Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot
Summary: Fairy tales don't always have a happy ending, do they?
Lyrics: Big girls don't cry by Fergie
A/N: I apologize in advance for the potential heartbreak. Not a happy chapter. Take a hint from the song choice.
My heart ached the hole time I was writing this. I shit you not.
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'The term "a perfect storm" is used to describe a serendipitous confluence of events which results in something astounding and often catastrophic. Considered on their own, each of the events is not terribly remarkable, but when the events are combined, the results can be formidable. The term is used both literally, to refer to ongoing events, and hypothetically, to talk about potential disaster scenarios.'
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—I need some shelter of my own protection baby
To be with myself in center clarity—
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Troubled Water
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She knows it's a terrible, terrible mistake, this thing they've gotten themselves into.
It was fun to start with, but lately, it's getting out of hand.
It's not that she's gotten tired of it, if anything, she's got a little too used to it, and that just can't be good.
No, it can't be good.
She's got accustomed to falling asleep with his warm chest pressed against the arch of her back, to waking up at the husky sound of his good mornings, to the tingling kisses he places on her neck while she brushes her teeth and the ever-present grip of his arms around her waist, a spot they have made a home of.
There's something off with the world when he's not there —gravity switches, time slows down. She finds it hard to sleep without his rhythmic breathing dusting her hair, meals are awfully silent without his constant chattering and her chest feels heavy as the air in her lungs thickens for no apparent reason.
The days he's gone on missions, she wanders on his apartment because she feels that there's not enough of his presence left on hers, and that unsettles her (something she is directly responsible of, for she has made it a point not to invite guys over to prevent them from leaving unwanted traces of memories in her personal space). She wears his old shirt and curls on his sofa, picks up a book she's hardly interested in and skims over the pages while trying to deceive time into flowing a little bit faster. But his absence is a ghostly veil that wraps around her with the subtlety of a tsunami, and she's drowning at the realization of just how lonely she feels when deprived of his company.
Confusion takes over as to when did it happen —when did she start developing this thing for him that clouded her common sense into blurred clarity?
Trapped in a sea of troubled water, she finds herself sinking deeper into the unknown as her emotional attachment to him grows by the day. And like a perfect storm, the magnitude in which she's become so emotionally invested in him takes her completely by surprise —it's certainly not something she thought herself capable of.
She's losing herself, and the deeper she dives in, the scarier it gets.
Oh, God. What is this even?
If this is what they call love, she really doesn't want it.
(She doesn't recall it hurt half as bad.)
And she wants out.
—Desperately.
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She likes her breakups short and drama-free, half-hearted excuses that don't have to make sense because neither of them care enough to delve too much on the matter. She's used to brief morning-after goodbyes and thanks for the memories, quick farewells detached from promises like I'll call you later or we can still be friends.
She'd rather not, really.
Relationships are not something she would willingly sign herself for (long-time relationships be completely out of the question); there's no red string of fate tied around her finger, and if any, she will make sure to cut it off —she's a shameless flight risk, ready to take off and leave at the slightest sign of commitment.
But this thing she has with him, this unspoken bond she didn't bargain for, it's making her resolve all that much difficult.
Oh, if only.
If walking away were as simple as it should be…
(She'd been long since gone.)
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She takes small steps away from him, silent meals with averting gazes and absent-minded replies to his anxious questions. Long missions help to stretch some distance between them, and she makes of insomnia a close friend by lying awake at night in her lonely bed. He panics at her growing distance, feeling the emotional gap expand between them like a menacing abyss opening wide at their feet —he can feel the brittle edges cracking underneath, and the urge to jump over is suppressed by the uncertainty of whether she would catch his fall.
He's perplexed by her sudden coldness, baffled by her attitude. She disconnects from him with the flippancy of an autumn leaf on the wind, brushing him off like winter dust that falls on her shoulders —and it hurts.
Oh, it hurts so badly.
Monosyllabic words meet his demand for answers, and frustration gets the best of him as he asks what the hell is wrong with her when she yanks her arm away from his grasp.
She looks him dead in the eye and states that she's always been like this, and what the hell is wrong with him.
The look of utter hurt in his eyes is a spear that pierces throughout her ribcage, and she has to look away before she does something crazy like throw herself at his arms and beg for his forgiveness.
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It's over, and she doesn't know what to think of it.
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Normal life resumes, except it's not the same.
It's not the same because he's not there anymore. He's not there to smother her with his overwhelming attention until she's fed up with his presence. Mornings get dimmer without his beaming smile brightening up her day, afternoons are dull and empty as a horrible silence fills her nights.
He signs off from the waiting game, and she knows that this time, a line has been crossed.
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They become parallel worlds that don't intertwine anymore.
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Damn, but she misses him, she misses home.
She misses all the good and the bad, the icy-cold touch of his hands and the suffocating heat of his layers. She longs to hear the lullaby of his heartbeat drumming against her ear and her lips ache for kisses the same way a compulsive smoker's crave for cigarettes; there's a permanent itch in her skin calling to feel his soothing fingerprints, an empty space between her fingers where his used to rest —there's a hole in her chest, a blank space in her mind, a part of herself that's missing.
She feels impaired —handicapped, incomplete. There's a bigger missing piece of hers she left somewhere, a phantom limb she keeps reaching out for because neither her mind nor her body will accept that it's gone.
The problem is, she knows exactly where to find it.
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—But she doesn't think herself brave enough to take that step.
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—Fairy tales don't always have a happy ending, do they?
And I foresee the dark ahead if I stay—
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A/N: If you have never heard of the red string of fate, you might want to look it up. You know, for extra cheesy effect. Just saying.
Ahem. Some clarifications. I'm not trying to portray the perfect boyfriend or the ideal relationship. As I said, this thing is semi-autobiographic, and if anything, I'm trying to portray the most unbalanced relationship there could be. Love is not fair, it is not at all. Sometimes, you will find yourself pouring your soul out to someone who isn't willing to give you the same level of commitment; or on the other hand, you will find someone who overwhelms you with so much love you don't feel yourself worthy of them. Either way, it takes a lot of courage to love the wrong person until you can decide if they are right for you.
And last but not least, reviews are extremely appreciated :)