Madly
i don't know who you are.
I look at him with as much hatred as I can muster—which isn’t very much, to my displeasure—and wordlessly try to communicate everything I’m feeling. He’s prepared, knowing me better than anyone, and a smirk tugs at the corners of his mouth. You’re a coward, he’s saying, though he, too, chooses to communicate this without words.
My eyes move from his own down to the floor, taking in every detail in the process. He’s wearing a striped sweater I got him for Christmas and the trainers on his feet were purchased last week while he was in New York. He’d made a joke about them almost falling victim to customs when he and the boys landed at Heathrow and at the time I laughed, but now I can’t remember what the punchline was. My chest hurts and it’s all I can do to keep breathing, to focus.
“Hol—”
As if in self-defense, my hand rises to stop him. My brain knows he’s able to convince me of anything, even after he’s inflicted so much pain, and I guess it’s adapted accordingly. If it doesn’t let him speak, he can’t draw me back in. You know what they say about how only the strong survive. My brain is running on Darwinian instincts. “Don’t. Just let me go, okay?”
He isn’t one for patience. Millions of girls would willingly take my place, and that truth has never been lost on me. He could have anyone, and though I should’ve been sure of my place in the chaos of his life, I never was. One foot was always out the door, waiting for the rest of me to follow. I purchased the tabloids even when my face was plastered across the cover. I checked the blogs and his phone when he wasn’t looking, convinced I would find something.
One night back in March I broke down in his flat, apologizing over and over for never being fully there. I made some bogus psychological self-diagnosis and told him I was scared of commitment, though that wasn’t true. Well, it was a little, but ultimately my bullshit confession backfired, as it seemed to catapult a reaction from Harry that I wasn’t prepared for.
If I’d always been one foot out the door, Harry spent the next few months not even stepping in. I guess he figured that if I wouldn’t commit, it’d be a waste of time for him to do the same. Slowly, my face dropped off magazine covers and I didn’t have to check his phone for troubling messages because I already knew what I’d find. We hadn’t slept in the same bed for months, but that isn’t to say he was sleeping alone.
“You don’t get to do this,” I tell him, watching as his gaze softens just the tiniest bit. “You don’t get to be the one that breaks my heart and puts it back together. You aren’t allowed to be both.”
Incredulity appears in his eyes and a lump forms in my throat, hitching my breath. It hurts to move, it hurts to think, but it hurts worse to look at Harry in his effortless disarray and already know how our story’s going to end.
But I can't blame him: I was determined to break my own heart and wound up breaking his in the process. He was only returning the favor.
My eyes move from his own down to the floor, taking in every detail in the process. He’s wearing a striped sweater I got him for Christmas and the trainers on his feet were purchased last week while he was in New York. He’d made a joke about them almost falling victim to customs when he and the boys landed at Heathrow and at the time I laughed, but now I can’t remember what the punchline was. My chest hurts and it’s all I can do to keep breathing, to focus.
“Hol—”
As if in self-defense, my hand rises to stop him. My brain knows he’s able to convince me of anything, even after he’s inflicted so much pain, and I guess it’s adapted accordingly. If it doesn’t let him speak, he can’t draw me back in. You know what they say about how only the strong survive. My brain is running on Darwinian instincts. “Don’t. Just let me go, okay?”
He isn’t one for patience. Millions of girls would willingly take my place, and that truth has never been lost on me. He could have anyone, and though I should’ve been sure of my place in the chaos of his life, I never was. One foot was always out the door, waiting for the rest of me to follow. I purchased the tabloids even when my face was plastered across the cover. I checked the blogs and his phone when he wasn’t looking, convinced I would find something.
One night back in March I broke down in his flat, apologizing over and over for never being fully there. I made some bogus psychological self-diagnosis and told him I was scared of commitment, though that wasn’t true. Well, it was a little, but ultimately my bullshit confession backfired, as it seemed to catapult a reaction from Harry that I wasn’t prepared for.
If I’d always been one foot out the door, Harry spent the next few months not even stepping in. I guess he figured that if I wouldn’t commit, it’d be a waste of time for him to do the same. Slowly, my face dropped off magazine covers and I didn’t have to check his phone for troubling messages because I already knew what I’d find. We hadn’t slept in the same bed for months, but that isn’t to say he was sleeping alone.
“You don’t get to do this,” I tell him, watching as his gaze softens just the tiniest bit. “You don’t get to be the one that breaks my heart and puts it back together. You aren’t allowed to be both.”
Incredulity appears in his eyes and a lump forms in my throat, hitching my breath. It hurts to move, it hurts to think, but it hurts worse to look at Harry in his effortless disarray and already know how our story’s going to end.
But I can't blame him: I was determined to break my own heart and wound up breaking his in the process. He was only returning the favor.
♠ ♠ ♠
A little drabble to try and get my creative juices flowing and bring my inspiration back. Any and all feedback is greatly appreciated, as always!