haya

changing my trousers

[whatashameparis]

…welcome to my blog!!

my name is haya. pronouns are she/her. i’m 18! sometimes i like to write but that’s only when an idea has sprung and i’m not drowning in exams. ed blogs dni

music i like: the 1975. lorde. charli xcx. ethal cain. lana del rey. hole. phoebe bridgers. practically anything.

tags i use:

#hspeaks — rants and thoughts

#fashionkilla — clothes, pieces i like

++ more to add i can't think rn

[knockat102]

I can’t believe I was busy being a toddler in 2009 instead of sitting outside the Manchester Public Library and watching an early live rendition of Sex by Drive Like I Do preformed by Matty Healy and George Daniel. What a shame.

[bedforddanes75]

cant stop thinking about this

[pqr1s]

the coat

[pqr1s]

manifested and i have the same exact one now

[june1stthe1975]

There'll be a riot, cause I know you

[whatashameparis]

missed him so much :( the fact he was literally ten minutes away from me here

[whatashameparis]

there is something about the birthday party that i cannot explain

[cattyhealy]

matty healy cat agenda

[whatashameparis]

i finished chemistry :)

[xxinyue]

Matty by Elfie Semotan for PYLOT

issue 10 - 2019, London

[howitstartz]

ugh! come back!

[tooshyshy]

“I considered getting a tattoo of Ray Charles one time, then I didn’t.” (x)

[mercyfics]

blurb but make it matty stressed out after a long day and getting aftercare but make it gay and also matty skirt era please?

not strong enough - matty healy

summary: matty comes home after a rough day in the studio. he's overstimulated, exhausted, and not feeling like himself. you try your best to make things a little easier for him. tags: hurt/comfort with an optimistic ending... but still pretty angsty :( mental health struggles. overstimulation in a neurodivergent way. one brief reference to previous addiction/rehab. cuddling. smoking. word count: 3309

You can't explain how, but you know something is wrong the second he walks into the apartment.

The first noise to catch your attention, other than the sound of the door clicking shut as Matty locks it behind him, is the sharp clatter of keys skidding across a stone countertop. You reach for the TV remote, pausing the show you've been watching, and turn your attention to the entryway of your living room.

"Matty?" 

Your call remains unanswered, which is strange, especially for someone who loves to talk as much as your boyfriend. Everything about this is strange — Matty is normally the first person to announce his arrival, to tell you hello, to ask you how your day was. He's never quiet, not like this. The complete silence from him is something new altogether, and it makes your stomach drop. 

You rise to your feet, turn a corner, and cross the short distance between the living room and the entryway. You find Matty leaning against the kitchen counter, propped up by his elbows. His palms cover his face, shielding himself. You can hear the faint sound of bass blasting through the speakers of his headphones, which are cranked up so loud that he's definitely risking permanent hearing loss. 

"Matty?" you repeat, more concerned this time.

This time, he hears you. Matty jumps back from the counter in surprise as his eyes land on you. A pair of unsteady hands reach up to pull his headphones down, leaving them resting around his neck. He blinks, reminiscent of a deer in the headlights. 

"I thought you were at work."

"I got off early," you explain gently. "Told you I was going to."

Matty's face falls at the realization of his forgetfulness. He runs a hand through his messy curls, shaking his head. He appears almost frantic. 

"Right, shit – m'sorry, love," he says. "Been a long day, s'all. Sorry"

"What's wrong?"

"Just… studio bullshit," Matty explains, waving a dismissive hand. "Nothing's coming together right. Everything sounds… wrong. It's just…" He lets out a disgruntled noise before shrugging, defeated. "It's nothing. You know how I get, s'all." 

"I'm sorry," you frown sympathetically. "Are you sure you're up for going out tonight?"

Matty's face falls. "What? Yeah. 'Course I am. We have reservations."

"I can cancel them," you say casually. 

It would hardly be the first time you've canceled plans at the last minute, and still, the world kept spinning. One of the benefits of dating a rockstar is that you can kind of get dinner reservations whenever you want, and this situation is no different. 

But for some reason, Matty doesn't seem to agree. His eyes suddenly widen, panicked.

"No, don't –" You watch as he brings his hands up to his face again, rubbing at his eyes. "Don't do that. Not f'me."

"Matty –" He cuts you off before you can finish.

"You should go get ready," he says, forcing a grin that looks more pained than anything else. It looks almost uncomfortable for him to show his teeth, to muster the performance of being a human right now. "I'll be fine."

"Matty."

"It's fine — I'll be fine." He's trying to be assertive — you can tell. Unfortunately for him, he's failing miserably. 

"Are you saying that because you will be fine, or because you think it's what I want to hear?"

Matty doesn't respond to your question – not that he needs to. You both already know the answer. Instead, he lets out a low sigh, shoulders falling.

"It's fine," he repeats, clumsily avoiding your question.

You decide you can't let this go on any longer. Matty's barely holding this conversation as is, so the prospect of him subjecting him to a loud, bustling social situation sounds like the last thing he needs at the moment. And if he's not going to advocate for himself because he's too afraid of letting you down, then it's time for you to take matters into your own hands.

You take a slow, deliberate step forward, closing the space between the two of you. When you cup Matty's face in your hands, his gaze immediately darts down to the floor, unable to look you in the eye. 

"Baby." Your words, just like your actions, are soft. When he's overstimulated like this, you take extra care to monitor yourself and your tone, not wanting to make things worse for him. "I'm not going to let you torture yourself for me." 

Your words cut through his carefully constructed facade. You watch as the last of Matty's will to argue drains from his body. His lips move, but no words come out, and his shoulders sink impossibly lower, almost bashful. He still doesn't meet your gaze, and it makes your chest feel tight. 

"'M sorry," he finally mumbles, voice constricted, throat tight with effort. 

"It's okay," you reassure him, knowing that's what he needs right now. "Do you wanna tell me what happened at work?"

"No," Matty replies, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. 

You'd figured as much. Matty usually preferred to seal himself away for a bit to decompress before actually opening up. Still, it was worth a try.

"Okay," you say calmly. "Have you eaten?"

"I think I had some coffee."

"Eaten," you emphasize. 

Your prying brings Matty's attention back to you. His eyes snap up to your face, expression unreadable as he contemplates your question. Then, he lazily shakes his head. 

"I don't think so."

"Okay. I'll order some food, then." 

"Don't wanna eat." 

"I know, baby. But if you change your mind, it'll be good to have around." 

Matty blinks at you, then. There's a vacancy in his eyes that you haven't seen for a while, an uncomfortable vulnerability that tells you he would rather be anywhere but here. The muscle in his jaw twitches, and you watch as his chapped lips part, only to close once more. He's quiet, again. And it's not because he doesn't have anything to say; it just seems that, at this instant, Matty doesn't know how to say it for whatever reason. And that's okay.

"Go get changed, sweet boy." Your thumb caresses his cheekbone, featherlight. You swear you feel his breath shudder in response. "I'll be here when you're done." 

You watch as he wordlessly retreats to the bedroom and shuts the door. Only a minute passes before you hear the twist of the shower head turning on, and the faint drumming of water hitting acrylic flooring. Only then do you sit back down on the couch and open your emails, scrolling back until you find the restaurant reservation confirmation for the evening. You cancel it without much guilt, knowing that someone will snatch up your spot within minutes, and that Matty will want to grab dinner there again soon, once he feels more like himself.

Then you open your favorite food delivery app. After searching through the options for a couple of minutes, you decide on a local, fast casual restaurant that you know is one of Matty's favorites. It's the classic definition of comfort food, and you hope it will be enough for him to rediscover his appetite.

You've only just placed the order when you hear the bedroom door creak open, and Matty steps out. He's changed into what you're pretty sure is the biggest hoodie he owns, along with a long, flowy skirt that's just one of many in his collection. His hair is damp but not soaked, which makes you think that he stepped into a shower for only a few moments to clear his head before that inevitably became too much. A couple of water-logged curls stick to his forehead, framing his face.

You're about to stand up to give him room to sprawl across the couch, but Matty beats you to the punch, carefully lying down and positioning himself so he's half on top of you. He rests his head on your lap, legs curled up to his chest in some form of the fetal position. It always surprises you how small Matty can make himself when he wants to. He has a big personality, and he's loud. Whenever he enters a room, he's impossible to miss – he demands attention. He takes up space. But right now, curled up in your lap, he seems small, fragile, almost like he'll crumble if you so much as look at him wrong.

"This alright?" he asks, voice also small.

"Course it is," you reply with a faint smile, not that he can see it. "Can I touch you?"

"Please."

So you do, lowering your arm to drape across the frame of his upper body, blanketing him the best you can. Your other hand drifts down to his head, brushing his curls out of his face before resting against his scalp. You keep your fingers still, unsure whether playing with his hair would be more comforting or annoying for him at this point. Matty lets out a pleased sigh, curling into you even more, feline-like.

"What are you watching?"

"Some shitty reality show," you reply. You'd only been half paying attention to it before he walked in. "You wouldn't like it. I'll turn it off."

"No," Matty replies, voice soft. "Keep it. Not gonna pay attention, anyway." 

And while you don't turn it off, thinking he might appreciate the distraction, you do turn down the volume of the TV by a couple of notches. If Matty notices, he doesn't say anything.  

In fact, he falls entirely silent after that, content to rest against you. Even though you can't see his face, his rhythmic, deep breathing tells you that he's finally allowing himself the luxury of rest. After a few minutes, you feel his body relax entirely. The tension that he's been holding in his shoulders fades away into nothingness, and you instantly know that he's fallen asleep in your lap.

Finally, you turn your attention back to the TV, permitting yourself to focus on something other than him for the time being. And as you lose yourself in the show, which really is comedically bad, you're careful to stay still, not wanting to stir Matty from his much-needed slumber.

By the time the food gets there, Matty's still fast asleep, so tired that even the sound of the delivery person knocking on the door to your apartment doesn't rouse him. And while you're tempted to get up and retrieve the food before it gets cold, you can't bring yourself to disrupt your boyfriend's sleep… not yet, at least. You make a mental note to wake him within the next twenty minutes if he doesn't stir on his own, but that deadline never comes. 

A phone call wakes him before you can. You feel a faint vibration against your thigh. Instinctively, you reach towards it, only to realize that it's not your phone – it's Matty's, carefully tucked away in the pocket of his hoodie. With an annoyed groan, Matty stirs awake, blindly fumbling around in his pocket before grabbing his phone and checking the screen.

"Shit," he grumbles. "It's George."

"You should talk to him."

"Don't wanna."

You frown, running your fingers through his hair in what you hope is a comforting gesture. "You'll regret it if you don't."

After a few more moments, Matty takes your advice, letting out another tired groan before rising to his feet. By then, he's missed George's call altogether, but you can tell by the way he's steeling himself that he's preparing to call him right back. Matty hastily grabs a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from the little shelf where he always keeps them before stepping out onto the balcony. He doesn't fully close the sliding glass door, and you can hear him sigh when George picks up the phone, greeting his friend with a warm but sheepish "Hey mate."

Most of the conversation happens in hushed tones, with what sounds like a well-deserved apology from Matty. You haven't seen it firsthand, but you know that tensions can run high in the studio on a good day, and it clearly wasn't a good day for your boyfriend. Matty was notoriously poor at handling conflict, especially when it came to the people he loved, and you can only imagine what sort of terms he and George left things on. You also know that it must have been eating him up inside. You have a feeling that if George hadn't called, Matty would have reached out to him by the end of the night, no matter how much he acted like he didn't want to talk to him when he first called.

Their conversation doesn't last for more than five minutes, but by the sounds of it, it ends on good terms. You watch as Matty pockets his phone once more, leaning against the balcony railing as he takes a long, shuddering breath, followed by a self-soothing drag of his cigarette.

You give him about a minute of solitude before you get up from the couch, padding across the floor before sliding open the door and joining Matty on the balcony. You might be imagining it, but he looks more at peace than he was when you last saw his face. He still looks bone-tired, worn down by the day he's had, but it doesn't seem to pain him anymore. Whatever he and George talked about on that call, it seems to have helped, just like you knew it would. 

Matty doesn't speak when he sees you, but he does wordlessly step to the side, allowing you space to lean up against the railing beside him. The cigarette is still hanging from between his lips, nearly burned out. 

"Feeling better?" you ask, hopeful. 

"Mhm." 

Matty takes one last, long drag of his cigarette before he removes it from his mouth, stubbing it out on the balcony railing with an unsteady hand. He holds the smoke in his lungs for a few more seconds before blowing it into the night air. It's ritualistic, meditative. 

Surprisingly, he's the first to break the silence. 

"You're too sweet to me." 

You laugh a little — albeit uncomfortably. His words catch you off guard. 

"I didn't know that was a bad thing."

"'S’not —" Matty's quick to interject. "But you shouldn't have to. I was a dick to George. I bailed on our plans. I'm… I dunno why you put up with me when I… when I get like this." He raises his hand, anxiously twisting a rogue curl between two of his fingers. "I dunno. All fucked in the head."

"You're allowed to have a bad day, you know."

"I know that. But loads of people have bad days, and they can still act like people. But I can't. I used to, but I can't anymore, not since I stopped —" He cuts himself off before he finishes his sentence, but you both know what he was about to say. Those seven weeks he'd spent getting sober were impossible for either of you to forget. "Fuck."

Matty's words make you frown. Your fingers twitch at your sides, wanting nothing more than to reach out and hold him, but you refrain.

"I know you, Matty," you say frankly. "So does George. So does everyone who cares about you. It's just part of who you are, and it's okay. We don't care." 

"Maybe you should." 

"But we don't," you counter, more forcefully this time, hoping that your change in tone finally gets through to him. "I can't speak for George, but I don't care that you get like this sometimes. I don't care that we canceled our plans tonight. It doesn't matter to me. I love you, and I love your brain, even when you don't." 

Matty turns to look at you, then. You realize with a sinking feeling that his eyes have become watery, shining with unshed tears. Your face falls.

"Oh… baby."

That's what finally does it. 

The words have barely left your lips before Matty's closing the distance between the two of you, wrapping his arms around you tightly, as though he's afraid of you slipping away if he lets go. His face is warm as he buries it in the crook of your neck, hiding from your view. He draws a shuddering breath in before mumbling a long string of apologies against your skin.

"I'm sorry, m'so fuckin' lucky, I don't know why I'm like this, m'sorry, I love you…"

Each word tugs painfully at your chest, but you don't try to stop him. You know that he's been building up to this ever since he stepped through the door, and now, all you can do is let it run its course, no matter how much it makes your heart ache to see the person you love in so much distress.

Surprisingly, Matty never really starts crying, not properly at least. Every now and then, you can feel his body shake as he struggles to remember to breathe, but he still doesn't permit himself to lose control in that way. You're unsure if it's more for your benefit or his – this would hardly be the first time you've seen your boyfriend cry in front of you, and he must know that you don't care about something as trivial as that. You wonder if, in some small way, it's his last attempt at maintaining some sort of control over the situation, and the runaway train that is his mental state at the moment.

After a while, he falls quiet, but doesn't let go, still clinging onto you with a quiet desperation. You bring a hand up to rest on the nape of his neck, fingertips just barely touching his hair.

"You're going to be okay, Matty," you murmur, the warmth of your tone melting away at the bitter cold of the night air. "Tomorrow will be better. I promise."

And even though you can't necessarily guarantee that, it doesn't stop you from saying it. You have a feeling Matty will wake up feeling much more like himself in the morning – he just needs some food in his stomach and a long night of rest, ideally curled up against you. 

Like all things, you know that this, too, shall pass. 

"M'kay." Matty's voice is faint, muffled against the fabric of your shirt, but it doesn't matter because he's agreeing with you, and that's a step in the right direction.

"Okay," you repeat. "Do you think you could eat something, baby?"

Matty sighs softly before replying. "Yeah. Think so." 

"Okay," you reply, relieved. "We should eat before someone steals the food off our doorstep, then."

But even then, you make no attempt to move away or detach yourself from Matty, allowing him to make the first move. He does after a few more seconds, slowly loosening his grip on you and stepping back. But he doesn't fully let go of you – one of his hands remains loosely gripping your wrist. The gesture feels almost shy, like he's a scared little kid on his first day of school. It's clear that he's not trying to keep you in place; rather, he can't bring himself to sever all physical contact with you.

Ever so gently, you reach down, carefully prying his hand off your wrist before interlocking his fingers with your own. You give his hand an experimental squeeze, and Matty responds instantly with one of his own. He doesn't smile, but you swear that his eyes do light up a little at the sight of your combined hands.

"I love you," Matty says suddenly.

His voice is quiet, barely above a whisper, like it's a secret that's meant for the two of you and the two of you only. Still, the sound of those words from his lips makes you smile, just like they always do.

He's going to be okay. You can feel it.

"I love you too, sweet boy."

[iloveadamhann]

[whatashameparis]

just saw a video of the 1975 covering wicked games by the weekend…

[xpastelroses]

wide awake before i found you (this must be my dream) i can't wait for you, boy (wake me from my dream) what does all our love amount to?

[telegramsam6]

and what if i said moodboard for another fic i'm working on

[telegramsam6]

Turn around, look at me - Matty Healy (stalker!au)

some info: american matty 😟, slightly slow burn, bounces between povs, very much influenced by anatomy by lottiecrabie <3

CW: gross pervy man behavior (i mean, it's called stalker!au so i hope you guessed that already), masturbation (m), improper use of a thong

Part 1 of idk how many

Words: 5477

Monday, September 1st, ‘08

On September 1st at 10:44, you spoke to him for the first time. 

It was a Monday, between second and third period. You wore a white dress with a small bow at the center of the neckline, white socks that rose just an inch past the ankles, and brown Mary Janes. He wrote it down later in a scuffed moleskine journal small enough to fit in his pocket. Filled with his frantic scribbles of fleeting thoughts—song lyrics, to-do lists, lines from books he’d maybe want inked on his skin one day. Now, words about you, too.  

It had been a hot, humid summer day, the temperature reaching 97 degrees, and it was only the second week of school, and still, every second passed in his senior year felt like hours spent crawling around a purgatory of pubescent demons. Gluttony and greed, greasing the sticky floors and graffitied walls. He couldn’t wait for the day he’d graduate, or at the very least, until the last bell of the day was rung and he’d be free to waste away in Adam’s basement in hazy clouds of smoke and guitar riffs turned to white noise after being played countless times. He had bigger dreams than that, of course, but they seemed too distant in the future. At the present, all he could focus on was keeping his head down and avoiding trouble with guys who seemed to have established a one-sided vendetta against him since the second he started growing his hair out.   

That was, until you walked past him in the hallway on September 1st. He hadn’t even been looking at you until you walked right by him, to be honest. What a wasted twenty seconds he spent staring straight ahead of him at nothingness—at boisterous overgrown children, talking too loudly, laughing too loudly, at girls vapidly gossiping, at Ms. Lawton lecturing George outside her classroom, at––

“Hey, I like your shirt.”

He looked in the direction of the voice, automatic and thoughtless. Were you talking to him? He looked ahead again and whipped his head back to you in half a second, eyebrows furrowing. It was you, it really was. You turned around, walking towards your next class, smiling slyly as if you knew the effect you might have. His neck stayed twisted behind him, watching your brown shoes padding across the linoleum floors and your ponytail bouncing with each step.

“Ow! Matty, watch where you’re going. Jesus,” George had been released from his daily reprimand, walking toward Matty to head to their next class together. English. 

“Sorry, fuck. My bad.” His eyes still trained on the back of your head, a sight he would get to know as well as the palms of his hands, with his map of scars and callouses and creases—hands he stared at for the next fifty minutes as Mr. Churchill droned on about his pedantic grammar corrections on their first writing assignment and preachifying the Oxford comma. 

“He’d fuck the thing if he could, the freak,” George muttered, eyes glazed, and doodling in the corner of his paper. 

Matty just grunted a laugh, fixating on his short, scratched, bitten nails and the words scrawled underneath them, frustrated that no matter what he tried, his thoughts could never transfer out through his hands. They were ineffable to the paper. His lyrics seemed cheesy, cliché. 

“Writing about Holly again?” George asked, peering over.

“No,” he scowled, which wasn’t fair. Matty had been writing about the same girl, Holly, for over a year now; everyone knew that, and it was nowhere near far-fetched to assume he was writing about her again. They started dating eight months ago, they’ve been broken up for two, but he had been writing about her for several months before that. He had slightly obsessive tendencies; he couldn’t deny that, but it was over now. He’d never write another word about her, and it honestly felt insulting, thinking that someone assumed he could be writing about anyone else but you. 

“You coming to Adam’s on Friday?” George’s shrill whisper pulled Matty out of his trance. He didn’t know how long it had been since he had snapped at his friend.  

“What? Oh, yeah, I’ll be there. What time?”

“The usual. Right after school. And try and have that bridge worked out by then, too. Anything repetitive would be fine. I just want to finish mixing it by next week.” 

Frankly, the words were lost on Matty’s ears. He couldn’t get you out of his head. He wouldn’t.

He remembered seeing you walk into his Calculus class on the first day of school, about a week ago, immediately looking away because, realistically, what chance did he have? Yet, it didn’t stop him from continuing to stare at you throughout the class, and coming in early every day after that just to watch you walk in, and curse under his breath when you wouldn’t choose the open seat next to him. However, you always sat two rows ahead and one chair to the right, giving him a perfect, unobstructed view, where he could easily spend class staring at the back of your head, without looking suspicious.

“Looking at the new girl?” Will whispered, leaning over.

“What? Oh no, I was just zoning out…” Matty said, quickly averting his gaze, feeling as though he had been caught in a far more ethically reprehensible act than just staring. “Who is she?” 

Will simply shrugged next to him. “She just moved here from New York, that’s all I know. She and Janie are in the same homeroom.” When Will whispered your name, Matty repeated it under his breath, familiarizing himself with the sound.

“William! Matthew! This is Calculus, not gossip-with-your-friends-in-the-back-of-the-room class,” Mr. Davis interrupted, and Will and Matty’s heads perked up, lips shut. “I know you’re talking about me. If you have something to say, say it to my face. I can handle it.” The teacher turned back to the board while the sound of giggles echoed around the room. You glanced back at Matty, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips. He couldn’t even be embarrassed that you caught him already looking at you. He just smiled softly and looked back at his paper, satisfied at getting your attention. When he looked back up, your attention was back to the front of the room. He frowned. 

It was that singular look that hooked him. And then you spoke to him, and he was a fish pulled out of the water, his body irrevocably changed. Now, breathing air for the very first time. 

From then on, he’d catch himself daydreaming about what his life could look like with you in it. While bored out of his mind in class, when his mind would normally drift off thinking about practice after school, he found himself now picturing you there, too. You’d sit on the couch in Adam’s basement, nodding your head with the beat of George’s drums. You’d cheer when they finished a song, and maybe he’d even teach you how to play some chords on the guitar. And when the guys would go pick up food, he’d stay behind with you, playing the songs he wrote that he’d never play in front of everyone else, but he’d play them for you, and he’d feel comfortable doing it. He hadn’t even really spoken to you yet, but he watched how you talked to people, meeting them for the first time. He saw how easily your smile spread across your whole face, as if that was simply its natural state. The more he looked at you, the harder it was to look away, as if, like a drug your body gets too used to, he’d never be satiated, always trying to increase the fix.

Matty could already see how the guys in school would let their gaze linger on you for too long. How their stares were hyper-focused on the bits of skin you left uncovered for him. It should be for only him, he thought. You already got his attention, he wanted to tell you—you didn’t need anybody else's. 

On Friday, the 5th of September, while walking towards his locker, Matty groaned in disgust, watching a couple make out right in front of his locker door. He took a step closer, coughing, hoping they’d hear, collect themselves in shame, and walk away, but no such thing happened. They were in their own world of spiking hormones and spit.

“Laurie, Eli, let the poor guy get to his locker. You guys are disgusting, God,” you giggled, walking past Matty towards your friends and wacking Eli’s back playfully. 

The couple’s following faint and rushed apologies were lost on him when he looked at you, and he cursed himself for not being able to say thank you before you spun around. He had missed every chance to talk to you that day, and now he had to endure the long weekend, which he normally would have been ecstatic about. Three whole days of no school, yet lately he felt himself getting out of bed each morning with ease and almost jittery with excitement at the thought of seeing you. He liked to flip back in the pages of his notebook; despite only starting his entries in the first week of school, he still liked to read through what he wrote and close his eyes, pretending it was the previous day, looking at you across the hall, laughing with your friends, wishing he was next to you, his hand on the small of your back. He couldn’t wait to fill every page with you. 

September 2nd, Tuesday Wearing: light pink tank top with lace on the neckline. Jean shorts, ripped on the bottoms with the pockets poking out. White Converse, scuffed at the tips. Hair up.  You and Janie were talking about some stupid pop artist today. When we’re together, I’ll introduce you to incredible bands—ones with real emotion and lyrics that mean something. I’ve been listening to this band called The Streets, specifically their song It’s Too Late. I think about you when I listen to it. One day, I’ll write you a song. I’ll play it for you. And I’ll watch your eyes light up when you realize all the words are about you. Maybe you’ll cry. Maybe you’ll kiss me.  September 3rd, Wednesday Wearing: camo tank top, long white flowy skirt. Big, gaudy belt. Black Brown eyeliner I couldn’t believe how close I got to you today. I know God doesn’t exist, but I feel I gotta thank him for Adam randomly deciding he likes Janie after going to school with her for three years, and also for not having the balls to go up and talk to you guys alone. Now I have an excuse to be near you. September 4th Thursday Wearing: a white button-up shirt with a small syrup stain on the chest. Jean shorts, again. Hair in pigtails, tied with small, white ribbons.  I can tell by the way you look at me that you’re working your way up to talking to me. I don’t know why you won’t. I’m sure you can see how much I want you. I stare at you all the time. I see you catch me doing it, too. I know you only flirted with Logan in front of me to make me jealous. You want me to man up, talk to you, ask you out. I will.  I will.

“Matty, do you mind if I talk to you for a second?” Mr. Davis called behind Matty, pulling him out of his trance of flipping through memories of you. 

“Uh, no, not at all.” He closed his notebook, tucking it into the far back of his locker. Not like anyone would break in to read it, but he couldn’t be too careful.

“Mrs. Langdon told me you tutored a couple of students last year in pre-calc,” Mr. Davis said, as Matty followed him into the empty classroom, shutting the door behind him. The dark circles around the teacher’s eyes were prominent, but he maintained his easy smile. He was one of the younger teachers at the school, and the most liked by far. “I was wondering if you’d be willing to take up the job again.”

“Well, I don’t know. I’m real busy with college applications and stuff this year and—”

The teacher interrupted, saying your name. Matty’s head shot up. “She wanted some supplemental instruction after switching schools. I think there were some discrepancies in the curriculum, so she missed out on a unit or two, and considering your performance last year, I thought you’d be the—”

“I’ll do it.”

Mr. Davis’ eyebrows raised, surprised by the sudden change of heart. “Well, perfect then. I’m sure you can chase her down by the end of the day. You two can exchange information, whatever.” He waved his hand. 

“Yeah, yeah, perfect. I’ll do that, thanks.” He practically ran out of the classroom. 

The last bell of the day rang, and he stalked the hallways looking for your white dress, twisting through bodies. When he called your name, you turned around right away, smiling when you saw him jog towards you. 

“Mr. Davis said you wanted tutoring for calc. I did it for a couple people last year. I could totally help you out.”

He was pathetically out of breath, and you laughed at him, just a little. 

“Yeah, yeah, that’s great. What day would work for you?”

“Any day,” he said, too quickly. “Any day.”

“Well, alright,” You thought for a second and stepped a foot closer to him. “ How about every other Tuesday, then? We can start next week, yeah?” You looked up at him with wide eyes, glittering under fluorescent lights. He thought he might melt. “I can give you my phone number and my address.” You pulled out a notebook from your backpack and ripped out a corner of a page. 

The interaction was brief, but he got everything he ever needed, never expecting the day to end like this. He didn’t want it to end. Riding a high, his eyes bounced from the paper back to you, walking out the door. The day didn’t need to end yet, he thought. Why should he have to wait till Tuesday?

 You didn’t go home alone that day.

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Tuesday, September 9th, ‘08

The ghostly sound of wind whispering past your window was enough to wake you up ten minutes before your alarm on Tuesday morning. You hated sleeping with the windows open, especially when you were alone, and there was no one next to you to cling to when the ominous sounds outside invaded their way into your room. You groaned, tossing the covers aside, and got up to shut the window. Your mother must have opened it the night before, determined to clean your room before Matty came.

“He’s a teenage boy, Mom, he’s not gonna care about a messy room. He’d actually probably prefer it this way, make him feel more at home.” “It’s just polite, that’s all,” she sighed, gathering the mugs of leftover, unknown dried substances from your desk. “And messy and biohazard are two different things. This room is the latter.”    

After school, you walked with Matty back to your house together. He had been waiting by the big set of doors that opened to the school’s front circle, his foot tapping against the floor and repeatedly adjusting his messy hair, trying to tame it, looking like an anxious puppy. For the duration of the twenty-five-minute walk, he asked you question after question. Small, inconsequential things. He wanted to know your favorite of everything. Your favorite color, your favorite gemstone, your favorite food. He wanted to know how you fantasized about your future. Your dream car, job, house. He took every answer and held it on his tongue, as if meditating on it for just long enough to make you think he’d genuinely remember it, right before firing off another question. You told him about your old life in New York City. He wanted to know everything about it, having never left his hometown. You tried to ask about his family, their relationship, but he just shrugged and said, “Oh, I’m not really close with anyone in my family.” He was a deeply curious person, seemingly wanting to know everything about you, but building up a wall, fortified with the most impenetrable bricks, so as not to let you know a single real, deep thing about him.

Flemming Avenue was the pinnacle of the picturesque American dream, consolidated on a singular paved road. Flags of red and white stripes posted above each garage, kids outside playing in the sprinklers that watered their perfectly mowed radium lawns, their mothers watching from the kitchen windows. It was deep suburban hell that quite honestly nauseated you a little bit. If any of your friends from home were visiting, you’d feel almost embarrassed at the cookie-cutter nature, but this was the only world that Matty had ever known. He had walked up the driveway and into your house with you at perfect ease, as if he’d done it a million times before. His sense of familiarity comforted you. 

“My parents are both at work, so I thought we could just work upstairs in my room, if that's ok? Might be more comfortable than the kitchen table?” You were already heading over to the stairs. You knew what his answer was going to be. 

He simply nodded in response. Quickly and wide-eyed.  

You liked his twitchy, awkward, excited disposition. Maybe you knew the effect you had on him. Maybe you fed into it a little bit. It wasn’t hard. All you had to do was give him a small smile when you’d catch him staring at you, or go back and forth looking from his eyes to his lips, and watch him squirm and stutter his way through an almost-sentence. It made you feel good. It made you feel powerful.

“I thought it might be best to go over trigonometry stuff first,” he said, setting his things down by your desk. He reached into his bag and pulled out a notebook, filled with what looked like an alien language, of which you had absolutely no interest in learning. 

“Sounds good. Oh, you know what? Highlighters would be good. Let me find them.”

You scrounged around the top of your desk, convinced they were under some paper, stopping when Matty opened a desk drawer, second from the top, and pulled out a set of bright, rainbow pens. He froze for a second.

“How’d you know those were there?”

“Um… intuition, I guess.” He put the markers down robotically, keeping his gaze on his open notebook.

You frowned, confused, but shrugged it off. 

“I like your room,” he said, eyeing the band posters on the wall above your bed. You looked with him.

“Oh, thanks. You like Hole? They’re one of my favorite bands. You like Green Day, right? I saw you wearing an American Idiot shirt a few days ago. I love them too.”

—

“Why are you smiling at me like that?” You asked. He was looking at you with a small smile, lips slightly pursed, eyebrows raised, like he had a joke on the tip of his tongue and he just was waiting for the perfect moment to say it.

“Like what?”

“Like something’s funny.”

“No, it’s nothing,” He chuckled, looking down, shaking his head. “It’s just, well, I’ve been here almost an hour, and we’ve just been talking about music. I don’t think we’ve touched a single equation.”

You leaned in to him, voice almost in a whisper as if letting him in on a secret. “That was deliberate.”

“Not a big fan of math, huh?” His laugh was breathy. Awkward. It didn’t discourage you, though—you continued to lean in, looking up at him through long eyelashes.

“Not at all.”

“Yeah, me neither.”

“How’d you become a math tutor then?”

“I’m just good at it, I guess. It comes naturally to me, for some reason. I don’t give a shit about school, to be honest.”

“What do you give a shit about?”

He smiled and looked down. “Um, well, I actually make music. I’m in a band. We’ve been together since we were thirteen, and we’re really good, honestly. I want to put out songs someday. I mean, we already have, but like, I wanna do it professionally. I think we will. Soon. As soon as we graduate. We’re already starting to research record companies, small ones we think would take us.” He talked fast for the first time, tripping over his words like his tongue struggled to meet his brain. You relished the few seconds that he talked genuinely about himself. It didn’t last long. “So was this your plan all along? Bring me over here just to talk the whole time and avoid doing math?” He had a teasing smile on his face. It was cute. 

“Maybe,” you said, smiling, teasing back. “Maybe you’re just easy to talk to.”

He looked down again, cheeks turning pink. You could tell he was fighting a smile and was losing poorly. He spoke up before you could say anything more.

“Um, I wanna stay, but I promised my mom I’d be home by dinner.” You frowned to yourself as he promptly got up to gather his things. “We’re still on for the 23rd? Maybe we could actually get some studying done,” he let out another breathy laugh.

“Yeah, yeah, we probably should. My mom’s been bugging me for months about getting a tutor. I gotta put you to use eventually.” 

If you blinked, you would have missed Matty’s eyes widen for a split-second, but the sound of his breath hitching as you brushed past him by your bedroom door would have been obvious to any ear in a ten-foot radius.

The two of you walked down the stairs in silence this time, the redness never leaving his cheeks. Maybe you did too much, made him too nervous. 

“See you later, yeah?” You said, breaking the silence. 

“See you.” He still struggled to meet your eyes, looking down at his shoes carefully before turning on his heels out your door.  

You stood there, arms crossed, eyebrows furrowed in confusion, watching him walk down your driveway with his hands buried in his pockets. 

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At some point during the failed tutoring session, you went to the bathroom, and Matty had wandered around your room—already familiar with it from the visit he made on Monday, where he actually managed to climb into your room while you and your parents were visiting family for the holiday. At least, that’s what he thought he overheard you guys talking about from his place camouflaged in the bushes by the side of your house. He had waited there for you and your parents to leave before he climbed the trellis by your window. It had been unlocked. Thank God. He only just looked around, opened a few drawers here and there. Nothing crazy. Not like right now, lying on his bed after having left your house with a thong stuffed in his front right pocket. He held it in his lap now, a bulge in his jeans growing underneath the delicate lace pattern. He felt gross. He felt like a pervert. And maybe he was, maybe he should feel ashamed. But it was difficult to feel bad when he traced the thin fabric over his tented pants, teasing himself.

Matty knew he shouldn’t. He knew you deserved better. He knew that if you could see him right now, you’d probably be disgusted with him. He knew, he knew, he knew. It didn’t stop him from unzipping his jeans and pulling down his boxers.

He felt bad for lying to you. He never would again. He promised himself. But when you leaned in to him, so close he could smell your vanilla perfume and see every freckle on your face, your underwear felt like it had been burning a hole in his pocket, about to make itself visible. He needed to make up an excuse to leave as soon as possible. In other, less romantic words, he was just horny. And there were only so many more memories of graphic car crash videos he could play in his head to turn him off enough to suppress the ever-threatening hard-on. Sitting through hours of monotonous droning in Driver's Ed had one singular benefit. The videos they played for them were gruesome and haunting, and obviously stayed with him for years, but they prevented him from embarrassing himself in front of you in the most mortifying way, at the very least. 

He released himself from his boxers, finally free and cursing himself for immediately leaking onto your now-stained underwear. I mean, if he'd already gotten them dirty, there was no point in holding back now (not like he had ever planned to). He wrapped your thong around his cock, smearing pre-cum down his shaft with his thumb and continuing to stroke upwards. 

He imagined you on top of him, riding him, wearing nothing but the thong that was now twisted around his fingers. You’d grind on him, pressing his dick flat on his stomach. Your underwear would be stained then, too, but it would be a product of both your neediness and his. He twitched at the thought of the growing dark spot, damp to the touch. He’d tap your thigh, signaling for you to lift yourself up so that he could move your thong to the side and run his tip through your folds, pressing deliberately harder on your clit. You’d whine. He echoed it out loud, grateful to be in an empty house. For every moan and whimper he couldn’t hear you make, he made up for himself, now, alone in his room. 

Matty wished you could see him now. 

He sifted through your different possible reactions. Would you be disgusted? Yell at him? Would you just stand there frozen, watching him jerk off to you? Would you be flattered? Would you crawl into bed with him and replace his hand with your mouth, licking and kissing his tip? 

He sounded fucking pathetic. A complete twitching and throbbing mess. Small beads of sweat started forming at his temples as he continued to edge himself. He didn’t deserve to cum. He snuck into your house, he stole from you, he abandoned you today when you clearly wanted to keep talking to him, and now he was using your fucking underwear to get off. 

He could feel himself getting close. Too close. He should stop. He needed to stop. He stroked himself quickly a few more times before pulling his hand off as if he’d burned his palm, hissing through his teeth. 

Minutes passed, and he was still breathing heavy, sweaty, and dripping, twirling the lace thong in his fingers. He continued to lie there, commiserating, replaying his goodbye at your door just under an hour earlier. Matty didn’t know why you made him so nervous. It’s not like he didn’t have girlfriends in the past. Actually, when he really thought about it, this was the longest amount of time he’s been single in years, since his breakup with Holly. Maybe that was why he was so worked up over you. So fixated. 

Even so, Matty felt like a creep getting excited at the thought of you catching him one day—catching him in your room, going through your closet, or reading from the collection of books you kept on your bookshelf. He reached into his left pocket, pulling out a cherry red beat-up lighter and an even more deeply abused carton of cigarettes. Marlboro Reds. He thought about slipping the lighter into a pocket of your shorts. He saw you, in his head, putting them on, reaching into the pocket, taking the lighter out. You’d know it was his, and that would be all it would take for you to figure it out. For you to figure him out. 

He knew if he kept thinking like this, he’d be hard the rest of the night. That would be a good punishment, he thought, but he decided to file that away for later, much too exhausted to entertain the fantasy tonight. Choosing, instead, to place a cigarette between his lips and open the window next to his bed. 

—

Friday, September 19th, ‘08

“Matty, what the fuck? You were supposed to get this done ages ago.” George groaned.

“I know, I know, I’m sorry. I’ve just been busy lately.” Matty had been prepared for the chastising, knowing full well he was supposed to finish writing a song that he had started months ago when the wound of his failure of a relationship with Holly was still fresh. George had been hounding him for weeks about finishing it, but truthfully, he felt like a completely different person from when he started writing the song. Every time George would mention it, Matty would tell him that he’d be working on it that night, and that would usually be enough to appease the drummer.  

“Yeah, well, we’re all busy, Matty,” Adam spoke up from his seat on one of the oversized amps. “But you’ve been blowing us off for weeks, you do realize that, right? You’ve ditched practices, you haven’t returned our calls—”

“It’s Holly all over again,” Ross cut in.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Matty asked.

“Means every time you start liking a new girl, you become a fucking ghost of yourself and a shitty friend.” 

Ross’s tone was far less forgiving than Adam’s, who attempted to diffuse the growing tension. “Look, we can see it happening again with that new girl—”

“She has a name,” Matty snapped.

“Right, yeah, well, all we’re saying is—”

“What is this? Some kind of intervention?”

“Will you let us fucking talk, Matty?” Adam’s unceasing patience finally started growing thin.

“No! You’re making a big deal out of fucking nothing. Look, I’m sorry that I missed one goddamn practice, but what? You guys can’t do shit without me?”

“It wasn’t just ‘one goddamn practice,’” Ross’s voice now raised to a yell. “We used to hang out all the time. We haven’t seen you in, like, three weeks. You told George you’d be here two Fridays ago. You never showed up. We try talking to you in school, but you’re always all quiet and moody now. We’ve tried phoning you, we’ve knocked on your door, and talked to your fucking mother when you weren’t there because you’re never fucking home anymore.”

“I think you’ve forgotten how bad last year got, man,” George spoke up from his seat, his voice lower and quieter than the rest of them. Matty didn’t know how to respond. Neither did the others, seemingly. The whole room fell quiet.

Matty took a deep breath. “Ok, I’m sorry. I know I’ve been distant, but I promise you guys, it’s completely different from last year. There’s other stuff going on.” He wasn’t lying, technically. It was vastly different from last year. He never watched Holly as carefully as he did you. He was never as Machiavellian in his timing—what time to come to school, where to stand to watch you walk through the doors in the morning, when to leave one classroom in time to see you walking down the hallway on your way to Biology. Sure, he’d sneak through Holly’s window some nights, but only when she was there. When she’d be up waiting for him, and they’d fuck slowly and quietly so as not to wake her parents. The room filled with gasps, sighs, and rustling sheets. It wasn’t like that with you. Yet. Matty was taking his time. He was savoring it. Savoring the moments he’d watch you through your window at night, when the light of your flower lamps illuminated your face in a halo. Since Friday the 5th, Matty had walked you home from afar five more times, as well as been to see you on the weekends, sometimes peering through your window, sometimes climbing the trellis into your room when he knew you’d be gone. He liked watching your confusion when you opened your drawers, preparing your outfits for the next day, only to find your favorite pair of underwear or your top missing. You’d call to your mom downstairs, asking if they were in the laundry. He liked it when you came up to your window, frustrated at finding it open again. If only you just looked a little harder out your window, you’d see him.  

“I’ll be better, really, I will.” Matty sat down, pulling out his Fender and papers full of lyrics, indecipherable to anyone but him, and forcing them all to move along with practice.

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