plot; snapshots of your breakup, with one letter underlining it all.
word count; 6.9k-ish
content warnings; swearing, dramatic overreactions, distressing dreams, depression, blood, general sad vibes, drinking and no happy ending (oops <3)
a/n; guys... angst is SO HARD. idk how people write it sooooo well. this fic is inspired by the songs "Sad Beautiful Tragic" and "I Almost Do" and the storyline is based completely on those songs! but there are a few other Taylor song references in the fic too. anyway, this kind of jumps around a lot, perspectives and timelines. so if it's completely incomprehensible, I am so sorry!! lemme know if it's so awful I need to have a re-write lol. I really hope the flashbacks are clear, and that this timeline makes any sense whatsoever <3
(p.s this is basically dedicated to 🍪 anon and bff anon, ty for riding so hard for this fic lol)
(this is non-canon)
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The cold wind hurts Matty's face as he battles against it. Each gust feels like needles prickling his cheeks. But still, he pushes through, not really feeling much of anything these days anyway. The paper in his pocket scratches his hands as he burrows them in deeper, but he just grips it harder. The scratches made him feel more human anyway. They convinced his hazy head that maybe life was still happening around him.
The red post box in front of him is almost taunting. He stands frozen, gripping the letter he’s worked so hard on tightly. He has the passing thought of just letting it go, watching it blow away in the breeze, and never having to think about it again.
He never has to think about you again.
But he knows that's unrealistic. How can he never think of you again when you're all he thinks about? Every waking thought he has is about you. He still thinks about how your breathing changed when you slept next to him. The way your lips curved into the smirk he loved whenever you teased him. The flush that covered your cheeks when he did it back.
Every morning, he still gets out 2 mugs. He still grabs your favourite wine at the shops and doesn't say yes to plans without thinking if he should check with you first. The last time he saw you was still burned into the back of his mind, and he was not sure it could ever leave.
And to be honest, he doesn't know if he wants it to. If healing means forgetting you, forgetting everything you built, then maybe it is better to live in the pain. Each time he begins to heal, he picks up the scab over and over again. The sting reminded him of you, so he picked and picked. Blood poured from him relentlessly, but that was all he could do. Bleeding for you was all he had of you anymore.
He shoved the letter in and walked away briskly. He fought every bone in his body telling him to go back. To smash the post box and filter through every letter until he found his. He imagined a world in which he hadn't sent it, where instead he turned around and marched back to his house.
Or maybe there's a world where he marched to your house instead. Maybe he finally got over himself and told you everything in person. He begged and pleaded for you to forgive him, to look him in the eyes and tell him you've been hurting just as much as him.
Matty isn't sure that world exists, though.
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3 days later, when it arrives, you stare at it endlessly. You move it from place to place in your apartment and try to visualise opening it there. But soon enough, that just becomes you avoiding that room like the plague, and you start to treat parts of your flat like they are infested with a deadly virus. But they're not, really. They're just filled with a small envelope with your name on it and a return address you know all too well.
You decide you aren't going to read it 2 days later. You hold it over a candle and watch the amber flames lick the bottom of the envelope. But before you can set it ablaze, some instinct takes over, and suddenly, it's the most important object you've ever owned. You pull it from the flames and put it out with your fingers, not caring if the fire sizzles your skin. You cry and beg for it to be okay, tears streaming from your cheeks as you frantically pull it open, “No no no. fuck, please.”
But the letter inside was unscathed, just the corner of the envelope was covered in a thin layer of ash. As soon as you see that handwriting, though, you feel the unspeakable urge to burn it again, to set it on fire and watch it burn.
You don’t.
You lay it on the table and go to bed. You decide tomorrow will be the day you do something with it, even though you promised yourself that every day since you got it. But you're sure tomorrow will really be the day. It has to be.
You return to the warm solace of the bed you've grown to know too well over the past few weeks, and the duvet welcomes you in like an old friend.
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It's a few days after he sent the letter and the day after you received it when he sees you for the first time, and he can't quite believe it. There you were, standing in the coffee shop you always went to together.
He wondered if the baristas had noticed you both started to come in without the other. Maybe they started gossiping about it, “Did those customers break up? I never see them together any more” and he could almost see someone else saying “I hope not. They were cute.”
Even though he knew no one would ever actually say that, and that the baristas hadn't noticed anything.
Some force that he couldn't explain pulled him towards you, and before he knew it, he was reaching for your arm. “Hi” he breathed out heavily, staring at you like he wasn't sure you were real. He wasn't convinced that you were anything but a figment of his imagination. Has his delusions about you already gotten to the point where he's having visions? He thought it would take a few more months for that.
“Matty?” You say gently, tracing your eyes over the man in front of you. Hearing your soft voice after months without you felt like heaven on earth for Matty, relaxation washing over him just at the soft dulcet tones of you.
Matty smiled softly at you, and you immediately returned it. He can see the cogs turning in your head on how to greet him. Was a hug too much? Is a wave too little? Is a handshake too formal? Overthinking was one thing you were so good. Matty was sure you could win an award for it. So he decided to take the decision into his own hands and wrapped out up in a hug, burrowing his face in your hair and smelling that familiar floral aura he'd fallen in love with.
Your whole body tensed when he first touched you. The once familiar feeling now was slightly cold and awkward. But Matty felt you relax and couldn't help the grin that spread across his face the the feeling of your head in his neck, the place you always used to lay. He swore he could feel you breathe him in, but soon convinced himself it was wishful thinking.
Reluctantly, you pull away, looking up at Matty with glassy eyes. The barista next to you clears his throat, bringing you both back to earth and out of whatever haze you were in. “your tea is ready” he says awkwardly, eyeing you and Matty with a sly smile on his lips.
“Right! Sorry, yes. Thank you” You grab your cup and turn back to Matty nervously. He can see the anxiety radiating off you, just like it always had. He never thought it would be directed at him, but he tries not to overthink it too much.
“Do you-” You clear your throat, shaking your head as you try to process that you're seeing him again. Seeing your Matty. “Do you want to sit with me? Catch up?”
Matty can see your hands shaking around your cup and the nervousness swimming in your eyes. “Of course,” he says easily. He could never deny an opportunity to spend time with you. Especially not when he hadn't seen you in so long. And certainly not when you still take up his every waking thought.
The conversation flows like you had never left, easily chatting and catching up like you always had. You tell Matty about the cat you adopted and how she loves to sit on top of the fridge to scare you. He tells you about his mum and her latest drama. Her kitchen cupboards were the wrong colour of grey, and it was the topic of conversation for much longer than he thought possible.
The first bout of silence comes when you ask about Annie, and Matty can tell it took every ounce of strength to force the words out of your mouth. You felt like someone had taken one of your vital organs when you left her, and you can still see her face in your mind whenever you close your eyes.
“she's good. Misses you, though. Especially because she doesn't see you at school anymore since you got a new job” he says with a solemn smile. Matty tries to hold eye contact, but he gives up a few seconds into it, instead staring at his coffee as if it was the most interesting thing in the room.
Thankfully, soon enough, the once stilted silence becomes easy chatter and laughter all over again, Matty welcomed the warm conversation with open arms, missing your presence more than he ever thought possible.
But Matty's mouth soon got ahead of him, “so when was the last time I saw you?” he asked thoughtlessly. His brain was on autopilot, and the words poured out of him before he could stop it. The very topic you'd both been dancing around was now laid out in front of you, and it couldn't be ignored.
Matty saw something in your demeanour change, your once soft smile morphing into a faux-happy grimace, “Don't you remember? You screaming at me in the kitchen? And then storming out after saying what you did? Maybe you remember smashing a plate on the floor?” Matty pauses at your words, not quite believing you're deciding to re-hash all of this in the middle of a coffee shop, especially with a massive and slightly creepy grin on your face, but he answers anyway.
“Of course, I remember. And there's not enough words to say how sorry I am but-” he stutters as he tries to explain himself more, but you cut him off, gently placing a hand on his arm.
“Are you sure you remember? When you left me? Abandoned me? Left me sobbing and alone? What about the 30 phone calls you ignored?” You kept talking, and Matty couldn't get a word in, your voice increasing in volume with each desperate question.
“Look I’m so sorry-” Matty desperately looked around him to see if people were staring at your raised voice, but the cafe was empty. The once bustling coffee shop is now like a ghost town, with no evidence of another human ever being in there.
He flicks his head back to yours, only to be in his kitchen, forced back to that night. He stares at you in your pyjamas, tears streaming down your face. He flicks his eyes down to see him dressed in the same liquor-stained clothes, and he can taste the red wine on his tongue.
“Why” you whispered over and over again, gradually getting louder, eventually shouting at Matty as he stood there motionless.
Matty wakes up in a cold sweat, panting wildly as his brain fights to figure out what the fuck is happening. He scrambles to his phone and realises; it's still the same day. It was just another fucking dream. He knows nightmare would be the better word, but he can't bring himself to describe anything with you in it as a nightmare.
With a heavy sigh, he flops back to his pillow, gripping his phone desperately and trying to fight the urge to call you. It almost doesn't work, and he clicks on your contact and lets his thumb hover over the call button. He sees the unanswered calls and the pleading messages. He can feel the desperation through the screen.
He thinks your new boyfriend must've blocked his number because that's easier than thinking that you just hate him. Each time he reaches out, there’s no reply, and he feels a part of himself die.
He hadn't tried for a few months now, but he still had that urge to type out his every thought, to send it and call you until you answered. But he doesn't.
It doesn't occur to Matty that the real reason that the reason you don't answer isn't because of a new boyfriend or because you hate him. Instead, it’s because you know you can't deal with another goodbye. You can't risk all this happening again. You were already practically ripped open. You can't risk tearing the very stitches you worked so hard to sew closed.
But matty doesn't know that, so with a huff, he clicks off you and onto George, and this time, he lets the phone ring.
“Huh? what-” he hears the groggy voice over the phone mutter, and it's then he realises maybe ringing George at 3 am because he had a nightmare wasn't the best decision. But it was too late now, and he could practically see George's expectant face from the other side of the phone.
“Hi. it um- it happened again” Matty said with a huff, falling back into the pillows and staring at the moonlight dancing across his ceiling. He heard George's heavy sigh and the distinct sound of ruffling sheets, George had sat up instinctively, knowing something was up.
“What was it this time? Did everyone in the crowd turn into her again” George says softly, rubbing at his tired eyes and fighting a yawn.
“No, it started off really nice this time. I saw her again at that cafe we always went to, you know the one near the studio? We were just chatting and catching up. But then she wouldn't stop talking about that night, telling me what happened all over again. And then I blinked, and I was back. I was in that kitchen again, just staring at her.” Matty follows the moonbeams with his eyes, lingering on the two beams crossing over, only for their paths to separate once again.
It reminded him of you and him.
“I think you need to get some lavender oil or some shit. You need to sleep. And these nightmares aren't helping” George says firmly, Matty would usually fight him tooth and nail at the suggestion.
He claimed it was because that stuff had never worked for him, but George knew it was because he saw it as still having a part of you in his life. Even if you were there in the form of his demons, at least they all looked like you.
But to his surprise, Matty immediately crumbled, “Yeah, you're right. Will you come to Boots with me after the studio tomorrow?” George agreed quickly before Matty could change his mind.
But he didn't try to, Matty simply said, “Thanks. Okay, I'll let you sleep now… Bye.” And before George could tell him it was okay, and he’d stay chatting as long as Matty needed, he was gone.
Tears leaked from Matty’s eyes, wetting the same pillow where you used to lay your head. This loop of healing felt endless, and Matty wasn't sure if fixing this was possible when he knew you were still out there without him. Forever wouldn't have even been enough with you, but now he has nothing. What is he meant to do with no you?
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As Matty lay awake in Manchester, you were in the same position in London. The same lonely bed, but different cities. Unlike him, you haven't managed to sleep yet. Instead, you can't stop your brain from imagining what is in that letter. Your mind falls back to that night, and you replay the events over and over again. Every word Matty said was etched in your mind, so it played easily, the same script ringing in your ears all these months later.
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Matty shut the door delicately. Getting home at 2 am. was already bad enough. He didn't want to wake you or Annie in the process. But when he saw the light pouring out of the kitchen and heard the distinct hissing of the kettle, he knew you were awake. And he knew you were waiting for him.
He walked into the kitchen silently, leaning on the counter and watching you potter around, he remember when he used to sit here for hours and dream of you in his house. Now he's not even sure the last time you said I love you to each other. You continue to ignore Matty, but you getting a second mug out of the cupboard tells him all he needs to know. This is going to be a long night.
“At the studio late again?” You ask, passing Matty his mug and leaning across from him. Your eyes trace up his figure, and you can't help but think you don't recognise the man in front of you. His clothes hung off of him, and heavy bags sat under his empty eyes. His hair was standing on end, once perfectly manicured curls now frazzled beyond repair.
“Yeah, George wanted to fix this harmony. Sorry I'm back so late” he knew lying to you was wrong. He really did. But he couldn't bring himself to explain where he actually was, drinking alone in a bar rather than at home with his family.
“Oh. okay.” you pause and wait for Matty to correct himself, giving him a chance to be fucking honest for once. But he doesn't, so you push again.
“That's weird though, because I asked Charli where George was 2 hours ago, and she sent a photo of them together. In bed.”
Matty's eyes widened. He knew he'd just been caught, but he wasn't ready to give up the lie yet. He just needed a few more weeks away, and then he would come back. Then everything would be made right again. So his tipsy mind comes up with a new lie and pleads with whatever God there might be that would believe him, “Oh did I say George? I meant Hann, you know how I get when it's late”
“Matty. You stink of booze. Do you think im an idiot?” You sigh, placing your tea down and crossing your arms over your chest. The anger bubbling within you was threatening to spill over. You felt as if every word from Matty was a stab, yet he kept just pushing the knife deeper.
“So I had a drink at the studio! Sue me, Jesus Christ” Matty sneers at you as he talks, slamming his cup onto the counter, ignoring the burning on his hand from the tea falling over the rim.
“Liar” you click your tongue at Matty and cast your eyes to the floor. Staring into his eyes as he lied to you was agony, and you're not sure how much more pain you can take.
“I'm not lying. I swear I just-” he tries to argue, but you refuse to let him keep going.
“I know you're lying. You're always fucking lying! You weren't at the studio.” you sighed heavily flicking your eyes up to Matty briefly, but the tension was too much, it hurt to look at him.
“Baby, cmon, calm down. It’s okay, yeah? I’m here now,” Matty moved towards you, grabbing your cheek in his hand and moving in to kiss you, prepared to make this all melt away just like he always did. You try to push him away, but Matty stands strong. He had to fix this. He needed to kiss and make up. It was all he knew how to do.
“Would you just fucking listen” you shout, pushing Matty back across from you, “I don't even know who you are anymore! These past few weeks have made you into a man I don't even fucking recognise.” You look up at him with crazed eyes and scoff at the sight of the man in front of you.
You were done with it all. The lying, the running away, the sleuthing around. Done. You were having this conversation, and you were having it now.
“No please don't say that. You know me. I don't know who I am without you knowing me,” Matty begged, sobering up quickly at your words.
He needs to bring this back, claw what little life you had left in you to the surface. Everything that left Matty’s life has had claw marks in it, and he would be damned if he'd let you go without the same scars.
“Don't you understand that's the fucking issue, Matty? You don't know who you are anymore, I don't know who you are anymore. You need to be a person without me.” your words struck Matty in the chest like a bullet.
Were you seriously suggesting what he thinks you are? Do you actually want to break up with him?
Matty baulks at your words. Every feeling he’d had over the past few months was catching up to him, crashing into each other in his brain as they fought to be let out. Anger won because, of course, it won. It seems to always win.
He decides that if you want to break up, then he'll do it himself. He can't let you beat him to it. He knows it's childish, but he doesn't fucking care. He needs to win this. “Please, I've been a person without you for 30 fucking years. I’m a fucking dad! I don't need you to tell me who I am.”
“Annie needs both her parents, Matty. We need you back, please.” The mention of Annie makes outrage bubble within him like it had never done before. He can't believe you'd practically threatened to break up with him one minute and then beg for him back for the sake of his daughter the next. Because that is what she is, she's his daughter.
“You don't know what it's like to be a parent y/n,” Matty mumbles under his breath, but he might as well have screamed it at you because that's how loudly it rang in your ears. He knew he'd fucked up as soon as he said it, but there was no going back now, and he could see that in your eyes.
“I don't know what it's like to be a parent. Are you fucking kidding Matty? What the hell have I been doing here for the past year? Just fucking around? I can't believe you could say that to me.” You hear your voice wavering as you force each word out.
“Annie is just as much my daughter as she is yours” you whisper desperately. The regret of mentioning Annie was building in your chest, and it felt like a rock impeding your lungs, each breath fighting against the weight. but it was too late to take anything back now. Both you and Matty knew it.
Matty scoffs at your words, rolling his eyes as he fiddles with his fingers. He tries desperately to cool his raging mind, but he can't. He figures if he is already in this deep, why not stoop a little lower?
“Just as much your daughter? Please. You weren't here for fucking any of it. Where were you here when she was born? How about when she was sick for the first time and wouldn't let me put her down without screaming bloody murder? Or- or how about when she broke her arm and she cried when she couldn't have a pink cast? Or maybe for any fucking time apart from the last 12 months. I know you liked playing happy families y/n, but be fucking real for 5 seconds. You were her teacher, maybe a fun friend, but nothing more. And if you think you were, you're more delusional than I thought.”
His chest heaved as he finished, not taking a single breath during his rambling speech, he could see your wet eyes and he felt his heart aching but he just couldn't stop himself, words tumbling out of his mouth. "Even if you stayed, even if you never give up on us, on this. You could never be her mother.”
Both of you pause, the silence thick and heavy around you. How long could you stand like this and pretend he didn’t say that? Maybe if you just stayed there and listened to your ragged breathing, something would change.
But nothing did.
“Fuck you. You told me I was practically her mother a month ago. You said to me I was it for you, that your family was complete. I can't believe-” words poured out of you, streaming helplessly as you paced the kitchen.
Matty tried to cut in, desperate to get a word in edgeways. The need to defend himself was all-consuming. He needed to know that you understood he said it in the heat of the moment. Words fall out of his mouth without thinking. He can’t help it.
“y/n, love-”
“I’m not her mother? Tell that to the time I took her dress shopping for your mum's wedding. Or when I took her to A&E with suspected appendicitis. and-”
“y/n. Stop, just listen to me, please.” Matty begs, he almost inches closer to you, but some ineffable force keeps him where he is, watching you pace helplessly.
“Listen to you? Oh, I've done plenty of fucking listening Matthew. All I do is listen to you! But you never fucking hear me-”
“Can you just shut up for 5 fucking seconds” Matty shouted, grabbing a plate from beside him, throwing it against the concrete floor, watching it shatter into a thousand pieces. He just needed you to look at him, to tell him you could fix this, but you wouldn't stop talking.
A gasp from you pulls him back to earth, and he feels his heart break into as many pieces as the plate below his feet. Your wide eyes and tear-stained cheeks glare back at him, and Matty has nothing to say. He has no fucking idea what just came over him.
Matty gingerly takes a step towards you, trying to avoid the ceramic splayed over the floor. His fingers shake as he reaches his hand out to your cheek, wanting to thumb away the tears falling.
But just as he does, he sees you flinch. It wasn't even a full movement, practically a micro-expression. But you fucking flinched. And you both knew it. The veil of silence over you is thick as you both stand there motionless with no idea what you could say to fix this. To make the last 10 minutes disappear.
Matty’s touch used to calm you. It was the only reassurance you needed. But now the mere thought of it filled you with some twisted sense of fear. The woman he had planned the rest of his life with was scared of him. And it was all his fucking fault. How had this all become his worst nightmare? How had the very thing he sacrificed so much to build crumbled and destroyed itself so deeply?
“Matty wait- I’m sorry, I was just still on edge. It's okay, im okay. See?” With a shaking hand, you grip his, bringing it to your face despite his protests. You can feel him trying to pull his arm away, but you fight him at every tug. Forcibly placing his hand on your wet cheek.
As soon as your hand drops from his, Matty wrenches away from you. The feeling of your cheek against his palm felt as if his skin was burning. The pain touched his every nerve.
The air is charged with pure fear as you stare at the other, both of your chests heaving and your eyes glassy with unshed tears. Without thinking it through, Matty storms off, grabbing his keys as he pushes through the house. You chase after him, ignoring the blades of ceramic impaling your sock-covered feet, “No don't leave, Matty, please. Stay, stay here.” You reach to grab his arm, but Matty snatches it away before you can even feel his skin against yours.
“I’m leaving. I’m staying at George tonight. Tomorrow I’ll come pick Annie up from school. You will call in and take a sick day. Start packing your shit. I’m done. You're out of my house by tomorrow.” Matty demands, and with that, he leaves. Slamming the door behind him.
Bloody footprints lay in a trail behind you, and your socks start slowly becoming sodden from your weeping wounds. But still, you stood there, unmoving. Shock coursing through your veins.
It was all over. Just like that.
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The letter was taunting you from the other room, the blacked corner flashed into your mind whenever your eyes finally fluttered close. The image of you burning the letter played behind your eyelids like a movie, and you almost wish you really had done it.
But you didnt, so it still sat on your living room table, torturing you.
Eventually, you drift off to sleep, tears dampen the pillow below your head, but you ignore the thumping in your head and finally let sleep pull you under.
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You know you're dreaming when you're back in that kitchen. But you can't stop it from happening. The hazy filter that covers your surroundings is the only thing assuring you this isn't real, that this isn't all happening again.
Matty stands in front of you just as he had that night, but he looks different. His once frizzy curls sat in perfectly ringlets around his face, the streaks of grey dancing through them more prominent. His unshaven face was now neatly trimmed, and you admired the salt and pepper hairs within it. You can see the tears brimming in his eyes, glittering on his waterline.
“So you'll forgive me? We can move on?” he says desperately, smiling and moving towards you with tears falling down his cheeks.
You try to speak, but your mouth doesn't move, your lips stay pressed together against your brain's protests. Not even grunts escape you. Silently, you stare at Matty, completely motionless.
“y/n? You forgive me. I can make this right again, can't I?” Matty begs desperately. He grabs your hand but recoils at the cold feeling on his skin, your fingers cold as ice in his grip.
You fight to speak again, to tell him yes. To tell him you forgive him, that you need to try again. But still, nothing leaves your lips.
Matty scoffs at you, ripping himself away from you, “I can't believe you're ignoring me. I thought you'd be more mature than this. Call me when you can actually have an adult fucking conversation.”
He storms off, but all you can do is watch him helplessly. Every nerve in your body is screaming to move, to chase after him. And you almost do, but some inexplicable force is keeping you there, motionless in the same place where your life ended all those months ago.
So you watch him leave again, the haze surrounding you soon becoming darkness.
You know it's a dream, and you keep on telling yourself that. But when you wake with wet cheeks and a heaving chest, it feels pretty fucking real.
You swear you can feel him next to you, awake and staring at the same ceiling. But when you turn to see him, the piled-up duvet is all that's there, along with a cold bed beside you.
It's then you decide to finally give in to that voice in your head, the one screaming at you to just read the letter, to get it over and done with. The one begging you to throw it away and never look back is nearly silenced, and it soon becomes nothing but a whisper in the back of your mind.
The letter stays exactly where you left it, and whilst you know it couldn't have moved, part of you wishes it had. With shaking hands, you grab the pile of pages, and you can feel your heart racing the very same way it used to when you saw him.
The city lights shine onto you as you finally open the pages, looking at the handwriting you knew all too well. The same handwriting that used to give you butterflies, that used to detail how much it loved you, filling pages with adoration.
Now you're not so sure what it entails. But you read anyway, ignoring every screaming signal telling you to stop.
///////////
Hi darling,
I know I don't have the right to call you that anymore, but I can't bring myself to call you anything else. It's been a few months since we've spoken, and I've felt every minute of it. I've filled notebooks writing about you, writing to you. I must have practised this letter a dozen times, and I know this still won't be right.
So, instead of trying to write the perfect letter, I've ripped out some pages from my journal. My therapist told me to write like I was speaking to you, so that's what I did. I’m sure she would be pissed that im sending this at all, but I need to do this for us. To remember what we once were.
Anyway, I hope it makes you understand what this time without you has been like for me. You can ignore this letter completely and I wouldn't blame you. I won't hold it over you if you burn it and never look back. But if you do read it, I just need you to know im sorry. For everything.
(3 weeks without you)
To say the past couple of weeks have been hell for me is beyond an understatement. There is this festering part of me that thinks I will love you forever, and the knowledge that we will never be like we once were kills me, but it has to kill me. Because if I felt anything other than agony, I would come crawling back to you, and you don't deserve that. And I know that. But fucking hell, that doesn't make it hurt any less.
You know me, I don't know what it's like to have surface-level emotions. I either feel it all, or I feel nothing. and with you? I fucking felt it all. I felt every touch, every smile, every fight, every screaming match ending in tears. I fucking felt it. and for some reason- I'm still thankful for it. because at least I felt you.
I wonder if you're at the point where you miss me when you hear my name. And I can't help but think about you hearing my songs, do you change the station? Even if they're about you? But if I’m honest, they're all about you. Every one of them. Even before I knew you, they were about you.
(a month and a half)
I wish you could forgive me. I think if I knew you didn't hate me, I could move on. Or maybe it would do the opposite. I don't know. All I do know is, I miss you.
(2 months)
Sometimes I miss you so much I can't handle it. I go driving and find the places we used to go, I sit there, and I can still hear your laugh. I can feel that all-encompassing warmth that surrounds you. but then someone speaks, or a car horn goes off, and suddenly, it's cold again. I mourn you like you're someone I've lost forever, and in a way, I have.
You know I still feel you every day, everywhere. Because you might have left, but you never really did. I still find your socks down beside the bed, and your hair ties around the house. I accidentally used your shampoo in the shower this week. You know that ridiculous Jasmine one that you pay too much for?
It was like having you around again, I never thought the small of some shitty shampoo would be the thing that brought it all back to me, brought you back to me. Yet it was. But still, you were gone.
So apparently, I decided to fall into the breakup trope of crying in the shower. For 45 minutes, which made me feel slightly pathetic. And it didn't help when George knocked on the door and washed my hair again. with my shampoo. But I still find myself smelling jasmine even when it's nowhere near.
You haunt me in ways I never thought possible.
(3 months)
It's 3 a.m., and I can't stop picturing your face. Just knowing you're still out there makes it so much fucking harder. I don't know how to cope knowing you're there and not here, with me. Even months later there's some sick part of me that hopes leaving me was the hardest thing you've had to do. but I hope loving me wasn't.
I know that's selfish, and that this is all my fault anyway. so I want you to move on, even if it kills me. it's hell thinking that the one person you could never forget is fighting to forget you.
But I hope you find the love of your life. I hope they make your tea just how you like it, and buy you those crazy expensive candles you love. I hope they will follow you to the ends of the earth, just like I would. even now.
(3 and a half months)
I want to say you don't know how it feels to miss you, you don't know how hard it is. but I have to keep hoping you miss me just as much. because if you didn't, if you just moved on without a second thought; I couldn't cope. the fact that we will always just be an almost will live with me until the day I die. I don't want you to be an almost. I want you to be an always. but it's over, and I know that. or at least I'm very good at pretending I know that.
(4 months)
Recently, I've been thinking about “what ifs?” Despite my therapist telling me I shouldn't. But you know what it is like after breakups. It's this all-consuming thing, and you can't help but imagine if things were different.
I think in another universe, we worked out. I got over my massive ego, and you worked through your past, and it fixed itself. We got married, had another kid, and got that cat you always wanted. We'd go to Annie's graduation together. Her wedding together. you'd cry as I walked her down the aisle, I'd smile and kiss away your tears. and I know that's not this universe. but fucking hell why can't it be?
(4 and a half months)
My mum misses you. She asked how you were doing today and if I had reached out yet. I got angry at her and stormed out. If only she knew how many times I’d dialled your number and then turned off my phone. Or how many unanswered texts I've sent.
Annie misses you too, by the way. She's finally stopped asking when you're coming back.
I wish she still asked.
(today)
I don't expect you to read all of this, and if you've just skipped to the end, I don't blame you.
but I'm sending this letter because I think I'm finally at a place where when I think of you, I don't take it as a sign from the universe that we were meant to be together. instead, I think of it as a past life, as proof that we were an almost.
Next time I see you, I hope it doesn't hurt as much as the last time.
Goodbye, my love,
Matty x
///////////
The distinct sound of dripping tears hitting paper was the only noise in the room. You watched helplessly as the ink distorted under the little pools of wetness. A million thoughts race through your mind, and you can't help but fucking hate him for sending this.
How could he do this to you? All you've been doing for months is healing, but he keeps ripping open old wounds carelessly. He has to know you can never go back. You can't trust him.
All you left behind you was a mess. You were both better off this way.
With a scoff, you grab your lighter and cigarettes, stepping onto the balcony with the letter gripped in your shaking hands. You have to flick the lighter a few times before it works, the bitter wind fighting against it.
But soon the flame comes, you sigh happily, moving it up to the cigarette delicately balanced between your lips. You suck in a deep breath, revelling in the feeling of the smoke filling your lungs. The slight crackle brings you more relaxation than anything else these days, but you still have to fight to ignore the familiarity of the scent.
You flick the lighter again, huffing annoyed as it goes out. Once you see the distinct glow of amber, you don't hesitate before placing it against the paper and watching the pages in front of you burn up.
Ashes sizzle your skin, but you couldn't care less. In fact, you welcome the pain. A sick smile comes across your face, grinning around the now-lit cigarette in your mouth.
Isn't it funny how little words mean, when they're a little too late?
"Alright. Ladies and gentlemen, ladies and gentlemen. Okay. Unfortunately for you guys, Dallas you’ve drawn the short straw. You’ve gotten the show where I’ve genuinely just stopped caring. And - ah you see, this show has kind of bled off the stage into loads of different environments, and I don’t mind hollow shallow accusations of being racist or stuff like that, it kind of allows the show to do what it’s designed to do - expose inconsistencies and hypocrisies, I use myself to do that. But I don’t know how familiar you all are with the lore of this band, but we got banned from Malaysia this year. And it has nothing to do with you guys, but unfortunately there’s so many incredibly stupid people on the internet that I’ve just cracked. And everyone keeps telling me that you can’t talk about Malaysia, don’t talk about what happened in Malaysia, so I’m gonna talk about it at length. And unfortunately you have to listen to it. And this is long, so. You’ll be all right. But I am pissed off, to be frank. I’m gonna read from my phone what I have to say about this situation, regardless of [?] because the internet needs to hear this.
The 1975 did not waltz into Malaysia unannounced, they were invited to headline a festival by a government who had full knowledge of the band with its well-publicized political views and its routine stage show. Malaysian festival organizers’ familiarity with the band was the basis of our invitation. Me kissing Ross was not a stunt simply meant to provoke the government, it was an ongoing part of The 1975 stage show which had been performed many times prior. Similarly, we did not change our set that night to play, you know, pro-freedom of speech or pro-gay songs. To eliminate any routine part of the show in an effort to appease the Malaysian authorities’ bigoted views of LGBTQ people would be a passive endorsement of those politics. As liberals are so fond of saying, “silence causes violence, use your platform”, so we did that. And that is where things got complicated. Naturally. the Malaysian authorities were irate because homosexuality is criminalized and punishable by death in their authoritarian theocracy. That is the violent reality obscured by the more friendly term “cultural customs”. But it was the liberal outrage against our band for remaining consistent with our pro-LGBTQ stage show which was the most puzzling thing. Lots of people, liberal people, contended that the performance was “an insensitive display of hostility against the cultural customs of the Malaysian government, and that the kiss was a performative gesture of allyship”. To start, the idea of calling out a performer for being performative is mind-numbingly redundant as an exercise. Performing is a performer’s job. The stage is a place for creating artists’ expressions, which are inherently dramatized. That’s why audiences go to fucking shows. Other people, other apparent liberal people, contended that the kiss was itself a form of colonialism. That The 1975, in the rich tradition of evil white men past, was forcing its Western beliefs on the Eastern world. My how the West has fallen, ladies and gentlemen. The East India Company could have saved a fortune on weaponry if they knew that all they had to do was make out with each other to forcibly subjugate the people that they exploited. To call The 1975’s performance colonialism is a complete inversion of the word’s meaning. Colonialism is the practice of forcible occupation and economic exploitation. Once again, The 1975 was INVITED into the country to headline Malaysia’s music festival in an effort to capitalize on our popularity so they could make money. Despite the band being amateur jiu-jitsu enthusiasts, we’re not very good, we have no power at all to enforce our will on anyone in Malaysia. In fact, it was the Malaysian authorities who briefly imprisoned us. So for performers who took to Twitter to criticize us, this bizarre mangling of colonial identity politics merely served as an expedient way to express their own disappointment with the festivals cancellation because it would be in poor taste, surely, to lament a loss of performance. So these are the types of mental gymnastics that are employed by [??] to save face with their liberal-appearing audiences who delight in having their favorite academic catch phrases parroted back at them. I’ll not wait for applause, I’m just calming down.
Levying the accusation of colonialism against Western critics is, by now, a standard PR procedure in the authoritarian theocracy playbook. Just last summer, amidst criticism of human rights abuses against the enslaved workers who built their soccer facilities, the UAE’s representatives contended that Western journalists who highlighted this fact were guilty of enforcing their colonial games on their local, religiously-armed customers. But the fact that the UAE employs the Western consultant McKinsey to write this kind of perverted relativism is a great stroke of irony. And the fact that the UAE was the first country to kick The 1975 out for being gay is the cherry on top. There’s a contradiction at the heart of liberals’ outrage over our supposed cultural insensitivity. Their unconditional belief in inclusivity and tolerance has led them to indirectly support a government which is intolerance of their own existence. What responsibility do liberals have to be ideologically chivalrous to those who wish them death?
If you truly believe that artists have a responsibility to uphold their liberal virtues by using their massive platforms, then those artists should be judged by the danger and the inconvenience that they face for doing so, not by the rewards that they receive for parroting consensus. There’s nothing particularly stunning or brave about changing your fucking profile picture whilst you’re sat in your house in Los Angeles. I’m really fucking pissed off with this shit. Malaysia’s militarized enforcement of laws against public displays of homosexuality creates a clear line in the sand for what artists are allowed and expected to do. But elsewhere, this line isn’t so defined. Even here in America, there’s loads of states which uphold illiberal laws that restrict people’s bodily autonomy and gender expression. I don’t know why you’re cheering. But I suspect, I’ve got an inkling, that those who took to Twitter to voice their outrage over The 1975’s unwillingness to cater to Malaysian customs would find it appalling if The 1975 were to acquiesce to, let’s say, Mississippi’s respective bullshit trans laws. The idea that it’s incumbent upon artists to cater to the local cultural sensitivities of wherever they’ve been invited to perform sets a very dangerous precedent. It should be expected that if you invite dozens of Western performers into your country, they’ll bring their Western values with them. If doing the same things which made you aware of them could land them in jail in your country, you’re not actually inviting them to perform - you’re indirectly commanding them to reflect your country’s policies by omission. This kind of [?] goes against the very idea of a site of cultural exchange where differences are allowed to coexist. This, that, is a more valuable idea to protect than the bigoted sensitive of those that wish its demise. Yeah. Don’t forget who wrote this."
— Matty Healy before singing Love It If We Made It in Fort Worth, Texas (October 9, 2023)
"my friend from England" "my friend form Ecuador" "my friend from Australia" "my friend from Brazil".. me talking about my mutuals who I've never spoken directly to
“I think that I like building forts cause the idea of space really scares me cause it’s infinite. I don’t mind the infinite going inward. Like when you film a TV. It’s a TV in a TV in a TV in a TV. I like being in one of those worlds. It’s like the idea of a fort, if there was another fort in here and then maybe another fort inside that and another fort inside that. Cause when you get outside of our fort…it’s not…it’s like the unknown. I don’t like that. I like being in a fort.”
"I made a mistake when we were booking shows, I wasn’t looking into it. I don’t see the fucking point, right? I do not see the point of inviting The 1975 to a country and then telling us who we can have sex with. And I’m sorry if that offends you and you’re religious, but your government are a bunch of fucking [...] and I don’t care anymore. If you push, I’m gonna push back. I’m not in the fucking mood. I’m not in the fucking mood anymore. I saw a TikTok the other day where I picked up a child that I love who’s a friend of mine’s child. And I put them down. And there was a TikTok conversation about whether my finger placement was appropriate. So what, we’re just casually accusing people of being pedophiles now, are we? For entertainment? Is that what we’re doing? No? Well it fucking looks like it. I’m not having a go at you, it’s people filming this. It fucking looks like it. You don’t casually insinuate that shit. I’m not in the fucking mood anymore. Unfortunately you don’t get a set of loads of uplifting songs because I’m fucking furious. And that’s not fair on you, because you’re not representative of your government. Because you’re young people, and I’m sure a lot of you are gay and progressive and cool. So I pulled the show yesterday. I pulled this show yesterday and we had a conversation, we said “you know what, we can’t let the kids down because they’re not the government”. But I’ve done this before. I’ve gone to a country where it’s fucking, I don’t know what it fucking is - ridiculous, it’s fucking ridiculous to tell people what they can do with that [points to dick] and that [points to mouth]. And if you want to invite me here to do a show, you can fuck off. I'll take your money, you can ban me, but I've done this before and it doesn't feel good. And I'm fucked off."
— Matty Healy before kissing Ross and singing I Like America & America Likes Me in Kuala Lumpur (July 21, 2023)
theartofmadeline
romaincrisis
ellievsbear
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
blakekathryn
gamechangershow
andulkaphoto
turnnoffyourmind
stormborns
