Why do the movies always portray heartbreak as something so poetic?

In the movies, there is something always so detrimentally romantic in the way the melancholy is portrayed in the aftermath of a love's demise. Glittering rain speckling sidewalks, paintings of mascara dripping down the cheeks of rose-colored girls and angstful pining from restless boys. The scene is set for tragedy but the roses on the bedside table have yet to wilt. It's contradictory. It's elegiac.

It's wrong .

There is nothing romantic in the way a heart breaks. There is nothing to write home about when you're walking in the dead of night, a soundtrack of silence as you're left to ponder on what went wrong. When you arrive home, the roses will be dead, and he will never call because he was never yours.

Willow should know, as she watches the tree line on either side of her thin out the closer she grows to her side of town. The scene of her, in her broken sobs and hiccups, doesn't belong in cinema - it belongs in the depths of Hell, never to be spoken of again, only to gather dust as she lets each year dull the ache that she knows will never quite leave.

She hadn't expected her night to go so awry, but it did. There's nothing left to say on it. There is nothing left to rehash and re-regret. All there is left to do is put off her mourning until she gets home.

She allows her mind to grow numb in time with her cheeks, still covered in tears that are too stubborn to dry. If she even tries to think about the event that just took place, all she can picture is the dejected face of Steve Harrington as she says hurtful words that tasted wrong on her tongue, even mixed with alcohol. She wishes she could say the fight wasn't a true version of either of them, that it was just inebriation and frustration, but she knows that's a lie - whatever just transpired was pure, painful truth.

She was angry. Steve was angry. It doesn't matter if they both regret it - it happened. It happened and it hurt like Hell. She's not even that drunk anymore - that might be a lie, given the way her balance has failed her multiple times during her short walk thus far - but she is embarrassed. She knows what she looks like.

It is pathetic, embarrassing, humiliating. She's grateful that there hasn't been a single car that's passed her so far.

That is, until she hears it.

It's the familiar engine of a van she's come to memorize, usually a blanket of comfort when it comes rumbling down her street.

She doesn't turn to face him, even when the blinding headlights send her shadow running. She stops in her tracks, back facing him, and just listens for a second.

Maybe it's not him. Maybe it's just some random van that'll speed pass her, and she can continue to make friends with her misery.

But she's not so lucky tonight when the van slows behind her. For a brief moment, she wants to laugh, because it would be awful if it still wasn't Eddie but instead some murderer. She'd be an easy target tonight.

" Red !"

It's Eddie.

She still doesn't turn around. The van crawls a few paces more before it comes to a full stop behind her, but the engine doesn't kill. Instead, she hears his door open before slamming shut, the crunch of his sneakers on the gravel behind her coming down fast and heavy.

"Red, are you okay?"

Now that he's closer, he's no longer yelling, and she's grateful. Her head is preemptively pounding as punishment for her reckless drinking tonight.

She still doesn't face him. Because if she faces him, the castle will crumble for a second time tonight. And God knows she's cried enough in front of Eddie Munson to fill an entire ocean.

"Hey," he says again, and she can hear him taking several hesitant steps closer. Please don't make me look at you . "Look at me. Please."

He adds on the please as a whisper and by the tone of his voice, she can already picture the creases of worry across his forehead.

Her breaking point is when his hand comes down on her shoulder, suddenly and unexpected. It's his gentle touch, that goddamn porcelain touch, that makes her finally turn. And she was right - the moment her eyes met his, she started to sob again.

It takes both of them by surprise, but Eddie recovers first. She doesn't have the time to be embarrassed because he's yanking her into his chest, no hesitation as his arms wrap around her. She wants to tell him to let her go, to not touch her just as she had told Steve, but once she's enveloped in his familiar scent and comfort, she gives in.

There's no point in fighting it because it's the feeling she's craved the entire night. All she wanted today was him . To have him there, his entire essence distracting her and letting her cling to that giddiness she'd felt after he kissed her last night. Simply him, a reminder that whatever had happened last night was real, and that they hadn't made a mistake in taking that step, in crossing that line.

"Hey, hey, hey. You're okay. It's alright," he murmurs into the crown of her head when the sobs start to wreck her, "I've got you, sweetheart. I've got you ."

His words only make her cry harder, and she isn't sure if it's her fault or his that they begin to sway soothingly.

"I'm sorry," she gasps out. She isn't quite sure what exactly she's sorry for, but she is. All she has is babbling apologies for him, and all he has is calming reassurances for her in return.

"Don't be sorry, it's okay. It's going to be just fine," his voice forces her to relax ever so slightly. Her diaphragm calms down, the teary hiccups coming slower.

"It's not," she fights back, still pressing herself into him as tightly as possible, "It's really not," She isn't sure what causes her to press on either further, but she does, "We've got to call off the deal, Eddie."

His muscles grow rigid beneath her at those words.

"What?" he whispers, pulling back slightly despite her body's protests. Those damn eyes. Those damn doe eyes only make her cry even more .

Heartbreak is not poetic.

"I'm calling it off. I-I-" she begins to stutter as the panic sets in, "I can't do this. It was- God, it was so stupid, I'm so sorry."

"Why are you saying that?" he asks, and he still has his hand on her back rubbing soothing circles, "Tell me what happened. It's fine, we can fix it."

"We can't," she shakes her head angrily as she sniffles, wide eyes not leaving Eddie's. She's too upset to detect his own panic, his own nightmare coming to life, " I can't. The plan worked. It's- I fucked up. The plan worked, and now things are a fucking mess, and-"

"You didn't fuck up. What happened with Harrington?" he insists again, the hand once pressed to the back of her head now coming around to cup her cheek, but she shrugs it off quickly.

She's afraid to say the words. Because she's not an idiot - Steve Harrington didn't partake in a screaming match with her because he just missed her as a friend. She wishes he did, because it might've been easier that way, but her heart knows he didn't, "He kissed another girl. W-We fought. And I'm calling off our deal."

Eddie's eyes darken as he processes her words.

"He kissed another girl? How does that even mean the plan worked -"

"It doesn't matter!" she flinches at how her voice rises, but she forces herself to do the one thing she doesn't want to do - she puts space between them. She takes a few steps back until Eddie's hand can no longer caress her back, until he can no longer offer her the comfort she's undeserving of, "I want to call it off. I'll still tutor you, or do your homework, whatever you want. You'll still graduate, but this?" she pauses, and she sees it. It's like looking into a mirror - she's breaking another friend's heart. Two in one night. It almost kills her, "I can't do this anymore. Consider yourself free."

She spins on her heel, getting ready to walk away, still crying. But Eddie won't let her. His hand finds her shoulder again.

This time, she forces herself to spit out the words she didn't while in his embrace, "Please don't touch me."

They fall from her lips in a kinder manner than they did with Steve, because she's not angry with Eddie. She can't find it in herself to be angry with him.

He did nothing wrong.

But he shakes his head, determination lacing his features, "You can't walk home. Not like this, Red."

"I'm not your problem anymore. Let go."

"No."

He's making it harder than it needs to be. Willow wants it all to be over - she wants to eliminate the deal, she wants to get a jumpstart on damage control even if it destroys her in the process.

"I'm not letting you walk home like this-" he tries to continue on, but she won't have it.

"I'm not your fake-girlfriend anymore! It doesn't matter!"

"It does matter!"

She isn't expecting for him to yell back at her, but he does. It's not like it was with Steve; his face still holds such a specific softness that it makes her heart clench.

"Please, just get in the van. I'm begging you," his voice drops back down to normal, the outburst forgotten for both of them. When she continues to hesitate, to pull back from his grip, he continues on, "I'll get down on my knees if I have to. I swear. Just... please? Please, let me give you a ride home. Please . We can call off the deal, I don't care. If you want to call it off, then it's off, but please let me get you home safe."

She pauses, and she's sure he's imagining that she's weighing her options, but she's not - she's weighing his options. She doesn't understand why he still cares so much after her sudden tantrum, why he's still so insistent on being there for her. But she doesn't want to cause a scene, so when he sighs and begins to drop down on his knees, she folds.

"Stop, stop," she immediately grabs at his forearms, not letting his knees connect with the gravel before she's tugging him back up, "Jesus Christ, Eddie, you don't need to get on your knees. I- Okay, fine."

She doesn't wait on him once he's standing straight up again, brushing past him and making her way to his van that's still running. Once she's in his passenger seat, she realizes her cheeks are no longer cold. The tears have begun to dry.

He takes his place behind the wheel and begins to drive them in the direction of her house, continuously glancing in her direction with an obvious nervousness at each of her sniffles that makes her eyes stay glued to the dark road ahead.

"Stop that," she finally says in a dull tone.

He snaps his sights back on the road, becoming a worse liar than her as he questions, "Stop what?"

"Looking at me like I'm a wounded puppy."

He doesn't look at her again after she says that.

When they turn on her street, she expects to feel relief, but instead finds a certain sadness.

Going home means being alone. And despite the fit she had thrown, just sitting in the van as he had driven had calmed her down an insurmountable amount. Just being near him had soothed the ache the night had left her with.

Eddie was better company than her misery, even in the awkward tension she'd created.

There's a brief second where she considers asking him to stay, but she can't bring herself to do that to him. Not after she just called off their deal so suddenly, not after she had come to realize that he deserves better.

Eddie Munson deserved better. So, so much better than what Willow could offer him.

This deal had always been horribly unbalanced, uneven in the ramifications. When she had made it, she had kept her own interests in her forefront; she expected to finally get the guy, to have at least a semi-enjoyable if not fun experience. She tries to figure out and unravel what Eddie was getting out of it, but she comes up empty-handed, save for the promise of him not having to repeat his senior year once more. And even then, how much had she really helped him? She had no idea where his grades were at or if he'd seen them rise in their short game of pretend. No, Eddie was getting the short stick in their relationship, and she couldn't continue to string him along that way.

He doesn't pull into her driveway. She doesn't think much of it as he parks himself on the street instead, but then he comes to a stop in a place where her door is hardly in sight. Any onlooker would probably have a hard time deciphering if the van belonged to her company or her neighbor's.

"Wh-" she has a question on the tip of her tongue, unsure of exactly what it might be, but is interrupted when Eddie suddenly leans forward and pulls his keys from the ignition. She's left slightly bewildered as she turns to him, "What are you doing?"

"I'm coming in."

"I didn't say you could."

"I'm coming in," he repeats himself, unbuckling and opening his door, still not glancing at her, just as she had requested.

She lets him. There's not a single word of protest slipping from her tongue as he follows her down the sidewalk, up her driveway, to her front door. There's a pang in her chest as he stands behind her while she unlocks the door, remembering how this is the very place they'd kissed just over twenty four hours prior. How just twenty fours before, everything had been so different.

She supposes change pays no mind to time.

Her mom isn't home yet, and probably won't be returning for several hours. Another overnight shift, no surprise to Willow.

Inside her entry way, she stands in front of Eddie, waiting for him to say something, anything . He's finally looking at her again. When she searches his eyes for any anger, for any resentment, she finds none.

He's not looking at her any differently than he always has.

"You don't have to babysit me," she finally croaks, turning and heading towards the kitchen.

"I'm not babysitting you," he chimes casually, footsteps shadowing hers, "Just making sure you're okay."

"Yes, some would call it... babysitting ."

"Okay, fine, I'm babysitting you. Not because you need it, but because I want to," it's clear he's in no mood to argue with her. She stumbles abit over the entrance of her kitchen, and he's quick to steady her, "How much did you drink?"

"I'm not drunk," she tries to defend herself, she really does. While her fight with Steve had worked to sober her up some , the vodka shots and jungle juice were stubborn.

He's smirking down at her, clearly entertained, "Never said you were."

"Good, because I'm not."

"Okay, glad we cleared that up."

She's glaring up at him, his hands lingering on her biceps, before she drops her filter. "I kissed Robin tonight."

His eyes nearly pop out of their sockets, "You what ?"

"I kissed Robin. Or she kissed me. I don't know, we were playing spin the bottle."

She can see him starting to piece together her night, bit by bit.

"Jesus Christ," is all he chokes out, "Anyone else?"

It's not the question on the tip of his tongue. She knows what he's really asking - she knows, the vodka knows, the neighbor's dog might as well also know.

Did you kiss Steve?

She shrugs, turning and making her way, albeit slowly, to reach into the cupboard holding glasses. She's about to grasp one of the cups, but Eddie beats her to it, reaching over her to grab one and hand it to her before shutting the door.

"No. But you could always use that as the excuse for our fake breakup."

Even in her altered state, she catches the way he reacts to her words.

The way he tenses up, his jaw locking slightly. His eyes hold a sadness she wasn't expecting, although she really didn't plan this out. Calling off the deal was a drunken impulse.

She'd probably regret it in the morning.

"Why don't you want to call off the deal?" she finally asks him softly, still holding onto the glass he'd retrieved for her limply. They're close, Willow trapped between Eddie and the counter but he's not pushing it.

She can see him trying to get his emotions in check, to hide the reaction she'd already witnessed, "What makes you think I don't want to?"

She rolls her eyes, attempting to move past him but ends up shoving him accidentally. Her eyes immediately widen, and she reaches a hand out to his shoulder where she'd collided with him, "Shit, sorry. I- I don't know. You just... you really seem like you don't want to. Is fake-dating me, like, pumping up your popularity or something?"

He places his hand over hers on his arm, thumb stroking gently before he lifts it from him and reaches out for the cup. Once he's taken it from her, he steps back and holds it up questioningly, "Water?"

"Don't avoid the question."

"I'm not, I'm asking if you want water."

"Why don't you want to call it off?"

"I never said I don't want to-"

"You basically did!"

He turns away from her and to her fridge, filling her glass with water, still not answering the question.

For all that he is frustrating her currently, she's glad he's here.

She leans against the counter, sighing dramatically, gearing up to continue on the fight, when he finally speaks up.

"So you're an argumentative drunk, good to know," He's still not taking her seriously, but it doesn't get under her skin the way Steve had. It's not in a condescending fashion, she doesn't feel like a toddler although her behavior is definitely childish.

"I am not."

He looks over at her, offering her the full glass, eyebrows raised as if to say ' See?' .

She changes her direction as she takes the glass back and doesn't take a sip, not right away, "Why did you kiss me?"

The moment the question lingers between them, she can feel it in her gut - a heavy knot, twisting and tumbling over itself, ripping apart her insides. Her insecurity is finally seeping out into the conversation.

"Because you asked me to," he reminds her softly, nudging the glass in her hands upwards, silently encouraging her to drink it. His eyebrows are furrowed as he watches her, and she can't tell if he's deep in thought or just that concerned with her.

"Bullshit. I asked you to in your room, and you wouldn't. You said no. You... Y-you rejected me," her voice grows impossibly small by the time she finishes the sentence, recounting the incident. The embarrassment is raw in her throat, eating her alive.

She wants to push him till he admits the truth, because she refuses to accept that he only kissed her because she asked him to. Because if he really did, then maybe she had been right in her drunken thoughts during the party, and maybe he really did it out of pity.

She didn't want a kiss like that to be out of pity. She wanted something more behind it.

"For the record, I always want to kiss you."

You don't say that to someone you kissed out of pity, do you?

"I changed my mind," he tries to keep nonchalant, to let her interrogation slide right off his back.

"You said you always want to kiss me," she whispers, and her eyes falter to his lips.

She wants that to be true. God, she wants him to think about her mouth as much as she's been thinking about his. She wants to consume his every last thought, to be the first thing on his mind when he wakes up and the last thing he's picturing as he falls asleep.

"I think you're drunk, and we should get you to bed," he whispers back.