Three years after Paris you see her.
She's different. Older. Younger in some way. But at the same time, she hasn't changed at all. And you can't look away, you can't find the strength to walk away even though every part of your reasonable being tells you, begs you, to run. But you know that those senses don't work with her, they shut down, you're whole being shuts down with her and for christ's sake you're not with her, why aren't you with her?
Something is wrong with you. You're scared again, you're in love again, (were you ever not in love?) you're breathing heavy, you can't control the wave of feelings that hit you. You're 25 again, heading for the unknown with the love of your life and a suitcase. You don't know when you'll be back and it doesn't matter, nothing matters because you're with her. And before you even realize what you're doing you start to walk, your feet moving, your heart pounding but not out of fear. It's excitement. It's the certainty, the happiness. It's the absolute conviction that you're doing the right thing, the only thing. It's the inevitability weighting you down. You don't have a choice.
Her name starts to form in your throat and it feels like heaven because you've forbidden yourself to even think it and when the chains in your mind break, you realize just what a lie you've been living. There is no other way. You're flying.
Until someone else gets to her first.
And you stop. It feels like a crash. Like you were going way too fast, and you're way too small and a truck runs you over, colliding, destroying and it's a carnage. You stop and it feels like you're heart keeps running, running out of your chest and then it crashes against your ribcage and there's so much pressure that you feel like there's a giant rock lodged in it, dragging it down. You can't breathe and you have to stop for air. You stop and suddenly become aware of your surroundings. You remember.
She's outside of a night club, red and blue lights shining on her black leather jacket. Her black hair. The black frame of her glasses. You're on the other side of the street, hidden by the shadows and she doesn't see you. A car stops in front of her and she leans against it, talking to whoever's inside. You hear her laugh ricochet through the street, through your head, your heart, your bones and the echo is endless, it is so fucking loud you can't think of anything and you start shaking. You miss her so much, it's not even real sometimes. Every time something reminds you at least remotely of her you block it out, you're not allowed, you can't. But at nights, when you're defenses are down, when you're alone, when you're unconscious, she's there. She's always there because you can't forgive yourself and you can't forgive her, you can't forgive her for choosing the drugs over you, you can't forgive her for putting you in danger, you can't forgive her for begging you to stay. And you feel your heart break all over again because you left and she begged you and she didn't have the right to do that. Goddammit, how could she do that? How could you do that? You don't recognize yourself. You wish you'd stayed. You wish you had never met her. Her laugh brings it all back, again, and it's wrong because you're awake and you're not ready and you don't know if you can take it.
You feel a scream in the back of your throat, choked. You just stand there, watching her. She steps away from the car and the pilot's door opens. A redhead gets down. A man steps out from the driver's seat. You are sure you've seen him but you can't focus on them, your gaze still firmly fixated on her. She's smiling at the redhead. She talks to her, laughs again and then- and then you can feel you're heart burn, it burns, it doesn't break because it's already broken. You feel one of the most horrible and disgusting feelings in the world corrode your insides. Jealousy. A cruel, poisonous jealousy. Because she kisses her. She grabs her waist and kisses her and you feel like the most stupid person on the planet. Of course she's moved on. It's been three fucking years, what did you expect? For her to still be crying over the girl who dumped her the day her mother died? You start shaking and you can't think it but the thought smashes into your brain anyway.
God, she must hate you.
For a second, you try to hold on to the fact that she's laughing, that she's there, here, still living, still being herself. You don't think about the other thing she's doing. She's alive and still beautiful, still completely gorgeous and you want to fight for the feeling of relief that washes over you. You want to keep that dot of happiness, the one dot that's not contaminated with pure jealousy, and you want it to stay. To give you light. Because she's alive and well and laughing and that should be enough. It should be enough for you after what you did. And for a second, it is. You're relieved. You feel happy for her. You hope she is happy. You hope she is okay.
But it only lasts a second and when it goes away, it leaves behind nothing but your own emptiness, your own endless void of loneliness and regret and you can feel it swallowing you because she must hate you and only now it occurs to you. You had been so focused on hating yourself that you didn't even think that she could hate you, but she must. She must hate you so much for what you did, that you hate yourself even more. And you didn't even know that was possible.
You used to wonder, before you learned how to block her, how to erase her. You always used to wonder if maybe- maybe if you hadn't left that day, the day her world fell apart and all she had was you to hold onto, the day her rock broke, the rock she had grown up on, the rock that supported her being, maybe- maybe if when she said those words, the words you would never ever forget, that were seared into your mind so well you could feel them like a tattoo on your face, available and open for everyone to see. If you had listened, and stayed. If you had helped her through it, like you were supposed to, like you were expected to. Then maybe, only maybe, you could have forgotten her. Maybe, you'd be happy by now, her, on the past, you, with a new life. You liked to fantasize about it. A life without guilt. It was almost ridiculous. And those "what if's" began to slowly eat you away until you forced yourself to stop. There was no point in "what if's". There was just pain.
They're still talking outside. The three of them, until the man leaves and it's just them two, laughing, kissing and you know you can't do this. It just looks too outrageous, too unnatural. You're supposed to be there. It's wrong. You can't take it. You have to go.
You look at her face one last time, all of the "could" and "should have been's" flashing in front of your eyes, blinding you, crippling you. You think for a second you don't have the strength to walk away again. You don't have the strength to try again to rebuild your life, because what's the point, what is the point when it's so fragile, so weak that a simple look can shatter it. But then, she leans to kiss that redhead again, that fucking redhead and you hate that redhead like you have never hated anyone in your life. That's the impulse you need. Fueled on rage, you find your feet under you again and turn around. You give one hesitant step, a baby step. You hear her laugh and all of the sudden you're running again, this time in a different direction- the wrong direction- but you're running away from her and it's familiar and you feel sick but you keep running because there's nothing else you can do, there's no way to fix this.
You allow yourself to think about her for one last second before you have to delete her again. It hurts, it hurts like hell and you can feel tears running down your cheeks but they don't mean anything, because no amount of tears can justify the amount of pain you feel. And you like this pain, you welcome it, it makes you feel alive again, even if it's just for a second. You try to make the best of it. You think of her lips, her smile, that smug grin always accompanied by an arched eyebrow, the way the corners of her eyes crinkled when she smiled at you. You feel warm for a second. Her hand on your shoulder, on your back, on your cheek, the back of your neck. She's everywhere, you can feel her. But the thing you leave for the end, it's the thing that you miss the most. It's what brings back all of the "what if's" and "could have been's" and "should have been's" and it's what makes you regret every fucked up choice you've made. It's what feeds the guilt.
Those endlessly loving and sparkling eyes, always, always carrying a joke in them, always playing, alive and humorous, always with a glint of arrogance, always winning. Those eyes that made you fall in love every single time you looked at them. Every time deeper and deeper, until you couldn't find yourself anymore, until you broke them. You broke them. And forever would the last time you saw those eyes haunt you. Because they were no longer glinting, they were no longer smiling. They were torn and damaged and begging for your help and you said no. You refused and now, you would never see them again like they're supposed to. They would never look at you the way you want them to. They're gone, and it's your fault.
The guilt and pain and tears blind everything else and you can't take it anymore. You put her, every little thing she is and every little thing you broke and everything you were with her, in a tiny box. As small as you can make it. You find a nice, secluded and solitary area for it in the darkest corners of your brain and wait.
You wait because you know what's coming. It's her presence one last time, the final acknowledgment that scorches through your brain.
You stop, your breathing ragged, lean against a wall. One final hot tear burns its way down your cheek. And then a broken whisper leaves your mouth.
"Alex."
You let her slip away, for the last time.
Outside of a night club late at night, Alex is happy. She's more than happy. She's ecstatic. She's floating, not a care in the world. Alex sees the neon lights reflecting on her jacket and it's wonderful. Why can't she see just how beautiful life is when she's not high? It's ridiculous, really, to think anything could be any less than perfect in her life when everything is oh just so wonderful. A car stops in front of her and she's happy they're here. She wants to share the magic, she wants everyone to see what she's seeing.
Rachel is there. And Fahri.
Rachel is beautiful. Soft curls framing her angular, freckled face. Redhead. Mmmmh, redheads are great. Why isn't she fucking her right now? Oh right. She laughs. Fahri is here too. And they're on the street. But damn it, she's impatient. She invites Rachel out of the car. Fahri steps out too, and he looks angry. Man, how can you not be happy in a night like this? She says and he looks angrier. But no, that's not possible. There's no place for anger, or fear, or pain in her mind right now. Alex kisses Rachel. Rachel kisses back. She's been wanting it for a while. What have I been doing with my life until now? And she laughs again. What a waste of time, worrying over things when life is full of laughter. Fahri says something. Useless. Stupid. Weak. Alex hears the words but doesn't acknowledge them. They can't be possibly referring to her, so why bother? Fahri leaves and Alex doesn't notice. She wants to kiss Rachel. She wants to fuck her now. She needs to fuck her now. There's no time to waste, not when life is short and there are so many things to do. But she hears something and the sound amplifies so magically that she has to find its source. She looks up and sees someone running, a girl, a familiar girl and she feels happier, a grin spreading on her face. She loves this part. But after a second she frowns. Why is Piper running in the opposite direction? That doesn't make sense, and she keeps staring, her gaze fixed on the girl until she's lost in the darkness.
After a second she shrugs and turns her attention back on the redhead. There are millions of blonde girls with blue eyes. She'll find another Piper when she's inside. Which reminds her why she hasn't fucked the redhead yet.
For a second, she sees a crack in her perfect world. An ugly, hideous truth hidden behind her happiness. Her fake happiness. And then she bursts out laughing. What on earth is wrong with her? The night is young, and she has the world in her hands and there is nothing to stop her. She's floating and she laughs again when she thinks of a funny line. She says it out loud, for Rachel to hear, to laugh with her. Alex doesn't notice the frown on Rachel's face.
"We go for petite, hot blondes, and we fucking love it!"
A/N: Ohh the angst, the angst. Help. It's an angsty day, I'm sorry. I hate myself too.
Would really appreciate a review if you could take a second :) Hope you enjoyed... although that's probably not the right word to describe the feels for this. ANYWAY. Thanks for reading!
Love, C