Chapter 35.

Tough Act by Maisie Peters

I shouldn't have told him all of that, I shouldn't have told him anything. I hated how easy it was, how stupid it was of me to even make such a mistake. I called him and I sounded desperate for his presence and I was supposed to be okay. In his mind, I was supposed to be fine. And thriving. Loving my life and writing my art and having emotions at my disposal constantly. One word from me and he knew all of my pain. And I gave him plenty more than just one word.

"You don't have need to worry, Darby."

"Could you stop saying my- name-" I tried to bring myself down from my anger, but it resulted in an ended phone call.

Now to ignore my problems in peace. He didn't try to call back, he knew full well it wasn't worth it. After a ramble about the stresses looming over me whilst Anna lies in a hospital bed, he wouldn't want to associate with us much anymore anyways.

I like to think I look pretty when I cry, but the hospital bathroom did no good for me. I'm really good at blaming other things, acting like it's not my own devastation and instability wrecking my face. I don't look very alive. Kinda funny.

"I can't go on." I said abruptly. My tour manager's face dropped.

"No- what? What are you talking about? We have like 20 minutes-" The pace of the atmosphere instantly quickened, my heartbeat matching it's pace. There weren't any thoughts in my head, not a single one.

"So sorry, mate. I really have to go. Give me like... like half an hour. Technical difficulties?" I ran out the door as he protested.

...

"I am glad it cannot happen twice, the fever of first love. For it is a fever, and a burden, too, whatever the poets may say."

I sat back down quickly, trying not to make a fuss. A couple of people had entered since I'd gone to the bathroom, I didn't want to disturb them. I held everything together awfully well.

I'm sure there's curiosity with passing time, it seems to be a leading cause in my story. Where I went with my writing, how my style has changed, if I ever learned to recognize my feelings. Maybe if I bought a new journal, finally finished reading the infamous book from the sunny meadow afternoons, moved out of my first apartment. I'd wonder those things about myself too, it be a lie to say I hadn't in some way.

What I think some misunderstand is that so much as time is spent with such curiosities, it is wasted. It's not easy to get answers. The effort necessary is exhausting on your head. So I didn't put in that effort when wondering just how many awards my time and affection had handed him. If maybe my lines won him the people's pleasure as they sat on a line of fan-made t shirts. It's not foreign to me to wonder where I could've been, my head is real messed up for that. And there's nothing I can do about it.

I zoned out with my thoughts. My eyes started to go blurry focusing on the edge of a chair five feet away from me.

He sat down quietly, not acknowledging my presence. My eyes were tied to the tiles on the floor, soon after distracted by a pair of shoes at the end of their lifeline. Really, they were next to falling apart, obviously a very separate color from what they once were. I like them.

A soft presence, one far from unfamiliar. It was too quiet, I could hear him breathing. He seemed comfortable, like hospitals didn't make him choke up in fear. I didn't feel the need to look at him, just the need to be close to him. I pursued happiness for a long time, but I can't say it ever brought me anything that could last. Happiness personified must be some sort of paradox. It's the root of evil, and in all of my blind selfishness I wish to believe that.

"You look anxious, you know. Sickly almost." I jolted at the confrontation, pulling me out of my head.

Holocene by Bon Iver

And there was my butterfly, sitting delicately beside me, as awfully devastated as I was. I sat in my anger at cheesy romantic lines while I felt them unexpectedly connect to each other. If I should be angry or desperate or maybe a little bit more understanding or disgusted beyond comprehension, I had no capability of knowing. I froze there, and he knew.

"You're in my head..." I managed to laugh.

"Am I? Like reading your mind??" He said, innocently. Disgusting, but he did nothing too wrong.

"No, you aren't real, I thought I'd been talking to you for an hour... it was a wall I... forget it." I rubbed the sides of my head and shut my eyes tight.

The first time I loved Darby was a heart filled with desire and no awareness of it. A heart that beat with rushed, overwhelming excitement and rampant tears of emotion. Youth in all its greatness that builds and builds upon a shaky foundation. She was my first love, because all of the other people I'd assumed I'd fallen in love with lost their brightness next to that kind of feeling. But I didn't love her like that anymore.

My second love was very far from that bubbling feeling. Time passed slowly, but not too slowly. Touring for a year, receiving all that love, giving it back. There was no time to heal in my head, but my heart found the time itself. I didn't realize how much better I would subconsciously get, but it wouldn't find me until I felt my second love creeping upon me, even from miles away.

My second love is comforting and it is kinder to me. Loves me back occasionally, pulls me close and whispers distinctly enough in my ear that it's nearly believable that space and distance don't exist as science claims. And I'm not a selfish person anymore, against my former beliefs. I love her, and I never have loved her like that before. Unselfishly.

I dismiss my first love because I simply refuse to believe that you can love just once and immediately get it right. My second was her and her warmth and her love, while my first was her and her words and her aura. The only difference, the only one, is the intricity.

And she was in front of me, colder than ever. I didn't want to speak, that wouldn't make her believe me. She'd been through it to get to where she is, I'd kill my soul repeatedly for the rest of my life to compensate for what I did to her. And every time she'd refill it with her own breath I'd simply rip and tug it back out. Bury it deep enough in the ground that it suffocates, and growing from it would be a garden of hauntingly beautiful, undying daisies.

I sat next to her tears, feeling inclined to join her but fully fearing the next move. If I touched her, she would shiver. If I spoke, she'd pull further away. I'd just sit there, forget completely about the stage I was absent from, and love her from this seat where her knee shook just inches away from my own and I'd stay absolutely quiet as my tears wet my cheeks.

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