Okay, this is long overdue. I should have written something. I haven't. I'm sorry. I can't act like this one will make up for my general absence but a girl can hope.

I've had a rickety year. This is loosely based on a guy I met and, for some absurd reason, I thought I could match one aspect of Will's character with a part of the 'relationship' this guy and I had. And Rihanna's Stay fit the mood so I played that while writing and ended up with this.

Shoutout to ammstar11 for the support and Gia1802 for making me see sense. Honestly girl, your disapproval of 'the drunk' began the moving on process for me. I love you.

I hope you like it.

I don't know why I put myself through this. This hurt, this pain, this sting, this bite and the numbness that I know will ultimately come. It always does. No, I know why I do it but that doesn't mean I like it. It doesn't mean that I like that I like it, whatever this is. If it is anything at all. Is it? Are we anything? It doesn't seem to be worth anything to you. I don't seem to be worth anything to you. Yet here I am, staring at the sky after yet another argument with my brother about you. Yet another bout of defending you from the people closest to me. For what? I don't know. No, I do. I admitted that, didn't I. You bring out the needy masochist in me. You make me a needy masochist. I wish I could say that I hate you and mean it. I want to mean it. Couldn't you make it a little bit easier to mean it?

It hadn't always been like this, had it? There had been a time when this had been healthy, a simple unassuming friendship. When we had been two people who liked similar things and got along well. Before my days began and ended with the memory of your eyes boring into mine. Before your name felt like a part of my breath. Before I learnt how it felt to have you fall asleep on my shoulder, your body leaning into mine and molding around it. Before I mapped your body with my hands, holding every memory to relive our nights together later, when you warmed someone else's bed and my moist pillow became my sole confidante.

It had been so simple then, so easy. Why had you come to me that night, after she broke you? I can't forget the look in your eyes when you asked me to hold you. I would have been content to just hold you. Why did you look at me like that? Why did you kiss me? Why did I let you kiss me? Why did I let you take me back to your room. I'm a fool, a fool for you. I thought I was helping you when I was cracking myself. I was chipping off parts of myself to keep you together. But you held me like you needed me and said my name like gave you hope. I caved. I caved and I broke and I'm stilled crumbling bit by bit and you just don't seem to see it.

I remember how you began peeling our clothes off between kisses. I remember that I had tried to stop you. Till I'm laid in my coffin I'll remember how you said my name and that your breath smelled of vodka and pain, that every 'please' you uttered broke off more of my heart and stuck it to your fingers, your lips, your eyelashes, your neck. Never your heart though, never your heart. I surrendered to you that night. I gave and you took. And when I woke up in the morning, you were gone.

For those few months, I picked up the all the pieces of yourself you kept scattering, discarding parts of myself to make more room for you. I gave you my days, my nights, my body, mind heart and soul. You took it all. But how long can someone give unhesitatingly? How long can someone take whiplashes with a smile, recede to the corners to lick her wounds and return at first light for more? I wouldn't have been able to sustain it forever but I could have held on longer. If you hadn't delivered the death blow.

It was that night exactly a month ago. Do you remember it? I hope you remember it. You had been extremely inebriated, so this hope might be pushing my frugal stock of luck but I do it nonetheless because I can't stand the thought of remembering every little detail of something that is a drunken blur to you. I can't bear to be the only one this memory is haunting. But this hope is folly. If it meant anything at all to you, you would have stopped me. If you cared, you would have called.

Once again, we had been in your bed, the sheets tangled somewhere near our feet. You had been lying me, your ragged breaths sharp in my ear, our hearts racing. Then, just as you were pulling out, you said, "God, I love you." For a moment, I believed it and my heart stopped. But your words were slighted slurred and you still smelt of alcohol. And I had to bite my lip as hard as I could to ensure you didn't sense any difference. Within a few moments, you were fast asleep and then I let go and started crying. Because I did love you, with a self sacrificing, masochistic passion. I didn't care what I went through if it made you happier but you always seemed to know how to break me. And I swear, no insult could have hurt more than you throwing the words I hoped to hear you say, sober, someday at my face when you were drunk, and then falling asleep.

I couldn't keep taking it. I had to write that letter. It killed me, it really did. But what we were doing wasn't helping either of us. We were both in an unhealthy place. And couldn't keep doing it, not when I felt like a cheap distraction from your pain. We both needed to heal. We both needed to wash stains away, you of the alcohol and break up and me of your lingering scent, of the warmth of skin on mine, of the gentle brush of your breath. I needed to be purged.

It's been a month. I still wrap my arms around myself and imagine it's you. When I close my eyes and press my fingers against my lips, I can fool myself into believing that I'm kissing you when you're sober and you want me for me and not to forget someone else. I truly am pathetic.

My phone rings. The number is not saved but achingly familiar. I remember how my fingers shook while deleting it.

I hold my breath.

"Hello?"

"Tess?" You seem to be holding your breath too.

"Will?"

We breathe.

Well... review?