A/N: I'm back! Yay?
Either way, here's something that was requested a little while ago.
It's difficult knowing that you're used to a life, whether you like it or not. Peculiarities that are distinctly yours, and those you want to forget, crop up all the time and you know how familiar they are and terrible at the same time. April feels that often, forgetting why she even exists in space sometimes like her body isn't meant to be at her desk or moving around and that it'd be easier to let someone take over for her and replace what she's clearly screwing up. When she gets up in the morning, her bones feel brittle and tiny so she doesn't worry about taking a shower.
At work, people get close to her and walk away carefully as if she won't notice. She does. April notices when they talk to her and they can smell her breath too; she forgets to brush her teeth regularly, and her breath must be vile by now. So she spends a lot of the day inwardly making fun of them and externally ignoring everything, pretending it's not worth her time, until the day's over.
Things don't really matter anymore. Dating a guy that's actually dating another guy is just a funny joke to her, because it's not like she can talk to them about anything. Every single time she tries to ask one of them if they've ever felt what she is, Derek and Ben just look at her and chuckle like it's supposed to be an ironic thing. It isn't, and they make her feel like shit. Still, there's nothing better for her to do and no one else that will take her so she just puts up with it the next day, telling them it was just a joke and asking if it was good method acting. Next day, and it's easier because they don't have to know how she reacts at home when there's a door and walls between other people and a warm, soft bed to hide in.
There is one person who notices, or who understands at least.
He leaves mints on her desk unquestioned, and he has her number and occasionally she sees missed calls from a landline that tells her to take a shower. Sometimes April listens, and sometimes she ignores it, but when she goes in to work and meets Ron's eyes things seem less ridiculous to her. Wearing the same clothes she has been for three days, no one asks - not even Ron - but it's still there and she thinks everyone's paying acute, nonstop attention to her in every single flaw and fault.
The reality is much more terrifying: no one actually cares. Nobody pays attention to it, or cares, and the few people who are around to care only view things as a massive, grand goof ready to be workshopped and the other won't approach her at all to talk.
Andy's different. When he talks to her he only smiles despite her noxious breath and the way bags form under her eyes, and Andy tells her she's awesome despite every bit of her laughing at that. It's impossible to hate that, and she thinks there's something there; she thinks that he's all right, unlike every other person in existence, mostly because he doesn't think she's a walking joke ready to be exploited.
Then he dumps her like old takeout.
Her hair feels more brittle at home after, her teeth weak and thin, and her arms are totally worthless. Walking through the door takes an effort and when she gets up the stairs, she's sure sleep will come immediately but it doesn't. Not for six more hours of blindly swiping on her phone, staring at the ceiling, and all the lethargy she hates but can't shape into actual sleep or exhaustion. Grabbing the bear sat right on her bed, she throws it under her arm, stares at her phone, and squeezes the stuffed animal like making its head pop would release all this emotion that's building inside of her. She falls asleep still wearing her sneakers, jacket, and the bear in the crook of her arm when her mother wakes her at one in the afternoon.
Back to work.
She's never thought about doing it, because even that makes her mind spiral. Her parents aren't rich, but they're well off, and doing that would just make them a little poorer. It's never about who would miss her, because realistically she can't even finish counting on her hand who would miss her. Two people? Three, maybe, if Andy counted.
In her frustration, April sleeps with a guy that's been asking her out since junior year of high school. Halfway through the night, she starts crying inexplicably and when he tries to comfort her April lashes out and ends up punching him in the face. That only makes her sob more, getting dressed quickly and running out of his apartment. It's a mess, everything is, and so is she. When she's at home, April just tucks herself into bed with her phone and bear hopeful for more sleep.
This time it doesn't come, and she's glad that thoughts of ending it all are difficult to come by at this hour.
When things happen, and she's been so far gone for so long that thinking about it physically hurts, and Andy seems like he's done everything he can to apologize she's still worried. What if he's lying, and this is all a ruse? She knows Andy, really knows him, and even then she still thinks he's going to kiss another girl just seconds after her. Before her, more likely. Still, she thinks it and when he kisses her past terrible breath and a likely awful taste, and holds the back of her head like her hair isn't greasy and thin, April smiles.
It isn't that she forgot, or stopped smiling. That isn't it, but rather it's the first time in a long time she's made a choice and feels okay smiling. Andy makes her feel okay smiling, and he's always doing it.
She goes home and takes two showers, one after the other, and sets an alarm. Little, little things but life feels less like a massive train wreck when she does those things and feels a little better getting the most basic human chores done. Doing the dishes is easier, eating is far easier, and smiling when he greets her at work with a hug and a kiss is much simpler.