Dear God — Lamine Yamal
elio’s note: this is heavily inspired by the song Dear God by Tate Mcrae! since i’m totally obsessed with this album of hers (yes until now lol), this is my first fic-oneshot on here, please enjoy!! 🫶🏻
(p.s. i don’t speak spanish, sorry if the translations are inaccurate! lyrics are in bold italics, and ik lamine has that bright blonde hair rn i just couldnt get myself to put it in the fanfic😭)
Mood’s Mini Playlist:
All I want - Kodaline
From the Dining Table - Harry Styles
WILDFLOWER - Billie Eilish
Dear God - Tate Mcrae
Yellow - Coldplay
goodnight n go - Ariana Grande
It’s all a haze, ever since that night happened.
The cries, the tears shed, the yelling.. and most of all, your insistence on leaving, the heavy heart through the insistence, the wet spots on the sleeves of your—his barça sweatshirt, your smudged and melted mascara tears running down your face like a young river eroding through land.
He hated seeing you like this, but still, it was not enough for him to be better for you, for the relationship. “I’m sorry,” He speaks, his jaw clenching as if letting it go might ruin it all, “Last time, I swear.” He swallowed, visibly, his adam’s apple bobbing, nervous.
Not because he doesn’t know if you’ll actually forgive him this time or not, you’ve already given him so many chances you both lost count of. But because he’s never seen you like this, it’s all new to him.
“No,” You took a deep shaky breath in, catching on a soft but sharp sniffle, “I’m done with you.” You add, choking on your own words, holding back a sob.
Silence.
“Qué?” He held his own breath, his eyes widened, expressive.
“Yes, I’m fucking done with you,” You spoke almost immediately, more sure this time after seeing the clear and obvious surprise on his face, fueling your anger more, “Surprising, right?” You laugh bitterly, gathering your stuff in your purse, to leave.
“Calm down and we’ll talk again later—“
“We’re done, Lamine.”
He blinks once, twice, as if he’s trying to click out of a dream.
“Y/n—“
“No.”
“You’re frustrated, I know—I–just listen.” He says, rushed as he tries to reach for your arm but you quickly snatch it away from his grip as you storm out of his house, he follows. He can’t help but rush behind you, he feels it now, deep, raw, ugly.
The withdraw.
It’s dark outside, several puddles have formed on the low edges of the pavement from the rain earlier, none of you noticed, too engulfed in your own feelings to notice anything. The street lampposts flickered a little as you rush by, he still follows.
“Let’s just talk, please.” He pleads. Again and again.
“Leave me alone, god damn it,” You stop and shove him back firmly, your emotions feeding your strength somehow, “We’re done, don’t text or call me.” You spit, voice trembling with finality, before storming off to your place. He stays there this time, too stunned to speak or move.
A few months pass, you’d think everything is alright after you both finally broke up, since it was your decision anyways.
But no, It’s hell, ugly, dreadful even.
He did exactly what you asked him to do, no texts, no calls, not even a staged bump-in on the street. Zero contact.
You’ve been forcing yourself to cope, your friends cheering and giving you head pats like a puppy ever since you told them you dumped him, you always had that poker face on. That face that screams “Fuck him!” shamelessly whenever his name comes up in any conversation or intentional gossip about him.
Shamelessly as if you don’t still cry over that night, or stare at your polaroid pictures together before you sleep every night, or even worse, wait for your phone screen to light up with his text, his name.
It’s 3:14 AM.
The sky’s clear as the pacific, occasional whistles from the midnight breeze and some grasshoppers’ chirps every now and then through your slightly ajar window. Your siamese cat’s hopped on and off your bed a few times, as if it’s checking on you, sensing your off energy, but you don’t even notice it.
You lay flat on your back on the bare mattress, no bedsheets, you wore some old, bleach-stained spaghetti strap top and shorts—his barcelona shorts, bright 19 printed on the right side. His number.
A few tops and shirts are inside out, carelessly thrown on the edge of the bed, hanging, other garments are also thrown scattered around the floor. Several mugs, some half-filled, some empty, placed on the nightstand with some painkiller tablets aside, pack almost empty, obviously abused judging by the clinging dark circles beneath your eyes.
It hurts, so much, like someone keeps twisting the knife over and over again. He’s literally everywhere in your mind, rent free, his voice is engraved in your internal soundtrack, it feels like sometimes you hear his voice louder than your own heartbeats and his haunted hands all over your body again, touching, caressing, grounding.
Your phone switches off, dead, you curse under your own breath and roll over to the ground now–since your bed is low anyways, reaching for the charger near the edge of your faded persian pattern carpet, plugging your phone. You sit still next to it, both legs folded underneath you.
“Hands on your chest and your knees on the carpet. Hoping he’ll stop it.”
You realize that even when he was driving you nuts, ignoring texts, forgetting the planned dates, not posting you, never even doing the bare minimum, you still wanted him more than anything in the whole world, he was the antidote to your poisoned life. You feel like praying, even when it’s been years since you’ve done anything like it, just anything to ease the pain, the memories, Him.
“Dear God, take his kiss right out of my brain
Take the pleasure out of my pain
Take the way he'd used to say I love you
Dear God, get his imprint out of my bed
Take amazing out of our sex
Take away the way I still might want to”
Your cat walks softly next to you, almost startling you, checking on you again before you lose your own sanity, purring rhythmically as it hops on your lap then stretches her lean body against your chest, facing you now, like she’s grounding you.
“I’m okay, Milky.” You whisper to it, with tears welling up in your eyes, as if the poor cat can understand human words. The cat blinks a few times before settling in your lap, curling around itself, its soft fur pooling warmth on your lap now, you pat its head gently.
“Dear God, I hope you're listening
I pray it ain't him I'm missing.”
You breathe in and out a few times now, and when you least expect it, it comes right to you. Your phone screen shines bright in the corner you left it in, charging.
You blink a few times, skeptical. You swallow the lump in your throat and you swear you can feel it travel right to your gut, growing bigger. Is that him? Or is that just a random notification as usual?
You lean forward, careful not to wake up your feline therapy buddy on your lap from its precious nap, reaching for your phone. Your heart skips a beat as you read the fresh notifications.
Lamine 3:47 AM.
“i can’t sleep”
“are u okay?”
You 3:52 AM.
“yeah”
“why”
Lamine 3:52 AM.
“can i come”
“porfa”
You 3:55 AM.
“lamine we’ve been over this please”
Just as your finger hits send, a sudden but soft click on your glass window, your head bolts to the right—towards your window.
Then another click
Then another
Then another
You watch in pure shock, some pebbles being tossed at your window at almost 4 AM, standing up gently not to wake up Milky, walking slowly to the window next to your bed, opening it a bit more than before, just not fully open yet.
“Mi corazón.” He immediately spoke, gently, as he looks up to your window observing your disoriented gaze and messy form. My heart.
“Lamine, what the hell?” You spoke faintly, voice breaking at the end. You can’t lie to yourself but you’ve been dying to see him, even if it’s against everything you’ve built for these past few months. You slightly let yourself stare at him, it eases the ache in your chest, your heart beats a little harder at his sight.
Crazy, just a few minutes ago you’ve been calling for every high power above to make the pain stop, just for the right medicine to be right there, warm brown skin like caramel dusted in bronze, dark set of sharp eyes, dark chocolate curly hair… now has golden highlighted strands, reflecting the faint lamppost light.
He stays silent for a little bit, analyzing you, his jaw clenches like he’s been so sure you’re in this state but been telling himself no.
“Definitely not okay.” He spoke, softly, still looking up at you.
“It doesn’t matter, please leave.” You fix the strap falling down your shoulder, still holding on to whatever’s left from your morals.
“There’s no ego in this, none of your friends will know,” he replies, his face slightly pleading now, “Not even Milky.” His pupils dilate but he doesn’t smile at his own words, not like he usually does. “Come down, porfa.” Please.
You stand there awkwardly, weighing your options, then look down at your clothes.
“Oh c’mon—I’ve literally seen you naked.” He frowns as he notices your gaze shifting to your messy outfit. And he’s just talking about the bleach stained top, not his shorts you’re wearing, hidden by the high frame of your window, that still had a lingering faint scent of his sandalwood cologne.
He waits on the pavement for you to come down, his foot taps on the pavement in anticipation, till you appear in front of him, wrapping your short robe around your frame.
“What do you want?” You spoke immediately, putting up your guards, shielding what’s left from your dignity.
“You don’t look okay.” He steps forward towards you.
“None of your business.” You step back.
“Y/n,” he spoke softer now,
“How did you spawn immediately outside my house?” You interrupt him, “Were you stalking me?” You breathe out audibly.
“Y/n, listen,” he replied, now interrupting you back.
“What?” You cross your arms.
“I’m not here to tell you the old excuses I used to tell you,” he speaks firmly, “I miss you so much it hurts, but I’m also not saying this to win you back or anything from that act,” he shifts his weight to his other leg, stimming and fidgeting with his hands, “I know you made up your mind about me long ago, but I just can’t handle the no contact anymore, I’ve been talking to you in my diary like it’s a ritual,” he takes a step forward towards you again, testing the waters, but you don’t step back this time, a small but warm smile creeps up on his face, “Can we start over?”
“Let’s start off as friends again, I promise you I won’t act like I’m expecting or pressuring anything more than what you give me,” he scratches the imaginary itch at the back of his head, “And I also promise to act like I don’t know that your favorite flowers are carnations and your favorite brunch is a cream cheese bagel and a dirty matcha.”
You smirk a little, unable to keep it down, but he bursts into his contagious boyish laugh and slowly reaches out for your hand, softly grasping onto it like it’s made out of glass.
“I’m sure friends don’t hold hands like that.” you cockily say.
“I’m also sure friends don’t wear each others clothes to sleep.” He shoots back, mocking you with the same impression, his eyes pointed at the subtle blue of your—his blaugrana shorts, peeking from underneath your robe.
“Coño.” You jerk your hand back from his grasp, and walk back to your front door. Cunt.
“Goodnight to you too, mi alma.” My soul.
