A/N: Requested on tumblr as "200ish texts/calls to April when she was in Venezuela."

My brain cannot handle writing like an actual text for too long, so it's not because I think they were at all punctuated or spelled correctly. I'm just incapable of writing it without fracturing my sanity.

It's easy to hate Andy now, and for some reason that's a better cure for the strange flurry of emotions, because before April was sincere and open and herself to him and - just like everyone else - Andy wasn't what he initially seemed. He was the exact reason she rarely let people beyond her outward persona, never let them in, and no matter what he said she couldn't let him do that to her again. Not even when it's a few hours later and she starts getting the texts that keep coming, nonstop, for weeks.

It didn't mean anything. She kissed me I'm sorry can I talk to you?

But all April does is growl and get angrier. As far as she's concerned she never wants to see him again, let alone talk to him.

An annoying amount of sun and drinking poolside helps assuage that feeling. Even after fifty-two texts, and seventeen voicemails, April hasn't given in and so much as looked at them. He was just Andy, anyways. Sweet and hilarious, oafish and strangely sweaty, and definitely Andy. Meanwhile, she was enjoying a guy who had an estate with several pools and abs that made her head spin.

He was definitely better than Andy. Definitely.

Which is why, of course, she takes a sojourn to Venezuela not long afterward and leaves that snob behind. He was boring anyways. April couldn't even remember his name by the time she charged her dad's card with the ticket and when she boarded she wasn't sure any of that week had happened. Maybe it was better that way, she thought. She wasn't even sure why that crossed her mind, but April instead sleeps and is happy she doesn't have to hear her phone go off for the rest of the flight.

The first few days she doesn't have an itinerary, or really anywhere to stay, but hopping between places is pretty fun at first. Stealing into small houses that look empty, wishing she'd chosen somewhere with condos by a beach that wasn't littered with oil tankers, and generally paying nothing to get by is fun. Something's missing from all of it, though. When she's in one particular place, the owner of which seems absurdly rich if he just abandons a small mansion like this, walking around the kitchen and eating the small amount of food in the freezer actually sucks.

Standing in the marbled room, her phone vibrates on the counter and it's the only one she's heard in four days. It brought the count up to seventy-three texts and twenty-one voicemails. Not that April was counting or that she read them despite the short delays. April doesn't know why she's doing it but she immediately, hurriedly, finds the newcomer.

I have no idea why you're so mad. Maybe we can go out and talk about it or something. Sorry.

"Ugh," she sighs when she reads it.

Of all the things he could've said, continuing with his feigned ignorance wasn't his best plan. April ignores the phone for the rest of the night and claps to herself, alone, when she discovers a small wine cellar. At least drinking alone, lonely, wasn't boring.

April stays at that place for a while, another few days, before she knows she has to make it back to the airport. Sandwiched between all one hundred and thirty-two texts -

You're the best person ever, and I'm sorry.

This is my fault right? I think, I guess. I don't know. Sorry.

20 minutes, Burly's place. Don't forget your kit this time, dude.

Sorry, that wasn't for you. But if you want to come hang out while we jam that's cool!

And so many more of them, just like that, are a few from her parents and her sister. Alongside the thirty-four voicemails, her dad screams at her a few times and April just deletes those immediately. For some reason, though, at least some version of all of those messages is on her phone. Sitting on the patio of the summer house, a glass of some incredibly expensive wine forgotten for the bottle, April lies back and stares at all the messages. Scrolling, scrolling, scrolling...

They're all right there in front of her and she still hates him. But it's different, again, and something about how strange it is somehow also makes the most sense in the world. April didn't know what the hell it was she was feeling, looking at those short messages and pleas, that made it different for him. He was just Andy, after all. Just Andy.

April's sure that when she stands up something wet is on her face. Luckily, she can tell herself that it's starting to rain and go back inside. That way she doesn't have to think about him, or about herself, and why she's done this to the both of them. Or why it feels right to her that she's doing this to him, and to herself. Maybe those thoughts are stray mistakes, errors in her usually calm detachment, but then again:

April where are you? I'm sorry. Like, super sorry.

"I don't know why you won't answer my messages," his voice crackles, "but I mean it. I'm sorry. You're so awesome and I messed up, I guess? I don't know. I'm confused, like really confused, right now."

She sees him at the airport. He's attractive, has kind of a blank stare, and sits next to her on the flight. Eduardo, she thinks is his name, boards for Eagleton with her and she gets a new idea. A new plan to deal with Andy. It involved less crying - well, it was hard to have less crying because April obviously never so much as gave him a second thought let alone a single tear - and a lot more angry, vapid sex.

When they land, April checks her phone absentmindedly. Number two hundred is in.

"Wow," Eduardo exclaims, "who keeps calling you?"

"Just some idiot," she returns in Spanish. "He doesn't matter at all. Kind of a creepy guy, actually."

"Really?" he nods. "You keep reading his texts though."

He points to her phone and it takes a second for April to realize that she isn't actually looking at Eduardo. Her thumb stops at the text Andy's just sent, and she barely hears what the guy standing next to her is saying, because she's too busy reading it.

So you're just gonna be mad at me forever? Sorry. Maybe we can be friends still, because you're way too cool. I'm sorry.

It's number two hundred, it's only been a few weeks, and April wants to find Andy and be okay with him. She desperately wants to do that, and for everything to be all right, but then she remembers what it felt like when he said that Ann kissed him. A glass heart shattered in that second and April can barely scrape up the pieces as it is. She doesn't want to give him another chance, but she can't look at Eduardo for a few minutes because there's no rain this time.

Hatred is easier than love. Deception easier than truth, and April's okay with that. So she thinks. It's okay, and everything will be okay, she has to remind herself. All she has to do is hide behind the outward misanthropy forever so no one could see her for herself again. It's safer that way.

It's... better?