Being alone bothered me more than I would admit.

Shouldn't I be happy? Shouldn't I be somewhere else but on the floor, his shirt threatening to slip down my shoulders, tears begging to be released? Shouldn't I be at the supermarket, filling my trolley with ice-cream and chocolate and everything else I could use to forget about him?

 Yes. I should've been doing something else, with someone else – preferably a boy who wouldn't pointlessly bicker about groceries or make terribly thought-out metaphors or nag about the fact that I, in fact, exist.

 Someone with bright eyes, and a light, enchanting smile, and hands that wouldn't bother me if they brushed against my skin in the dark.

Him. I want him.

 It had to be normal, right? For people to relish in their ex-lover's previous presence, to desperately crave something more, despite the fact that all we're doing is crawling back to the people who busted out our kneecaps and grazed our lips with theirs? It had to.

Which would explain why my body refused to move even a sliver of an inch, just as my mind had rejected the idea of thinking of anyone else except that goddamned boy who refused to make eye contact.

Why couldn't he just look at me?

 That's probably a terrible question to ask, though. I can barely look at myself.

 The countless hours I've spent staring into mirrors, trying to find something that I could love wholeheartedly, something that I could tell others about in full confidence, were always spent for naught.

The kind of people who are loved don't need to find something to feel good about – it's just there, swimming around inside their soul, whispering itself into their ears, reminding them that they are worth it.

  His voice used to do that for me.

Now there's nothing but this mind-numbing silence that makes my brain ache for any sort of emotional stability and my heart crave affection and my bones wait for the day that they'll disintegrate into complete nothingness, all while screaming for someone who sets my soul alight.

 He used to be that person, and he still is.

The faint sound of my phone ringing tickled my ears, and my fingers reached out to grab it, sluggishly placing the slab of metal that he'd constantly played with to my ear.

 "I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice overcome with honesty. "I'm a mess, and I haven't slept in days and my heart finds a way to keep beating whenever I see you, but my mouth never seems to catch up and I'm just —" he paused, taking a deep breath, and I found myself holding one too. "I'm sorry."

Apologies are the trickiest things, aren't they?

 Somehow, these lovely little words seep into you, and your mind soaks them up, and you actually believe them just long enough for the ground beneath you to tremble and quake and completely disappear.

 "I'm tired," he mentioned, "and it's twelve a.m. and I miss you."

 Why can't you miss me when the sun's up and you aren't busy drowning in your thoughts?

"What exactly are you tired of?" I breathed. "Because, quite frankly, I'm tired of sitting next to you in silence, and never being good enough, and missing you. I'm fucking tired of wanting to feel your lips on mine or your chest rising and falling. I need a break."

"I'm coming over, and you're not gonna stop me." He said, huffing slightly.

 "Nobody said I would."

And I wouldn't. Maybe I'd keep him waiting, let him stand there and realize just how horrible and heavy my heart felt. Or, maybe I'd go running, and let him play that age-old game once more.

 He knocked, and knocked, and knocked, and with every sound of his knuckles crashing against the wood, my heart broke a little more. The tiny, glass pieces could be heard rising from my chest and heading for my skull, where they'd tear my brain to shreds.

Then, he stopped knocking.

 I guess we can scribble his name onto the long list of things I've lost.

xxx

to reefie, because shE'S BACK (!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)