The door opened and his heart lurched.
A girl with blonde hair, wearing a rather skimpy dress entered the room.
He took a breath, feeling relieved.
It wasn't her, thank God. She still hadn't arrived.
He'd heard she was coming to the party, and despite his mostly believable façade of not caring, he couldn't help but feel something jump inside at the mention of her name, at the thought that she could walk through the door at any moment and once again, he could see her.
Although he felt horribly weak even admitting it to himself, he missed her; he missed her so, so much.
It had been three months. Three months since she had left, three months since she had had enough and given up on him, and three months since he had spoken to her. He couldn't help the wash of sadness that came over him, but it was quickly replaced by a bubbling anger in his chest.
Why? Why did she have to go? Why did she have to abandon him and create this hole in his chest, leaving him wide open to any even slight emotional inflictions and much too vulnerable, despite how much he tried to hide it?
He already knew the answer. It was him, he was too controlling, too domineering, and too manipulative... he wasn't quite good enough for someone like her.
She was bright, colourful, exquisite; when she smiled it was contagious, when she spoke of what she loved she was determined and motivated and strong, whereas he was weak; a coward of sorts. In the back of his mind he knew that at one stage, he was good enough, but he let his own interests and unsettling lust for control be the reasons for his downfall.
He tried to suppress this knowledge as much as he could, but occasionally, at times like these, it slipped through to the surface and he was unable to ignore it. How could he, when he could be face to face with her at any moment?
That is, if she felt he was worthy of being acknowledged after all he had done.
She was unlike others, she was not to be controlled; she was too strong, in his eyes she shone too brightly among the dull light of those who were in comparison to her. Within her was a kerosene lamp, with a flame that may have faltered occasionally, but it never burned out, and probably never would.
He sighed, turning to retrieve another drink, something strong enough to calm his chaotic nerves.
'She should be here soon,' he thought to himself after glancing at the clock which showed it was 9:30 PM. He wondering whether cheap vodka would be a better option than the similarly cheap whiskey he had poured himself a glass of. He knocked it back, letting the whiskey burn a line of fire down his throat, coating his insides in warmth that travelled to the pit of his stomach. He embraced this warmth; it distracted him from the small pain in his chest which was a constant reminder to him that she was not there to help it lessen, to make the ache go away.
He poured himself another drink, and once again knocked it back, preferring the warmth and impending numbness to the pain that was beginning to grow within him. He noticed his hand still shook a little from nerves.
How could she still have such an affect on him? After three months he should be over her, he should be smiling and laughing and enjoying himself, not worrying about each small prick of pain in his heart at the thought of her merely being in the same room as him.
It was like she had left tiny spellbound needles in his chest, which attacked at any rare moments of solace he had felt since she had departed. The only times he could maybe escape was when he had alcohol running through his blood stream and numbing his soul, or when he was breathing in the beautiful release from reality that was interwoven with the smoke from narcotics.
He shook his head, trying to rid the thoughts she was making him think and the emotions she was making him feel.
This was her fault. She should have stayed and taken care of him. She shouldn't have left him such a mess. She shouldn't have left him trying desperately and in any way he could to implicate on her some of the pain he felt, even though he had not even spoken to her in person in over three months.
He knew all too well how easily word spread, and used this knowledge to his advantage, watching as each person carried his stories with barely contained excitement at the thought of sharing newly found gossip with a friend.
They were like mice to him, easily fooled by the smell and vision of a piece of cheese, unaware of the trap that was waiting once they got close enough to taste it. The difference this time was that the trap was for someone else, and the mice were just passing along the message of the enticing food until it got to who the trap was intended for.
He had heard no reaction from her yet, but he hoped that his little foolish mice had passed along some sort of description of all he had done in the past three months to her unsuspecting ears; the promises he had broken and the alliances he had made just to hurt her, to make her understand a fraction of how she had hurt him.
To him, she needed to feel it. She had hurt him more than anyone else could have; he trusted her not to leave regardless of how he treated her, yet she did.
He wondered if it was all a cruel lesson she was trying to teach him.
He turned and leaned against the counter, feeling the edges of his vision turn a little fuzzy from the effects of the alcohol. He looked across the room and his eyes met flirty blue. It was the blonde who had arrived earlier. She smiled and sent him a small wave, and he smiled back in return. He looked her up and down, and knew almost instantly that she was not his type. Barbie girl blonde, probably loud and annoying and wearing fake tan that was much too dark compared to the colour of the make up on her face. He averted his eyes, wondering about pouring himself yet another drink. He imagined the door opening and a girl with long pink hair and emerald green eyes walking through, wearing a pink dress which she knew was his favourite, and having a smile only for him.
He then imagined the same girl walking through the door, wearing the same pink dress which was his favourite, and having a smile that was for everyone but him, or even worse, a smile that was for a guy that wasn't him.
He felt nauseated at the thought, the pain returning to his chest.
Yes, he definitely needed another drink.
He turned and poured himself another drink, but before he could knock it back the blue-eyed blonde approached him.
"Hey!" she said enthusiastically in a high pitched voice, "I don't know if you remember me, but I was out with you before. My name's Ino."
"Hello," he replied, taking in how she twisted her hair around her finger in a flirty manner, a big fake smile plastered on her face, "I actually don't remember, but you can remind me if you like?"
She seemed to smile even more than before, if it were even possible, and began telling him of the time they had encountered each other before. He nodded absently, pretending to listen.
He had already formed a plan in the back of his mind. It was perfect! He would use this silly blonde to his advantage. He imagined the pink haired, green-eyed girl walking into the room, and seeing him flirting with another girl that was near her opposite.
He imaged jealousy igniting within her at the sight, and how he would lean down and kiss the blonde girl, catching both girls off guard, and hopefully implementing some sort of pain to the girl who had given him a tornado of pain for the past three months.
Maybe, just maybe, she'd even consider wanting him back and apologizing after she witnesses him interested in another girl.
He smiled, not even realizing that the blonde in front of him had stopped speaking.
"Em.. are you listening?" she asked, slightly offended, her confidence seeming to have faltered slightly.
He quickly came up with an excuse,
"Sorry, I just couldn't help but notice how gorgeous you look in that dress, it kind of made me lose track of what you were saying," he said, playing innocent.
The girl blushed,
"Oh no, it's okay!" she replied, another huge smile plastering across her face, her confidence returning.
'It's just too easy,' he thought to himself as the girl started droning on about something else.
The door opened and shut, and he whipped his head around, his heart lurching again.
Once again, it wasn't her.
Once again, he knocked back his drink.
He looked to the clock, it was ten to ten. He had heard she was meant to be there near ten.
Suddenly a confidence filled him. He wouldn't be caught off guard again, he had a plan and it was going to work. He'd ignore her; he'd only show interest in- what's her name? Damn, the blonde girl.
He would seem great and happy and she'd want him back. She'd be here in ten minutes and see him and miss him just like he missed her all this time, he was sure of it. He'd have control over the situation, and he'd be safe again.
He smiled with confidence and hope, nodding to the blonde as she continued talking about god knows what, and turning to pour himself another drink, which he noted he didn't have much left of.
The time ticked by, and every time he checked the clock he'd look at the door, expecting it to open, being ready for it to open.
But the time continued to go by and with every minute his confidence faltered.
Every time the door opened and it wasn't her, he felt his nerves kicking in again. After an hour he was back where he started, nervous and afraid.
Although he thought he seemed nonchalant, the blonde girl and a few other people at the party noticed his odd, stressed behaviour. She felt awkward and decided to go flirt with someone else.
He tried to keep convincing himself he was ready, and that maybe she was trying to catch him off guard by being late, but he wouldn't be fooled.
He waited and waited; the ache in his chest growing stronger, along with the feeling of loneliness, the feeling of wanting to see her so badly and the idea that maybe she wanted to see him too. He would not be reduced to a mess again at the end of the night, he would not feel lonely and miserable and numb. She would show up and he'd prove to her that he's fine without her.
…She never showed up.