“Look, you know I'll be starting uni soon?”
“Yeah?” is just about all you can manage to say. You know where this is going. You know she's been acting differently lately. You don't really want to hear this. You let go of her hand, but you know you can't get up and leave her. You're captivated.
“I just think, maybe it'd be easier for you if I stop seeing you? It's not that I don't love you or anything. It's just. Y'know...”
Time stands still. You don't register her cheap attempt to justify what she's just done to you. Notice how she no longer looks quite so deeply into your eyes. Notice how her eyes don't seem to sparkle quite as much. She notices the hurt in your eyes. She doesn't let it affect her.
It's all fine though. It's exactly what you were expecting to hear. If she doesn't want to see you anymore, you don't want to see anybody anymore. Ever.
“I love you.” You stand up. Don't look back at her, whatever you do. It'll make everything harder. Don't remember how your heart raced when you first saw her. Don't think about her once so mesmerising eyes, or the taste of her soft, cherry lips. Don't remember the inside jokes or the good times you've had. You know she won't remember them when she's gone. She'll have new friends. She'll find someone else. This is what she wants. You're just giving her what she wants.
You wonder if you're going too far, if this is too much. Is it? Of course it isn't. You understand perfectly. It's everyone else who won't understand. It's all the people who ever called you “emo”. It's all the people who wished you'd pressed harder when they found out you self-harmed. It's all the back-stabbers. It's everyone who's ever hurled a homophobic remark at you. It's everyone who ever walked all over you. You'll show them all. You'll make them understand.
Nobody's home. As you walk past your bedroom, you glance at your collection of concert tickets. You went to most of those concerts with her. You've left your Amy Winehouse CD on the floor. Other than that, your bedroom's obsessively tidy. Your pictures of Leonard Cohen, Dusty Springfield, and Kurt Cobain are all lined perfectly on your wall. Your signed Debbie Harry photo as perfect as ever. You pick up the CD and put it back in it's place. Look through all your CDs. Pick the Blondie album. Play it as loud as possible. Let the melodies consume you.
Everything's as you want it to be. Go and find the paracetamol, don't forget to bring the vodka.
You're too tired to bother answering the phone. Eventually it stops ringing. Your eyes feel heavy. Nobody will mind if you just drift off.
