Moonstruck ⟡ HS

22!

♫
link: spoti.fi/3mYxdhu
NORMAN FUCKING ROCKWELL | LANA DEL REY
I LOVE YOU | BILLIE EILISH
THEM CHANGES | THUNDERCAT
R U MINE? | ARCTIC MONKEYS

No one knew about what happened.

Once word got out that the town sweetheart, Josephine Smith, got into a nearly fatal car accident on Valentine's day evening, cards and flowers and get well soon balloons were sent in loads to her gloomy hospital room, and then to her bedroom in her house once she was released from the bounds of hospital. Her friends came by, she didn't wait long before returning to school as soon as her concussion minimized and her bodily pain reduced, and she was welcomed back with warm smiles and open arms, simply because everyone loved her.

Well, almost everyone loved her.

She acted like she had never acted before, forcing her faux smiles and extending her gratitude to everyone who reached out to make sure she was okay, because underneath her artificial happiness was a building mound of despair that she couldn't swallow down. No one knew about what happened the night she got in the accident, no one knew about the conversation she had with Harry, and no one knew about how he left her. No one knew. Not her father, not her brother, and not even Alice knew that she told Harry she loved him and sent him running in the opposite direction.

She had no intentions of telling anyone, not a single soul, because in the simplest terms, it was embarrassing. Everyone she spoke to about him proclaimed that he was obsessed with her, that there's no way he could ever touch a hair on her head or send a single tear running down her cheek, but they didn't know shit. They didn't know a thing. They didn't know how sad she was every night before she went to bed, they didn't know about how many hours she sat outside her window with hopes to get a glimpse of him, and they didn't know that it had been a whole week since she physically saw him.

She didn't know where he was.

His car hasn't touched his driveway since she's been home, she hasn't heard his engine echo down their street and she hasn't seen his front door close or open. He hasn't been there, the newspapers piling up on his porch proved that, and it only stirred her emotions up into a mixed up mess. Worry, despair, heartbreak—it all festered and bubbled under her overly smiley, happy-go-lucky surface, and she didn't know when it would come out, when it would break her. She already felt broken inside, unlike herself in the most severe sense, and the sad part was the reasoning, because despite his actions, she felt this way all because she missed him.

When asked about him, she made something up. He's working, he's busy, he's caught up with family stuff. All lies. She didn't know what else to say, because she wasn't going to tell anyone the truth until she saw him, but the days of him disappeared only increased and she was starting to run out of made up excuses. She didn't want to miss him, she wanted to forget about him if he was going to forget about her so easily, but she's not like that and she knows it. She wishes she could move on, take back her feelings and treat his presence as the man across the street, but she just couldn't.

Night seven was the worst for her.

It started off with dinner, eating with her father and brother with a small pout on her lips, but neither of them noticed, too preoccupied with their own happiness that she was back home and feeling better. And she was feeling better physically, but in her head was a vicious storm of feelings that drowned her mercilessly. When she excused herself from dinner, she took a bath and cried. She sat in the water until it ran cold and cried some more. The kicker was his shirt stuck in the back of her closet that she mistakenly wore to bed, lying down with wet hair and a pair of swollen eyes that lost any benevolent shine.