The Last Good Thing About This Part of Town

You wake up and his arms aren't around you because he's never there and he'll never be there. Maybe it was the light of day or maybe it was his absence that woke you; either way, you wish you were still sleeping.

You sigh, because honestly, you can't fall asleep without him there. You walk to the kitchen and find him there. He's sitting at the table and it looks like he's been running his hands through his hair for hours.

He looks up when he hears you walk in, and the bags under his eyes say that yes, he has been up for hours and yes, he has been stressing.

"Are you okay, baby?" you ask, because it hurts you—physically hurts you—to see him like this.

"I'm fine," he says, and it amazes you how easily the lie slips out and then he fakes a smile and it looks real, it looks so damn real, until you see his eyes and his eyes are hollow and dead and it's killing you to seem him like this.

"No, you're not. Tell me what's wrong," you plead and his eyes are angry.

"Damn, Bren, nothing's wrong," he tells you and it's such a lie and you can't believe he would lie to you because he never lies to you.

You try to shake it off and start making breakfast, but it's bothering you. The pancakes are almost done when you turn to ask again, ready to plead or beg or do whatever it takes, but he looks so upset that you can't do it.

You put his food in front of him and he eyes it warily. "You look hungry," you tell him and he shakes his head, pushing the plate away. This isn't the first time he's done this so you don't even bother to question it. Hopefully he'll eat once you leave the room but you know it's too much to ask of him.

He leaves for work an hour later, and you throw away the cold pancakes and wash his plate. You wish he would actually acknowledge the late night exchanges the two of you share, but it wouldn't be him if he said something. It wouldn't be like him at all to talk about it because he doesn't talk about things like relationships and late night kisses and you because those things just aren't on his mind.

You hear him come home later that night and you pray for him to come to you, but he doesn't and the moans of some random slut he picked up make you cringe and you cry. You rock yourself to sleep so you'll forget about him and someone else being pleased by him.

When you wake up, he's not there because he's never there and he'll never be there.

You go into the kitchen and he's sitting there and he's not eating or reading a newspaper or drinking coffee or anything; he never does anything. You wish he would eat the food you make him because he looks pale and thin, much too thin, but he pushes it away like he always does. Nothing is said because nothing needs to be said; he knows you heard his slut and you know he knows and it just doesn't matter.

You go into his room to clean once he's left for work and there is one picture of him with you and it makes you smile because he cares enough to have it there. He looks happy there. He smiles and it reaches his eyes and his cheeks aren't too thin and there are no bags under his eyes and he looks perfect. You see yourself and you don't have tear-stained cheeks and you aren't making breakfast that he doesn't eat and you're not in love with him and you feel perfect.

But you don't feel perfect anymore.

You see his black notebook and you open it, flipping past the blank first page and you see your name towards the back, the most recent page.

I don't eat anymore. I don't miss eating. Brendon still cooks, but I can't bear to eat it. Brendon's the perfect one. He can cook and clean and he can kiss, he can really kiss—this makes you blush—but I don't love him. I know he loves me. I wish I loved him. I'm scared. He'll leave me like they all do, like they always have and always will, and I can't love him. I'm in love with the idea of being in love with him.

We made love last night. It was beautiful. It was me and him and nothing else mattered. He was beautiful and I felt worthless. I fucked someone else tonight and I wish it could've been him. But it wasn't and I feel horrible.

Why can't I just love Brendon?

You stare at his words and the handwriting that is so obviously his and it takes you ten minutes to process it. You walk back to your room and cry because he doesn't feel perfect when he is, because he thinks you're perfect when you're not, and because he wishes he loves you but he doesn't.

You hear him come home and your door opens and his arms wrap around you and he whispers sweet nothings into your ear until sobs stop wracking your body. His lips capture yours and you wonder if this is what heartbreak feels like, because it's actually rather nice.

And then you think of how he'll be gone in the morning, waiting for you to make breakfast that he won't eat and you'll wake up and he won't be holding you because he never is and never will and the sobs come back, only this time they're tainted with hysterics and panic and there's no hint of calm left because you love him and he doesn't love you and fuck, your heart hurts like it's being shredded to pieces and this must be heartbreak.

He holds you close to him an comforts you and then you're yelling at him because you can't really think rationally. "Why do you lead me on like this?! You know I love you! You know I love you and you just keep hurting me! I keep hoping that maybe—just maybe—tonight will be the night that you finally stay with me but it never is! You're dead, Ryan. I can see it in your eyes. You're already dead and you're lying to both of us if you're going to keep pretending you're fine when you're not!"

You don't really know where it came from, and you don't really care until you see him crying and if your heart was broken before, it's shattered now.

"Shit, Ry, I didn't mean it. I'm so sorry. Ryan, please don't cry. You're perfect, I love you, please, please don't cry," you whisper and you don't know what else to say as he cries harder.

"P-promise me," he whispers.

"Promise what, Ry?" you ask.

"Promise me, please promise me," he begs and he can't get anything else out so you just tell him you promise even though you don't know what you're promising.

You fall asleep with him in your arms and when you wake up he isn't there because he's never there and he'll never be there.