unrequited
potr

a/n: Last October marked a full year since I'd become obsessed with a movie called 'The Cat Returns.' I became acquainted with a girl during this time who wrote beautiful, beautiful fanfictions about the movie and I attempted to beta for her several times, but 'lockdowns' often got in the way of the work. I received an email from her a few months ago and attached to it was her most recent work, based on the Phantom of the Opera.

This, combined with a conversation I had with the Ex that same day, inspired this story. Literally, almost the moment I was done wiping away my tears, I knew what the first line had to be. Enjoy reading, especially because it took a lot of effort to bring myself to write the end the way I did. ;)

Dedication—for maybe-joleisaa, because I understand what you meant, more than I could ever express with simple words. :)

"I listened to one of your CDs and I cried all night."

His eyes lift from the songbook at these soft words and his mouth opens in surprise. She's not looking at him, but rather watching his brother as he tunes his guitar across the room. Her eyes are sad as they concentrate on the older boy's fingers, gently plucking as he tunes the instrument solely by ear. It's only so long before he has to ask the inevitable question.

"Why?"

She shifts her gaze not to his face but to his hands, the left which has stopped tapping and the right which has stopped writing and for a moment he wishes that he had not pressed it, because even when she isn't meeting his eyes he can feel her pain.

"Because I'm in love with you and there's not a thing either of us can do about it."

And then they meet. Brown to brown, longing to shock, and, eventually, pain to guilt. Because he can't lie and she can't either and it's all so damn messed up that it hurts him, even though he isn't the victim of this heinous twist of fate.

"I'm s—"

Her lids flip shut over her eyes, hiding them from him. He's a little glad, because that pain is almost unbearable to see. "Don't say you're sorry. Because you're not. Not for the right reasons—I mean, not for the reasons I want you to be." A smile twists her mouth, but it isn't really a happy expression. "I just… I needed to tell you. You don't have to say or do anything about it, okay? Nothing's different now—except you know."

What can he do? He goes back to writing his song. She goes back to watching his brother.

Life goes on.

Whatever he's been expecting, it isn't this. It's not as though she isn't allowed to date or have fun, but why would she do this after her soul-shattering confession? Why would she say what she said and proceed to lead some poor schmuck down a road they'll both end up regretting?

And, of all people, Randolph? The dweeb who ties his shoes the lazy way?

But it really isn't any of his business. He's the one who single-handedly broken her heart without even trying. He has no reason to be making enquiries about her personal life.

Still, it bothers him.

Because she's his, whether he wants her or not.

"I tried to get over it."

He turns to look at her, only to find that her eyes are once again focused on something else. This time, it's Joe and Stella as they waltz around the dance floor, lost in each others' eyes. Her smile is wistful and sad.

This time, he doesn't say a word. He just lets her continue.

"I thought I had," she says, eyes crinkling a little as she watches Joe lead her best friend through a dip. "And then I had my iPod on shuffle while I was cleaning. One of your old songs came on and I broke down like it was the first time all over again."

What on earth can he possibly say to that? I'm sorry that I don't love you the way you want me to? She's already told him that she doesn't want apologies.

"Why are you being so honest with me?" he asks finally. "Don't most people keep these things bottled up inside?"

She shrugs. "I hid it for three full years before I told you. And I get a very evil, vindictive pleasure out of watching you squirm guiltily." She takes a sip of her punch and lets him soak in that information, smiling wanly. "But mostly it's because I just don't want to hide anymore."

He doesn't know what to say to that, to be completely and totally honest. He's never known what to say. But he thinks he knows what he can do, if it only means that she'll smile again—the happy way. So he takes her hand in his.

"I can't say that I feel exactly the same way… but maybe we could give this a try?"

She is perfect, to be perfectly honest.

She isn't clingy and obsessive like some girls. She always understands about his schedule—actually, she knows it better than he does, more often than not. She even tells him that she occasionally needs her space, too.

She never takes unnecessary time to get ready and she always prefers the big game over whatever reality show or soap opera is playing. She knows exactly what she wants when she walks into a store and she never hesitates over the menu at a restaurant.

She doesn't razz him about being late—so long as he doesn't complain when she's late, either. She never accuses him of something without solid evidence to back it up.

And she tells him every day, without fail, the three words he's always wanted to hear in every relationship, from beautiful beginning to horrible end.

So why can't he love her the way she really deserves?

"This isn't working."

His eyebrows go up and he stares down at her. Her dark, clouded eyes are focused on the television in front of them and she lets out a sigh as her head burrows deeper into the crook of his neck. His arm curls a bit tighter around her shoulders and a smile ghosts across her face. He can't help it when his lips part and the words pour out—they are begging to be asked.

"What do you mean?" He uses his free hand to take hers and laces their fingers together, grinning when she smiles. It makes it all the more unexpected when she voices her next words, but neither can really be blamed for that.

"Us," she murmurs. He stiffens next to her, but she refuses to take her eyes from the flickering television screen. "We're not working, Nick."

And yet she doesn't move away. If anything, she seems to press closer to him and hold her breath, as though she is waiting for him to tell her she's wrong. Her lids slowly close over her eyes and he suddenly knows from the way she bites her lip that if he so much as twitches a centimeter away, she will take it as a rejection. He rubs her arm and shifts closer.

"Why would you say that?" he asks, leaning his head against hers. The arm that slid behind his waist earlier that afternoon clutches him closer and he can feel the tremble in her hand. She's so scared that she is shaking.

"Do you…" She stops and opens her eyes, looking up into his. They are liquid and intense and there is so much fear and insecurity and uncertainty in her gaze. It physically hurts to see her like this. Her lips form the words that will seal his fate forever. "Do you love me?"

Air escapes him in a gust of relief, feathering over her face. A smile curves his mouth and he kisses her forehead.

"Of course," he lies.

Can he really feel guilty when he sees the look on her face? When he sees the sparkle of happy tears in her eyes? When she laughs and cries and kisses him all at once? Can he honestly say that he gets a sinking feeling in his gut when he's made her so happy?

(Yes. Yes, he can.)

The more he uses the words, the less they intimidate him. The more he says it, the more he feels it. And although there is still a sinking feeling every time they come out of his mouth, he also feels something jump in his stomach when he sees her smile.

After a while, he convinces himself that it was never guilt, but fear. Fear of rejection, even from the person least likely to reject him. Fear of commitment to the one girl he truly cares about. Fear of losing himself, of getting in too deep and having her realize that this isn't what she wants, no matter how often she reassures him that she will never go away.

And so he convinces himself that he means it every time he tells her, I love you.

"Your eyes were so honest then."

When he looks over at her, he sees that she's got a photo album open in front of her. One hand is curled under the page, as though she's ready to turn it, and the other rests on top of a picture of them as juniors in high school, all crowded around the same lunch table and smiling wide. He examines the picture and realizes that even then, her smile was strained as she leaned a little closer to him than was necessary.

"They're not honest now?" he asks playfully, covering her hand with his. He leans close to her and presses a kiss behind her ear. He smiles when she sighs, but the expression is quickly wiped away when she draws away from his embrace.

"Only when you say certain things," she says. She looks at the photograph one more time before she closes the album and finally turns to face him. "Like when you tell me how you feel. About how excited you are about the future."

"Macy…"

"About how much you love me."

"Mace, don't do this," he pleads. He reaches for her, but she shies away from his touch again.

"Don't do what, Nick?" she asks softly. Her eyes bore into his and he can see her pain. For what isn't the first time, he's glad when her lids shut. It hurts to see her like this. "I need to know the truth—not what you think will make me happy."

For a moment, he hesitates. The lie is ready on his lips, ready to be repeated and accepted, but he can see from the look on her face that his lies have hurt her more than the truth ever would. He doesn't want to share this truth with her, doesn't want to hurt her more than she's been hurting. He's got this horrible feeling that if he says it now, he will break her and he will never be able to fix it. But… he also remembers how honest she has always been with him—from the beginning of this crazy story to right now, she has never done anything to hide the truth. And he should have done the same.

"I just wanted you to be happy," he murmurs. He reaches again and this time she doesn't flinch away. His fingers brush her cheek. "You mean the world to me and I would honestly rather die than do anything to hurt you and I just… I would have done—and still will do—anything to keep you smiling. So, no, I don't love you." She makes no reaction to the words, but he supposes that she's been preparing herself for this for longer than he can imagine. "But I do care about you more than anything in the world."

For what may be the first time, he sees the sad, bitter tears running down her cheeks and there is nothing he can do about them. He feels like an absolute heel, and his next confession does nothing to ease his guilt. "I had an ulterior motive, you know."

Her eyes open with surprise and he forces back a sad chuckle.

"I wanted you all to myself," he says, watching her face carefully. She clearly doesn't know what to make of this. "Once I had seen this love that you had given me so freely, without my asking, I didn't want to give it up. I wanted to keep it and cherish it and I was so afraid that you would take it back and give it to someone else. I've always been the one to give the love away—no one ever just handed me theirs and told me it was mine."

She gingerly reaches up and covers his hand with hers, and this gives him hope.

"I am beyond selfish," he sighs. "And I am so sorry that I hurt you. I just… I want SO badly to love you the way you deserve, the way you love me. And I'm nearly there! I am; I just know it. Just… give me more time. Let me be selfish a little longer."

Her eyes are telling—she wants this. She wants to give him time. She wants to let things go on. Because it will be so hard, harder than he can ever imagine, to let this go. But the instinct to protect oneself is strong and she's not sure that she can take much more of this. Finally, she sighs and brings his hand down from her cheek, holding it loosely in hers.

"Maybe… maybe we should take a break," she says slowly. And he sighs with relief, because it's so much more than he could have hoped for.

When he wakes the next morning, the first thing he does, as usual, is pick up his phone so that he can reply to Macy's usual good-morning text. He's learned in the past that she tends to get worried when he doesn't respond, and he really wants to tell her about the horrible dream he had last night about her leaving him. Except when his phone flips open, he sees the picture of her that he took one day on the boardwalk while JONAS and associated parties were on vacation in Malibu. The sun was glinting off her hair and making her tanned skin glow and he couldn't resist the urge to use it for his wallpaper after taking it. He has no new text messages.

And he realizes that his dream wasn't a dream and his throat closes up as he realizes that this is going to be a lot harder than he thought.

When nine-o-clock that night rolls around, he finds himself getting impatient because she hasn't called like she normally does after her free minutes start and he really wants to vent about the horrible day he had and have her listen and tell him everything will be okay and that he should probably apologize to the assistant that spilled coffee on him because he really shouldn't blow up over something so small. But then he sees the photo album, sitting out on the coffee table where she left it and he suddenly remembers that she's not going to be calling him much anymore.

It doesn't stop or go away. He always finds himself reaching for his phone before he slaps his alarm clock. He always finds himself waiting around, staring at the blank screen of his phone when the clock strikes nine. He always thinks of her first, whether he's recording or going grocery shopping or picking up a stray sock from the floor.

Everything reminds him of her. He straightens the jars on the counter and then messes them up again, thinking of how she did just that, saying that they looked too perfect otherwise. He organizes all of his movies and then deliberately puts them out of order, the way she would do before he would pick her up and spin her around, laughingly asking her what she'd been up to. He stares at the extra toothbrush resting on the bathroom counter, there for no other reason than they would both fall asleep on the couch after watching a movie.

What really breaks him, though, is when he finds the earring. The earring that she had lost—one half of her favorite pair because they were the only gift he'd been able to give her while he was on tour shortly after they started dating. He remembers how she cried upon finding she lost it and cried even harder when he said that he'd replace it. He remembers how they spent days searching his apartment and hers and he remembers all of the other things they found on their search. His hand closes around the earring and he remembers the look in her eyes when he presented her with the box, the simple box containing the little beaded earrings that she never went without.

And that's when he knows.