tight. He continues to stare. “Happy now?”

Still nothing.

I leave, avoiding his gaze and the itching of my eyes.

My heart’s pounding erratically and my mind is racing.

The truth is, I’m just confused.

I climb into my bunk and pull out a notebook and a pen to get my thoughts together.

I draw an uneven line through the center of the paper and label the left column “I Hate” and the right “I Love.”

I Hate:

Brendon- Is of course, the first thing that comes to mind.

And Brendon has subcategories that go along with it, of course:

When Brendon pretends to be nice to me. That idiotic smirk he gets when he thinks he’s figured out something out about me. The way I feel when I’m around him for extended periods of time. His stupid lips and dumb tattoos. The fact that I want him even as I’m writing these words.

I also hate Eric, but mostly that I ever felt anything for him.

Almost everything that comes out of my mom’s mouth.

- the list goes on.

I Love:

This is harder. What do I love?

Rigby- My dog.

Tom- when he’s not being an asshole, anyway.

Music.

I can’t really think of anything else to put under the “Love” column.

The truth is, staring at this paper, I realize…

I’m kind of pathetic.