Author's Note:
Sorry for this crappy one-shot, it's my first time writing a fanfic. I kept thinking about the fanart with the 'Missing' Max poster, and about Eiprej's fanfic 'Manquant', so this one-shot is a bit inspired by both. I just couldn't get it out of my head so I'm finally writing my feels down into words. The timeframe here is supposed to be a few weeks (/maybe a month or so) after the party.
Hurts Like Hell
Song by Fleurie
You're crying again. For what feels like the millionth time this week.
You've confined yourself to your room. The walls that shield you from peoples' stares and questioning gaze feels like it's closing in on you as you sit on your bed. With a fresh stack of papers at your feet in a cardboard box, you're thinking of her again. Of course. It's unavoidable. Not when you've been the one putting the posters up everywhere.
She's missing, that's what the papers say. But you have this bad feeling, this constricting darkness you feel like coughing up but can't, a lump in your throat and this ache in your chest whenever you think about.. What could've happened to her. Everything blurs as hot tears prick your eyes then overflow, streaming down warm cheeks, leaving a wet, salt-stained trail in their wake. You're going to have to fix your makeup again. Not that it matters, everyone already fucking knows you're a wreck. The whites of your eyes are an angry, irritated red more often than you'd like. People know to keep their distance, though.
In the halls, you can feel them shuffle awkwardly past and around you. They murmur whispers, you can feel them silently judging behind their eyes. But not Taylor. She helps you put up those damned posters. The irony isn't lost on you; You used to tear similar posters down, now you're marking Blackwell and Arcadia Bay with them. The posters you know deep down inside won't help an ounce. But you have to do something. You can't just go to class and sit around planning parties like nothing is happening. You can't just act like everything is fine. Not when it's tearing you apart from the inside out like a raging storm.
The last time you heard from her was Thursday, October 10th, at the Vortex Club party. She was warning you about Nathan. He's been MIA, too.
Damn it. You close your eyes and wipe your cheeks with your palms, inhaling as you start to wipe at your leaking, burning nose before sensibly using a tissue. You're surrounded by those stupid things because you can't stop fucking crying.
Eventually you'll calm down enough to get back to work. But not right now. You're thinking too much, again. You feel like your priorities are fucked; Crying over Caulfield, but not over one of your best friends. Yeah, Nathan had been freaking you out, but for some reason you just aren't as torn up over him being MIA than the hipster.
You glance down at the face of the freckled brunette on the poster, static staring eyes holding your gaze, boring holes into your soul. The pain in your chest flares up, searing as you think about the way she looked at you the night of the party. How you actually had a decent conversation. She could've been a bitch to you then. She could've been a bitch to you when the damn paint splattered on you, too. But she wasn't.
She wasn't.
Where the hell are you?