Sometimes, you're in a bad place.
People love you, and you love them, and you want to make sure it stays that way.
You're pursuing a degree at a university in which you wanted neither- its just the way the cards fell. You tell people you want to be a teacher and everyone gushes about how great you would be, so you smile and thank them energetically. You don't particularly want to teach, but you may as well, since everyone seems to think you'll be great at it.
Your grades are fine, but your parents are worried that you're not social enough, so you join the Barden Bellas. You like to sing and dance and perform, but never had the courage to engage yourself in high school. You think acapella's kind of lame anyways, so there's no pressure. You get in, and it's kind of fun actually, and you're putting yourself out there.
You go to your classes and are attentive at your lectures- you're the person your classmates go to for notes. You are their diligent rock when they can't attend due to their overbearing hangovers. You do drink and party (or would explode otherwise), but your control or tolerance is better enough for you to sit through and comprehend your next morning's classes.
Only you and your doctor know about the pills, your 'happy' pills you take to function. You can't even vouch for their effectiveness, but you take them like clockwork in the hopes you'll feel different one day. Your smiles are bright and wonderful and you wonder why everyone likes them so much. You're just you, and others would argue you don't even have a soul.
Bellas give you more purpose, especially after becoming co-captain. Although you're essentially Aubrey's verbal punching bag, you know your purpose supports her when she's stressed, so you play your role. The good cop/bad cop act helps the new recruits open up to you more, you note smugly.
Especially one reluctant recruit that you can't seem to get out of your head. No one bats an eye at your overly friendly touches and stares, flirtatious words and winks, as they seem to be a staple for yourself. You hope desperately your actions can be noted as being more than platonic, but an even higher desperation wishes for them to be overlooked.
You can be close, and that's good enough. You've allowed yourself to be used for others as long as you can recall, and you'll allow yourself this one indulgence. Your heart can barely handle this, and you can't let your mind wander too far or you'll be clutching too tightly of your medicine.
People suspect, you suspect. You're not subtle, but at the same time outsiders are on the fence and you just allow people to think what they like. (You still have that on and off fling with Tom, but it's more physical and you can't even remember the last time you got together) You really should meet up with him again, as your heart is entering dangerous territory.
It's too late though as your tears fall when win at finals, when you have concrete proof that of course it's not meant to be, why would you kid yourself. With a big grin, you blend in with your bawling teammates, jumping around on stage brandishing their trophy.
Time passes, and you steel yourself once more, as it was too close, your hands too close and shaking and you need to get better, you know. You really shouldn't, but you let yourself allowances even though you told yourself you couldn't after what had happened at your final competition.
It's difficult, however, to drop expectations in their entirety when it's your birthday, even when you're working your shitty below-minimum-wage serving job at a crappy diner because you can't afford to book it off (like anyone would cover for you- everyone hates it there). Getting rude, yelling customers who nearly spit in your face and don't tip barely causes your smile to waver, but when you seem them on the quad with their parting-ways-kiss, you realize that you're not okay. You really should have controlled yourself better in the beginning, you think, when with your heart pounding, you uncap the bottle and place capsules one by one on your tongue, dry swallowing each until the bottle is empty. The empty plastic goes back in the back of the drawer, and you crawl into bed because you feel so heavy and tired, and maybe things will be better after you sleep.
same