Their First 10,080 | Tronnor

Wednesday: 10, 079

So I think we should just end it. I don't want to do this anymore, so let's hit reset before it gets any worse, okay?

Connor stared at his phone in utter disbelief. He had had one shoe on, about to get his ass over to Tyler's place at the speed of light. He was ready to apologize and forgive, because no under-researched accusation or bitterness was worth losing Troye. It took hours, but he realized that Troye just wanted to be regarded as a beacon. He wanted to be there to guide Connor, to straighten his path when he was lost. Sometimes his light flickered, yes, sometimes he pointed the bulb in the wrong direction, but his intentions were always good. Connor blindly refused to follow the honest path, and found himself so lost and afraid. Afraid he wouldn't find his way back if he didn't turn around immediately. But then his phone buzzed, and it was too late. Troye shut the lighthouse down completely, and left Connor in the cruel dark.

Slowly, he laid his phone on the porch table and took off his shoe. He flexed his fingers as they begun to twitch, his vision struggling to focus on a specific thing. His perception detached from reality, and a floating feeling turned into something of complete misery. His lungs rebelled against logical pace and he couldn't even stand.

"Oh shit. Shit. Shit. Shit, no." He yelled, saying it over and over until he couldn't speak without stutters and slurs. He could keep his hands off his face or out of his hair, wiggling his fingers and toes as if it would bring him back to earth. But it wouldn't, nothing would, because his increasingly wonderful life was crashing all around him. His relationship with Troye; the thing that made him happiest, the thing that solidified the emerging from the closet and from his depression. It was over, and the crying wouldn't stop.

He screamed and pressed his hands to his ears. His body and mind had descended into a whole separate dimension, where he had the brain capacity of a child amidst a tantrum. He struggled to stand, and stumbled to the bedroom, falling into the bed as he threw Troye's suitcase onto the duvet.

"It was a fucking fling. A fucking week." He whimpered, stuffing all of Troye's belongings into the suitcase. "Fucking nothing to him." He may have accidentally put some of his clothes in with Troye's because it was so full that he couldn't zip up the suitcase. It frustrated him so deeply that he fell to the ground, sobbing and screaming with more force than he thought was possible. How the hell could Troye live with himself, saying I love you to someone he can't even bear dating for a week? Hands shaking so badly that he spent ten minutes trying unzip the front pocket, Connor slipped the printed-off plane ticket into the suitcase.

He wanted to send him off without a goodbye, so he chucked the case out the door and slammed it behind him. The panic heightened his OCD, so he automatically opened it up again so he could place the case neatly on the doorstep. The doorframe shook with the force he closed the door, and he nearly nipped his fingers turning the lock. He ran as fast as he could to his room and threw himself on the bed, his body heaving with the harshest weeping he'd ever experienced. He felt as if he brain was melancholy, frantic mush, and he couldn't even think straight enough to stop the hyperventilation. He seriously debated calling Zoe, who probably knew how to help, what with her having panic disorder and all. Yeah, he needed to call her; he didn't know what was happening to his body and it scared him. Getting his phone from the porch and curling up against the wall, he tried to dial. However, his fingers couldn't grab hold of the phone without spinning it or dropping it, so he stopped. He didn't think he could pull himself together enough to form a coherent sentence anyway. So he cried and cried until he fell asleep, his head slumping against the hard wall.

~~~

Connor woke up even more exhausted than he was when he fell asleep. He barely remembered what had happened after the text, only bits and pieces from his panic attack sticking to his mind. He didn't even remember about the suitcase, until hands were pounding on the door. He froze, forcing himself to ignore the knocking.