Chapter 1
'Heart Won't Let Me'

A/N - Best accompanied by the song 'Heart Won't Let Me' by LANY. Prepare for Heartache.

'Max,

I'm sorry. I love you, but I can't do this anymore.

Chloe
x'

Chloe's hand shakes — a combination of nerves and the severe need for a nicotine top up — as she stares at the little slip of paper in it, and she gulps audibly. It's not enough. It's nowhere near enough to explain exactly why she can't stay, and it never will be. Max deserves more than eleven words after everything she's done for her — everything she's sacrificed to keep Chloe alive for so long.

But it'll have to do. She doesn't have long, and if she doesn't do it now, she never will. If she doesn't, Max will come home, and as per usual Chloe will have to put on her brave face — suck up her own worries for the sake of her girlfriend's conscience.

Well… the use of the word 'girlfriend' isn't completely accurate… not for long, anyway. Or… not for long once she builds up the fucking courage to leave.

It's been five weeks since they arrived at the Caulfield's place — five weeks since she and Max had officially made the leap from being Gal-Pals to 'Gal-Pals™' — and they've made a grand total of zero progress in regards to their relationship in that time.

Sure, they make out (sometimes), and Max occasionally experiments with being on top during those make out sessions. But that's it — they're still very much so closeted; Chloe's still hidden away by the girl she loves most in in the world, and she's still having to hide the hurt blooming in her every time their eyes meet.

And let's not even talk about the physical distance Max is forcing onto them. It's one thing to emotionally distance yourself from your other half. But to physically distance yourself — to sit as far away from the person you're supposed to be in love with whenever the situation allows it, or even straight up push her away when she goes for something as simple as a hug. Hell, thinking about it, she doesn't think there's been a single make out session that Max hasn't stopped midway through to 'double check the door' and to make sure it's locked. Only two nights ago, that double check had turned into a triple-check, and then a quadruple check.

'Is it really that embarrassing for you…? Are you that ashamed of being with me…?'

It's not fair. it's not right.

It's been hard enough dealing with everything that happened to their hometown. But add into it the loneliness; the isolation that followed. Add into it how she's dealing with everything going on in her own head — dealing with the grief of being orphaned, and dealing with her survivors guilt — while being there and present at every given moment day or night to calm any of Max's many panic attacks… it's left her hanging on by a thread.

She looks down at Max's bed, the fingers of her right hand reaching down to brush against the pillow that Max usually uses, and her heart tightens painfully.

She doesn't want to leave. She doesn't want to leave Max; doesn't want to leave the Caulfields, even. But she has to. She has to go. She's done waiting for someone who doesn't want her — waiting for someone who clearly sees her as a mere comfort blanket instead of her girlfriend. She's done begging to be loved, and waiting around for a scrap of affection to be sent her way.

She'd waited five years for a text from Max. Five whole years that she'd spent growing, and learning, and placing defensive walls that would likely take a battering ram to get through. Sure, she'd spent three years with Rachel, her attention fully absorbed into what she'd thought was a fully monogamous, committed relationship that turned out to be considerably less monogamous than she'd thought. But again, she'd been used. All she was to Rachel was a way out — her free ride out of Arcadia that would be ditched as soon as they reached California.

'Dammit Chloe, pull yourself together…'

After a deep, steeling breath, she gently lays the note on the hoodie she's folded up; a too-big hoodie Max all but stole since their arrival, occasionally letting Chloe wear it after it's been washed, only to build up her scent in the fibres again. Then she turns away before she can overthink what she's doing, scoops up the backpack she's set by the door, and makes her way down the hallway.

She's just about to head down the stairway when the sound of muffled scratching starts coming from the front door, and she stops dead, quickly ducking back around the corner to be out of sight from the front door.

"Chloe? You home? God, you wouldn't believe the day I had at school…"

Shit. Fuck. Dammit all to Hell.

Chloe flinches, her heart sinking again as she hears Max close the door behind herself. There's a gentle thud that echoes twice as Max toes off her shoes, and then a series of padded footsteps as she makes her way through to the kitchen, evidently looking for something to eat.

It sinks because she knows she can't leave now. She can't just up and go if Max is downstairs. She'd beg her to stay — beg her to not leave, and… and…

… Chloe would comply, just like she always did.

So after calling out with a small, passably Cheerful confirmation that she would be down in a second, Chloe turns and makes her way back to Max's bedroom.

The note is stuffed into the drink-pocket of her backpack, which is then hidden in the depths of Max's closet, concealed under a trash bag of clothes that need to be sent to goodwill.

She only glances back as she reaches the door, a pang of absolute agony shooting through her stomach causing her to feel slightly nauseous, so immediately turns away. Her face steels, she takes a deep breath, and then forces herself into the headspace of being the dutiful girlfriend before she heads down the stairway.

It takes only five minutes for them to settle with bowls of cereal, sitting on opposite ends of the couch ('my parents are due home soon') as Max recounts her day between shovelling spoonfuls of cocoa puffs into her mouth. And it's all Chloe can do to watch and stir her own cereal, turning it into a brown sludge unknowingly as her brain races with intrusive thoughts and self-deprecation.

Monday… I'll do it on Monday… I need to do it on Monday…