Joe Sugg | Imagines

HE KNOWS

Freya's surprise party was thrown at a house you'd never been to–a friend of hers owned the place–but the company was largely familiar.

No one was around to open the door for you; you were tragically late and only had yourself to blame. It wasn't often that you went out to parties because they'd never really been your thing, and, feeling largely pressured to make yourself look like you still knew how to have fun, you spent far too long trying on and throwing aside different outfits. Nonetheless, all of your efforts proved themselves to be hugely in vain that evening, because you still felt terribly self-conscious letting yourself into someone else's residence and weaving your way through chattery throngs of people in dimly lit hallways.

But it wasn't long before you ran into some familiar faces.

Caspar called you over by means of a loud shout, one hand holding a half-empty beer bottle high in the air and the other holding Oli.

"Y/n! I'm absolutely shocked. Since when do you decide not to blow off an invitation out?" Caspar said.

"Oi, let the girl live, Cas. She's here, isn't she?" Oli defended. By then, you'd officially joined their little circle. Oli gave you a half-armed hug, one you reciprocated with slight difficulty, before smiling down at you.

"Oh," Caspar began, and you knew just by the tone of his voice that you weren't going to like what was to come from him next. "You know who else has surprisingly left his bedroom to come party and looks super hot?"

He didn't need to, but Jack gestured with his beer bottle anyway, looking pointedly over your shoulder. You knew you shouldn't risk the turn; you knew. But you did anyway, because you were at a party, and parties are meant to make you spontaneous and daring.

Except, you felt nothing besides humiliation when you made eye contact with Joe Sugg.

He did look super hot. You wanted to cry.

"What even happened with you two?" The intrusive question had come from a considerably-intoxicated Conor, who would have otherwise never been so bold. No one was truly sure why you and Joe had split so suddenly last month; you hardly knew. But the thing had happened and it was painful and it was about time that you got over it.

Oli whispered something harshly at Conor, and as you were turning back around to face him, he was lowering his arm after whacking him scoldingly in the shoulder.

"It's fine," you assured Oli. Then, you announced in finality, "It just didn't work out. We don't... we didn't fit together too well."

The explanation sounded artificial to even your own ears. As you'd said it, in fact, your life with Joe – or the year and a half you'd been with him – flashed before your eyes like a movie on rewind. Scene after scene of cheesy dates and holidays together and uncontrollable fits of laughter and anniversary dinners and movie nights in and private skype calls played before you teasingly, leading up only to that dreadful July evening after your trip with the girls. To the inexplicable look of annoyance on Joe's face as he leaned up against his car, the yelling from you on your porch and he from the curb, the accusations and cursing and fighting, the eighteen months that you threw away when you dumped that drawer of Joe's stuff out of your bedroom window and onto your lawn for him to pick up when he was finished being an ass.

And that was it.

"Y/n?" You were drawn from your reverie by Caspar's call to you, and you looked at him in question. "I was saying Freya's over there, if you want to drop that gift off."

Oh. You'd forgotten it was in your hand at all. You ran the pad of your thumb over the lid of the palm-sized box; there was a necklace inside, dainty and golden and precious, one you'd knew Freya would love.