Sometimes
A/N: A prequel of sorts to the new CrAsh story I'm writing. I like the JimAsh relationship, but I still firmly believe that Craig is the right man for her. Don't forget to R&R!
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Sometimes, I just want to scream.
My thoughts swirl around my head, my fingers itch for a pen and the journal Craig gave me before I left for London. I ache to write a song, a poem, something to convince myself that I'm still the jaded artist I thought I was.
Sometimes I look in the mirror and I don't recognize myself.
My personal style has gone through so many changes. I was preppy up until that disaster with drugs at the end of eighth grade, confident in my abilities and my intelligence. Then I went goth, and then punk, and then alternative… and now it's as if I'm standing in front of that mirror as a little eighth grader again, just with an update. I'm suddenly dressing femininely again, my hair is long and I'm actually wearing the color pink.
Of course, Jimmy would be the first one to assure me that I'm gorgeous. I always flush with pleasure, happy in his confidence in me. But a needling little voice in the back of my head always pipes up, reminding me that when I was a goth, he would never have said that. I had changed so much, but he always preferred the preppy Ashley. He barely gave me the time of day when I first started dating Craig; the second time around with the goofy-grinned rocker, he'd acknowledge me, but we weren't exactly best buds.
But then I came back from London, happy and smiling, and in a tight fitting sweater and mini-skirt, instead of a band tee and a jean jacket.
Don't get me wrong, I know he loves me. And most of the time, I know I love him.
Sometimes, though, I wonder if I'm not in love with Jimmy, I'm just in love with being in love. I wonder if I just adore having someone to love, and him loving me back. I wonder if it's the feeling, not the person, that I care about.
I went to London to find myself, to escape my imminent depression and the feeling that I was losing control of my life and my relationship. Instead, I lost the part of me that knew exactly what was going on, that knew if my decisions were right or wrong. I lost the man I loved, and I lost myself in the process.
That's why I'm standing here in the airport, waiting for the first flight to Vancouver at six o'clock in the morning. There's a man in rehab somewhere there, who always understood who I was.
I need him to remind me.
'Cause, sometimes, change isn't for the better.