Going Nowhere

October 25, 2015

He had successfully written a few songs over the course of the past few days. Well, finished the songs he had already written. I had aided him in cleaning them up, then they were sent on to the studio for last approval before being put onto the new album.

 

We wrote one together, one about both points of view on an ending relationship. One person went one way and one went the other. We felt it was something that was easy to explain emotionally.

 

Callie and Emma had only allowed this because he was leaving tomorrow. The one bag he had was still emptied out across the room, something that made this whole process a bit easier somehow.

 

Michael was currently out in the hall taking a phone call. I spent my time scribbling down a few more lyrics. I hadn’t been writing for months, but now that Michael was here, every moment we didn’t spend talking I was writing.

 

I felt awful for Callie and Soph and Emma. They were the ones who I hadn’t seen in years. They were the ones that had invited me into their “home”; invited me to go on tour with them, given me money to restart my life.  Yet, here I was, practically ignoring them while Michael was here. It had only been a few months since I had last seen him.

 

The door cracked open, Michael entering again. He tapped his phone, I assume ending the call he had been arguing in the hall. He doesn’t say anything about it, instead coming and sitting next to me in bed. His automatically leans his head on my shoulder.  I imagine him falling over into the sheets if I hadn’t been there.

 

“What’s up?” I question, hoping the vague statement might make him talk.

 

He groans in response. I’d gotten used to hearing this when knowing he really didn’t want to talk about it. It took a lot of encouraging and persuading to get him to confess.

 

Instead of attempting to give me an idea, he sits back up, slouching. He huffs out a breath. Standing, he moves over to where his duffle was, staring at it for a minute before picking it up and placing it on his bed.

 

“I thought you weren’t leaving until tomorrow.” I cock my head to the side slightly, bringing my leg under the other.

 

He grumbles, “I wasn’t supposed to,” continually shoving clothing into the bag.

 

“Than what are you doing?” At this point I knew I was playing dumb. There wasn’t anyone else who would have had to call him. Seeing the bag being packed killed. Maybe this was how he felt when he saw my apartment empty.

 

He shrugged, as if he wasn’t shoving a knife into my stomach. “Packing.”

 

“Why?” I insisted he give me an explanation at this point. Why was he leaving? Why so suddenly? Did he do something wrong by coming to see me? Is his management pissed that he ditched the tour for me? Did I do something to make him want to leave?

 

Sighing, he puts what he was holding in the bag. “I’ve got to go.” He looks me in the eyes for the first time since he entered the room. There aren’t tears, there isn’t pain. There is sympathy though.