lovelorn

six

harry styles- falling
everything i wanted- billie eilish

Three and a half weeks until the day you dread the most arrives, and it feels like a slow painful burn that started at the surface of your skin but is now slowly creeping in through your pores and attacking your insides. A lot could happen in three weeks. It takes about three and a half weeks to break a habit, and about three and a half weeks to form a new one. This is all the evidence you need to support your most recent endeavors to write Harry off as a bad habit that you can just break. It's a challenge. In your mind, you believe that the best way to break a habit is to replace it, but as it turns out, it's quite hard to replace your best friend with liquor.

That is how you end up drunk off your mind in your flat with some bloke on top of you. You don't remember his name and at the moment, you don't care to. His hands are warm; his kiss is mediocre, and that's enough for you right now. In the back of your mind, you're counting down the minutes until he walks down the aisle and out of your life, but in the front of your mind, you're...distracted.

The man on top of you has his lips at your neck and his hands are working on pulling down your skirt. A little annoyed at his feeble attempts, you lift your hips to assist him. Soon, your skirt is around your ankles, his head is in between your legs, and you're gazing blankly at your ceiling. It's not that it doesn't feel good-it does. You can feel your stomach start to swirl delightfully as his tongue circles where you're most sensitive, yet it doesn't feel quite right. It's almost like your mind is out of your body. Maybe if you didn't feel so mentally and emotionally shitty, you could allow yourself to physically give in to pleasure.

"You like that, babe?" He mumbles into your thigh, and you grimace. Luckily, he can't see you in the dark of your room, so he continues nibbling on the apex of your thigh, right next to your heat.

Your voice is monotone as you say, "No, not really."

He eases himself up on his elbows, looking at you with a mixture of hurt, confusion, and anger on his face. "What the hell is your deal?"

You sigh, scooting yourself further up your bed and away from him. You sit up and rub at your face frustratedly. "I'm sorry. It's not you, it's me."

"I know it's you."

You roll your eyes. "Yeah, you should probably just like...grab your shit and leave."

He does as you suggest, grumbling to himself. "I'm not drunk enough for this shit, fucking bitch," he says as he exits low enough that he thinks you don't hear, but you do.

"You're a lousy kisser, you asshole," you yell after him, and you hear your front door slam quite loudly and you pray it didn't wake your roommate up.

Funnily enough, once you're alone, you immediately regret sending your night company home. Your bed feels empty and your heart feels hollow. Naturally, your mind goes back to him, and you immediately start to feel cold. You scoff to yourself at how ridiculous it is that the one person that used to make you feel like your body was on fire has now turned you arctic. You get up and walk over to your closet to grab a sweater and glance down and frown at the light blue material. You're looking at a baby chick coming out of an egg with the words "mon petit" stitched into it in red. This was his sweater. He had left it at your place about a year ago, saying that it reminded him of you because you were a "petite little chick" to him. At first, you roll your eyes at the memory, then you start giggled, and then somehow those giggles turn into small cries.

Fuck, you can't escape this man even in your own home. It's like he's a virus that weaseled it's way inside of you, and now feasts on your insides, leaving nothing but pain and heartbreak in its wake. You clutch at your heart as it gets harder to breathe through the crying and you slowly start to count in your head. This is something you always do through panic attacks to help you catch your breath, but it doesn't seem to work like it's supposed to.

You start to feel suffocated in your room, so you leave and head into your kitchen right towards the cabinet where all your liquor is stored. You're already pretty drunk, but your fingers still reach for the bottle of bourbon you see on the bottom shelf. You open it and take a long sip, resisting a coughing fit as it burns down your throat. It doesn't help you to breathe, obviously. It actually just makes it worse, and adds to your drunkenness almost immediately. Not knowing what to do, or how to feel better, you take another long sip before slamming it down on the counter.

You wonder what he's doing right now, but then you realize you know. It's three in the morning, he's probably in bed with his fiancé, sound asleep and not thinking about you or how much you're hurting because of him. Maybe he's awake. Maybe he's fucking into her in that slow way that he always does when he's tired-when he wakes up in the middle of the night craving some satisfaction. Maybe he is sleeping, dreaming about walking down the aisle in three weeks. It'll be the best day of his life. It will be your worst.

You hate where your thoughts have lead you to, and soon, you feel like you're drowning. Now you're clutching your throat gasping for air, through the tears and the burning of your throat and eyes, you can't seem to inhale. You feel the need to get out of your apartment, as if somehow if you stepped outside, you'd find your mind. Against your better judgment, you grab your car keys.

The walk down to your car is a drunken blur, and you must be way too drunk if your blacking out things that happened five minutes ago. You unlock your door and slide in, putting the key in the ignition. You know what to do now. Put it in drive. Gas it. But something stops you. Perhaps it's all the warning signs in your head screaming at you that you're way too drunk to operate a car, yet getting out seemed like the hardest thing to do.

You're frozen with your two hands against the steering wheel, as your mind imagines two possibilities. You see black and you see white. The white of a wedding versus the black of a funeral. You wonder to yourself how the darker color was welcomed by you far more than the white-all you really had to do was put it in drive and gas it. Now, you're scared. You're completely terrified at how you can't stop crying, how frozen you are, how you can't seem to get out of the fucking car. You're so scared that you do the one thing you swore to yourself you wouldn't do.

You take your phone out of your pocket and dial his number.