I guess I’m doing some writing over break?? a miracle!!
It’s the incoming text that sends your heart rate up, straight up, the message popping down from the top of the screen. It’s from
You groan, your fist instinctively rising in an effort to wipe away the wetness on your cheeks, but instead, just smearing the tracked mascara a little more.
Of course he’s going to play this game again, it’s just typical Tom.
You hit the square before it retreats back into the list of notifications, flooded by snaps from concerned friends that have collected in the last two hours.
I’m with haz and my phone wasnt giving me notifications
Bullshit. Complete bullshit.
You’re not even sad anymore, just pissed. But not at him. You can’t be. You’re just mad at yourself for falling for this again. Because you’re never going to be able to stay mad at him, as proved time and time again.
Your thumbs hover over the keyboard, but you don’t answer. The wave of sadness hits again, tears refilling your eyes as you survey the screen. It’s completely overtaken by the blue-backed messages you’ve been sending since 7:30.
hey tommy? you on your way?
just let me know when you think youll be here :)
and finally, most recently, a petty and short
singularly because Snapchat betrayed him to be “seen just now” at a local pub. And while you weren’t exactly proud to admit it, you’d been checking his location periodically, though it was partially to make sure that he was safe.
It’s 12:38 now, as a glance at the top of the screen confirms, and the typing bubble pulses on the screen briefly before-
He wasn’t wrong. After all, he is the one who stood you up. Or could you even call it that?
Regardless, he was supposed to come round yours for a night in, though clearly it hadn’t worked out that way. This is only illustrated by the fact that you’re now in the fetal position in the dark on the sofa, surrounded by too many throw pillows and a stack of movies, favorites of Tom’s and of your own.
They’re all dumb now. You shouldn’t have wasted your time or energy on popping the popcorn and going out to find Tom’s favorite sweets, you think. It’s a mix of anger and hopelessness that fills the corners of your mind now, and it occurs to you that you haven’t texted him back yet.
You read it over, not thinking twice before you hit send.
sometimes it feels like i’m the only one who cares around here
There’s not even a second of hesitation before he’s typing again.
You click your phone off, well aware that the read receipt has already been sent.
Good, you think, let him feel shitty about it. It’s his turn anyways.
And then you’re silencing your phone, and shoving it in the pocket of your sweatpants, and you’re getting up from the couch. And more tears are coming, because now you feel awful, but he made you feel awfuller, so maybe he deserves it.
He does, you decide. Screw him.
The sad, empty, pittish feeling in your stomach makes you want to go straight to bed and maybe lay there for a few hours on your phone reading the texts again, but you make it shut up and instead stop in the bathroom.
Ugly is the only word that comes to mind when you look in the mirror. You grab a makeup wipe from the package in the drawer and scrub at your raccoony eyes until the mascara bits are gone, leaving you looking just tired and sad.
You click the lights off and walk out, not even bothering to turn on the bedroom light before flopping into bed. Your phone is still in your pocket, but you’re tired of crying, so there’s no point in looking at it again. Despite how exhausted you are, though, you can’t sleep. So you lay there, on your side, looking at the wall.
You don’t know how many minutes pass, maybe even hours, before you’re pulled out of whatever hole you’re in by the sound of your front door closing. You pull the comforter higher up, knowing exactly what’s about to happen, knowing that Tom’s going to walk in and apologize and that you’re going to forgive him because how can you not?
You can’t hear his footsteps as he moves down the hall, but he taps on the door, snapping you out of your own mind.
You don’t answer. You don’t know if you even can.
There’s a pause, and there’s silence for a few seconds, or a few minutes. You don’t know which it is. You’re wondering if he’s gone, if he gave up, though you didn’t hear the front door close again. And then the silence fades back in, and you just lay there waiting.
It at least feels like a few minutes have passed, so you roll over to look at the clock.
You pull out your phone, figuring that he could’ve texted. Immediately, you wince at the brightness, letting your eyes adjust before you click onto your messages.
And sure enough, the most recent one--almost a half hour ago-- reads
If you don’t want to talk to me, I understand. I’m in the lounge if you do, though. I love you, and I’m sorry.
Suck it up, Y/N. You sit up, pocketing the phone again and hesitantly climbing out from the comforter. Your door squeaks when you open it, and you know that he’d have to be deaf to miss it. Now you have to do it, no wimping out.
Emerging from the room, you immediately see the top of his head resting on the arm of the sofa, his hair unruly.
Why does he have to be cute?
He rolls over to face you as you stand at the end of the hallway, sitting up when he registers that it’s you.
“I thought you were asleep..” He pulls himself off the couch and to his feet, stopping you in your tracks.
You nod. There’s no tension between you; just awkwardness, thick and obvious.
“I’m sorry… I forgot I was supposed to be here..” He trails off, gesturing weakly to the setup around him. “Haz invited me out for drinks.. And I was serious-- your texts weren’t coming through before I was driving home.”
You shrug. You know he’s telling you the truth, but you don’t want to admit that you were so upset over something dumb like this.
“I’m sorry, babe. I am..”
You stare at his socked feet, unable to look at him, stupidly stubborn.
“What’s going on?.. What’re ya thinkin’?”
“I dunno,” you mumble, finally mustering up the words to actually respond. “‘M tired.”
“Oh.” He’s caught off guard by that, not expecting to be shut down like that. Or maybe he was expecting it, just… hoping that you’d want to sort through it now. “Sorry. I’ll go.. I’ll let ya sleep.”
He fiddles with his fingers, with the ring on the fourth finger of his right hand. He fiddles with the cuffs of his jacket, rolling the fabric between his thumb and second finger. He fiddles with his fingernails, the cuticles already bitten down--
“Don’t.” It comes out of your mouth before you can stop it, loud and clear. Fuck.
“Huh?” He looks up, and unexpectedly, you do too, meeting his eyes before you realize that this is bad news.
It’s your turn to start fiddling now, with your own hands, your hair--
“I’m not… mad at you, Tom.”
He looks surprised. “You’re not?”
“That doesn’t change the fact that I did fuck up.. and that I’m sorry.” He’s intent on giving you an apology.
You don’t need one though, you don’t want him to feel bad anymore…
“Is it okay if I hug you?” The question comes from your mouth even though you can’t recall conjuring the words up. He looks taken aback this time, caught off-guard again, and it takes a moment for him to process it because he was about to launch into a whole apology speech.
“Of course hon.. you don't have to ask, you know.”
And then you’re wrapped in him, and his body is warm and he smells nice and not like alcohol, like you’d sort of expected. And he’s mumbling sorry’s into your shoulder like there’s no tomorrow, but you shush him, squeezing his waist.
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