Yo, guys. So, just in case you're worried, this chapter does indeed have some arguing. There isn't any loud yelling, cursing, throwing of things, or physical contact, though. So, you should be good to go :) Okey doke. Enjoy!
A heavy quiet sits in the living room. Cal and I face off from across the dining room table, trying our best not to make eye contact. For once, the negative nancy in my head is uncharacteristically quiet.
We've been home for around half an hour, and neither of us has said a word yet. The sky is turning a rosy orange, and I'm afraid we might go to sleep without speaking. Taking a deep breath, I decide to break the silence.
"Cal, I-"
"If you're going to apologize, don't. Just... Just don't." A weary sigh falls from Cal's mouth, and he grips his hair in tight fists. "I just don't know what to do anymore. I've tried. I am trying. But I can't have fun with you anymore, and you clearly can't have fun with me anymore, so wh-"
I sit up straighter in my chair, a tiny frown on my lips. "That isn't true." Gee, you sound almost as emotionally detached as I feel. Wait a sec... "I can still have fun with you. You can still have fun with me. We can."
"But we don't." Cal now stands, pushing his chair back a tad too harshly, and starts pacing around the kitchen. "We don't have fun, Seymour. Any time we go out, you are literally on the verge of a panic attack. And that sucks. Not just for you, but for me too." I open my mouth, but Cal continues, "And it hurts to see you like that. Like, I realize that this isn't about me, but, shit. I don't know what else to do."
His voice cracks on the last word, and I suck my bottom lip into my mouth, pray that Cal won't break. "I'm sorry. I'm trying my best."
"I know," he whispers, eyes softening ever quicker in the setting sunlight. Suddenly, his head drops, shoulders slumped, and he stops walking. "I know you're trying. I just wish you would talk to me."
I walk over to him, reach for his hand. "I do talk to you, Cal."
Just as our fingertips nudge together, he whisks himself away, still looking at the floor. "No, you don't. You don't tell me when you get overwhelmed, or if you're uncomfortable, or if you want to leave. You know I wouldn't mind; I'd bend over backwards for you." He pulls his arms around his torso, sighing, "It just sucks that you lie about it."
"I don't lie about it." Yes, you do. "I just don't want to be an inconvenience to you-" He cuts me off with the dagger in his glare.
"Having you have a panic attack in my mom's bathroom is way more disruptive than rescheduling a dinner. Don't pull that excuse on me." He cracks his jaw, clenching and unclenching his fists.
I scoff, putting my hands on the top of the nearest chair. "Well I'm sorry that I'm not exciting enough for you. I'm sorry that I can't control my attacks-"
"I don't want you to control them. I don't want you to not have anxiety and magically be confident in social situations." He takes a moment of looking at the burning clouds outside, then murmurs, "All I want is for you to talk to me." He waits for me to say something, continuing when I don't. "I want you to tell me you need to go home if you need to. Ask me to leave if you need alone time, tell me you need a hug if you need it, tell me you need a break if you need one."
The longer he speaks, the faster my breathing gets, the tighter I grip the chair. "It's not that easy to speak up for yourself when everything you say feels stupid, and everyone always seems like they're looking at you, and you're constantly afraid of losing someone again. You do not know what it's like, and you don't know what I've been through. Don't act like it's just so easy." I expect him to yell at me, maybe even throw something, and I'm ready to take it if he decides too.
"You're right." My eyebrows leap. His voice is so soft, bittersweet, almost tear stained. "I don't know that feeling. I don't know what you've been through, or how hard it is. But, I want to. I want you to tell me, and talk to me. How am I supposed to help you work through things if you never teach me how?"
A tear slips down his cheek, and he swipes it away. I fold in on myself, hiding partially behind the chair. You made him cry. What an asshole. "I can't teach you. I can't tell you all of the things that make me tic. I don't know that you won't hurt me."
"You know I would never hurt you, Sey, not intentionally." Cal takes two steps forward, and I scurry back until my shoulder blades hit the wall.
"You aren't the first to say that. I'm honestly surprised you've gone this long. I thought you would have snapped by now. The others did. It's only a matter of time; you're nothing special." I cover my mouth in shock, noting how shaky my hands have gotten, how wide Cal's eyes are, how much my chest aches. "Shit. I didn't mean..."
"Nothing special," he repeats, quiet. Then, he laughs, a broken little thing that limps along the floorboards and clusters in the corners long after the sound has stopped. "Maybe you're right, then." He gathers his jacket from its spot on the coat hook, picks up his keys with an eerily cheery jangle. "You never did like me, did you? Not really. I was always the one dragging this out, doing all the work." Aw, fuck, he's leaving. Stop him. I open my mouth, but I sound comes out. Cal reaches into his pocket, pulling out a folded piece of paper, drops it into the key bowl by the door. "I hope you find happiness, I really do. Call me, if you... On second thought, maybe don't. I love you." With that, he shuts the door behind him, gently. I stay standing in the same spot, listening to his footsteps thudding down the stairs. He glances up at me once through my window, raises a hand, and drives away.
The rest of the evening is spent drinking the small amount of liquor in my cabinet, laying on the floor ugly crying, and blowing my nose. Around midnight, I remember the paper in the bowl by the door. Once my fumbling fingers manage to pry it open without tearing it, I scan over it.
It's the receipt from the day we first met, when he'd flirted and enticed me into texting him. I sniffle once, intend to stop crying before I see the message handwritten at the bottom.
Sey, if you're reading this, and it isn't part of some elaborate marriage proposal (eyebrow waggle), I hope you tried to get me to stay.
I let the note drift to the floor, bury my face in my knees.
"Shit."
A/N:
Soooo hi. How are y'all doin? You okay?
Cup of tea? ☕️
This is gonna be sad for a lil bit aha but everyone will live... (😈)
QOTC: Do you think there is anyone clearly in the wrong here? If so, who?
Mwah, love you. If you need some fluff, go check out Strawberries and Cream by me (plug plug plug).
See you soon!
AJ
YOU ARE READING
Enduring
Romance*SEQUEL/SPIN-OFF OF BLUE* You don't have to read them in order if you don't like. Seymour Kim doesn't talk much. He thinks too much, talks to himself when there's no one around, and doesn't really enjoy other peoples' company. But, when flirtatious...
