Honestly, I do not know if this piece relates to Charlie Puth's song (who is a bae btw js) but when I wrote it, it wasn't my intention at all. All I wanted was to write a piece about my friend and probably about an ex of his idk and you know, probably piss him off haha. And quite frankly I inserted Taron here (because c'mon, who doesn't love Taron and who wouldn't want to be his wife?) but removed it for the sake of my life. I will not be able to handle a piece about someone becoming Taron's wife. And I didn't want this to be a piece about being married to Taron but more on the fact that Taron's wife has an ex that still kinda likes her and-- you know what, I'm not spoiling it :)).
Iâve never received this type of call, never thought I would ever pick up the phone to hear his motherâs voice frantic and asking me to come home. Even if itâs only for a day. Weâll pay for everything. But I canât do that to her. She says heâs gone. Not physically gone. Mentally gone. Emotionally gone. They canât bring him back. Nothing could bring him back. But he keeps saying my name. She said he kept saying my name.
They thought we were still in contact. We werenât. I was happily married. And my books doing very well, flying off the shelves under a pseudonym. I had a steady source of income and my life in London was stable. I only ever travelled back to visit my grandparents and I went back to America to visit my mother. Then that call. That one call.
With all the new movies he was starring in, I didnât want him to waste time and money doing nothing back home. I wasnât staying that long anyway.
So I flew alone. And when I landed, the first thing I did was visit him. A little tired and jet-lagged, I came to do what I had to.
People flocked their house, anxious to see the famous author back home. Some wanted pictures. Some wanted autographs. I didnât have time for either.
His father came out of their house to help, shooing away newly emerged fans who probably never read a thing Iâve written. And I slip in their house, glass windows shining against my eyes, memories flashing at every turn.
His mother comes out and pulls me to his room, not wasting any time. Then I see it. The door. His door. Behind this piece of flattened wood is him, apparently letting himself waste away. Itâs locked.
His mother knocks. No answer. I knock. No answer either. Then I speak.
And the soft click of the door unlocking met my ears.
His mother made a move to storm into the room. I stop her.
âI know you donât like me. But if you walk in there when he expects me, heâs going to fall deeper and I donât know if I would be able to bring him back.â She understands. She steps back.
I cross the line that separates his room from the rest of the world.
Then I see him, sitting on a chair facing the computer, playing video games.
The air is hot, and musty. Signs of someone who didnât open the door for months.
âYou hungry?â I ask. He grunts a no.
âAre you telling the truth?â Another grunt. No.
Then I sit on his bed. He doesnât look at me. He doesnât look at the computer screen either.
âWhy are you here? How are you here?â He whispers.
âYour mom called me.â
âThey said you were saying my name. Did you need something from me?â
âWhy were you calling my name then?â
âIt doesnât matter.â
âIâm not starting anything. Iâm trying to finish this.â I say will myself to look at him and see him. See him and understand why heâs like this.
And I see the bags under his eyes. I see his bones peeking from his elbows. His charisma gone. His confidence, gone.
âWhat happened?â I ask. âI need you to tell me what happened so we can figure out whatâs wrong.â
âClearly, something is.â
âI told you, Iâm fine. Go back to your life. Go back to London. Go back to your books. Go back to your husband. Why are you wasting your time talking to me? Go back to your perfect husband. Just leave.â He says. Every word said with equal amounts of anger, regret, sadness, and frustration.
âYouâre angry with me.â I say, understanding. Or so I thought I did.
âIâm not angry with you.â
âThen why do you want me to leave?â
âBecause thereâs nothing for you here!â He said with his voice raised. âWhy are you here? Youâre married. You have a career. Your husband is perfect. He has a job. He takes you on dates. He makes you happy. You wonât be happy here. Thereâs nothing that can make you happy here! Just go!â
âWhat is it with you and my husband?â
âI canât look at you and not think about the fact that youâre married!â He stands up. âYou come in here, and talk to me. All that youâre doing is reminding me why I shut myself in! Leave!â
âIâm not leaving until I find out why youâre bringing up my husband.â
âJust go to him. Please.â
âWhy are you bringing up my husband? Heâs not here. Iâm here. Talk to me. Letâs talk about why youâre being like this. What happened?â
âYou wanna know what happened? You happened!â He points his shaking finger at me. âYou are the reason that Iâm this kind of person.â He says as tears start pooling around his eyes. Then my hands reach out to him. I couldnât stop myself. I hug him. And he lets me.
He curls up in my embrace, clutching on to me like a child would.
âI donât want to see you here.â He says. âBut I donât want to let go.â
âI hate myself. For being the dumbest person in the world. I had you. You were willing to be mine. And I took advantage of that. Iâm sorry.â He apologizes.
âNo, itâs not! Donât say that!â He says and pulls away from the hug. âIâve been in love with you for as long as I remember and I couldnât take care of youâŹdidnât take care of you. And you should be angry! You should be punching me and yelling at me! Instead, Iâm yelling at you! Itâs easier if you hate me because then youâd be the angry one! Being angry and miserable is not a combination that I want to feel. Please. Please be angry with me.â
âIâm not angry with you.â
Then he takes my hands and hits himself with it. âStop.â I say. âStop!â And he stops.
His eyes widen at my outburst. He thinks Iâll finally be angry. Iâm not.
âIâm not angry. Stop wanting me to be.â I take his hands into mine and plant a kiss on each one. He holds his breath. âYouâve found girls that were better than me in many ways. Go find another one.â
âI always come back to you.â He says. âI always come back to you.â
âStop thinking about me. Stop thinking that Iâll be waiting for you.â
And he bursts into tears.
âI canât wait for you anymore. Someoneâs waiting for me. I canât keep them waiting.â
And he releases a pathetic squeak.
âShut up and let me forgive you.â And he let me.