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ghost-proofbaby · 2 months ago

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THOUGHT OF CALLING YOU, BUT YOU WON'T PICK UP. ANOTHER FORTNIGHT LOST IN AMERICA.

summary: after three days of radio silence from eddie, you decide to take matters into your own hands.

warnings: strong language, angst, eddie is only mentioned in passing this chapter i apologize, sugar/r is manipulating people, minors dni

wc: 5.3k+

a/n: not an eddie munson in sight this round, but somehow still proud of this chapter? idk. i had a lot of fun exploring and expanding sugar/reader this chapter and where she's at with it all <3

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You try and recall just when, exactly, your weekdays had started to feel like active landmines. When each step about your day had to become feather-light, dancing amongst obstacles only you could apparently see.

Monday had been tense upon waking up, only to end on a dreary (and boring) note. Tuesday had always been sort of blue to you, but this Tuesday had a particular twang to it that had left your heart uneasy from dawn to dusk. Wednesday had been for the anxieties – worries and memories and the events of the weekends crawling up your spine until you had considered the consequence of tearing your skin away just to let them all go.

Day, after day, after day. You went through the notions, and you followed the normal script, and you felt it all eat away at you.

You’re not even quite sure what exactly you were waiting for. A phone call from Eddie? Possibly. A sudden meeting with your boss in which everything unravels from one single pap photo? Certainly. For Eddie’s people to finally contact your people and for that damned contract to finally bite you in the ass? Inevitably. Even if you’re not even sure you have people to begin with.

It’s not until Thursday, the first day you take a second out of your commute to even feel the morning sun on your face before arriving at work, that something finally happens.

You’ve hardly sat down at your desk for the day when Romina comes storming over, eyes bright and erratic as she slams a magazine down on your desk, “Care to explain?”

You focus on her wild smile rather than the flimsy pages that are slow to unstick from her palm, “Explain what?”

“Explain this.”

“I don’t even know-” you finally let your eyes flicker down to the magazine as her hand slides away, and your heart drops. The same cover that Matt had presented to you and Eddie in the studio. “Oh.”

You’re starting to miss the dreary Monday. Starting to yearn for your blue Tuesday.

“Oh?” Romina lets out a laugh, a genuine giggle of sorts. She’s not angry; she just seems goddamn ecstatic. “That’s all you have to say for yourself? Young lady, you have some ‘splainin to do-”

“It’s not what it looks like.”

“And what exactly is it supposed to look like?”

Her sparkling eyes scream that she knows she’s won as you sink back into your chair further, silently begging for it to swallow you whole.

You take a deep breath, letting the words fall like a sigh, “I just had some private meetings this weekend with him, going over the budget and planning for my contracted work.”

It’s not entirely a lie, either. Contracted work had certainly been a part of your weekend.

“You never meet with clients on your weekends,” Romina argues, tapping a pretty and pink fingernail against the glossy paper, “Hell, you won’t even meet with me on the weekends. What gives?”

As you begin to answer, she’s blindly reaching behind her, tugging her chair over and seating herself as she seemingly decides this is going to be a proper conversation. “What gives is that he’s a high profile client, Ro. If a rockstar demands to meet with you about a project on the weekend, you can’t really say no.”

“Did he also demand that this meeting be at his pretty boy penthouse?”

“Yes,” you don’t miss a beat, trying to not give into whatever game she’s playing at. It’s all light-hearted, but your heart feels like it’s actually going to burst. Maybe you should have skinned yourself yesterday; maybe you’d have room, then, for all the pounding that’s shaking your rib cage currently. “He thought it might be a bit more private there, more…. Well, less paparazzi and stuff like this. Clearly, he thought wrong.”

When did you become such a professional liar? You almost wish Eddie was here to witness it – surely he’d be proud.

Romina grins slowly, beaming face calming a bit, “Sure. And I totally believe you,” you almost sigh in relief before she’s continuing on, “But that doesn’t mean I won’t demand to know everything.”

You try to recall – did your PR agreement have any subsections regarding an NDA? Maybe the contract in itself, the situation, was enough of an NDA to begin with.

“What part of contracted work do you not understand?” you sigh, turning towards your computer and clacking away at the keyboard to begin to sign in. Not that you had any intent to do any actual work – you couldn’t even check your emails in fear (and secret hopefulness) that Eddie may have sent you something. “I can’t disclose any private information of any of my clients. That’s something we learn during, like, week one of this job-”

“Oh, c’mon,” Romina whines, leaning her elbows onto your desk, “Don’t be such a killjoy. Make up a lie. It’s not like I’m running to this sleazy magazine to tell them you said he had a ten inch co-”

“Romina,” you hiss, despite it all being a joke to her, “That’s not funny! Don’t even joke about my client like that – I could lose the account.”

You still feel your cheeks heat, though. Feel the flush of embarrassment racing through your veins as you stare at your work friend, heart now hammering for an entirely different reason.

She thinks it’s a joke, and yet you’re very familiar with Eddie. Your head is racing with all your memories of this weekend – of the weight of him between your thighs and the trail of his hot breath down your chest, of his leg slowly sliding to hook beneath the crook of your knee to spread you wide open for him, and his dexterous fingers dancing along your hips.

You’d be grateful for the fact that mind-readers don’t exist, but you can tell it’s written so plainly across your face when Romina’s eyes widen and her grin is wiped away entirely.

“Oh my God,” she breathes out in utter shock, “Wait - did you…. Are the two of you…?”

You never have to answer. The clicking of heels approach, and Romina is swiping away the magazine faster than you can blink.

Your name is called out from above in a faux-cheery tone, and when you look up, you’re faced with Lydia’s wine-red lips pulled back into a half smile, “Hey, do you have a moment to join me in my office?”

A look is shared between you and Romina – the kind shared back in school, the type you might have exchanged with Eddie even. Fear, and teasing, and the knowing that someone was about to be in trouble.

That’s what you’ve been reduced back to. Childish glances and secrets stacking upon each other. What joy.

“Of course,” you agree, standing quickly as Romina pushes herself back to her own desk.

Lydia doesn’t even lead you to the office. She herds you, motioning for you to walk ahead of her, and following with the haunting echo of her footsteps that can’t be drowned out by the dull chatter around the office.

The door isn’t even fully clicked shut behind the two of you before you attempt to salvage whatever disaster is about to happen.

“Listen, if this is about-” you start, but Lydia waves a hand as she rounds her desk.

“Sit, please.”

I’m fucked. I’m so beyond fucked, it’s unreal.

You obey as if this might be the principal’s office. As though Lydia has morphed into Higgins and you’re back in the hot seat, having to somehow provide an alibi to get Eddie out of whatever deep shit he’d buried himself in this time.

Wait.

A light-bulb seemingly goes off for you as you settle into the slightly uncomfortable chair, watching Lydia relax into her leather office throne. The scenery may change, the commander in charge may shift, but you’ve done this before.

You’ve lied for Eddie a million times before. There’s no harm in one last time.

Lydia takes a big breath before she looks up at you, but you’re already staring at the magazine on the center of her desk, “Look, it seems you know why I’ve called you in here.”

How can you spin this in your favor? In Eddie’s favor? He needs this release party planned, and you need to keep your job. How, how, how?

“A big promotion?” Joke. Throw her off her rhythm. Just like you used to do to Higgins.

It serves its purpose – a laugh falls from her lips, expression softening, “Not quite, unfortunately.”

Her perfectly manicured hand pushes the magazine closer to you, even though she had clearly seen you burning holes into it.

“We need to talk about this, hun,” she’s choosing her words carefully, which is a good sign. It’s why Eddie had always used you as a distraction or alibi when it came to Higgins – authoritative figures were always softer with you. You need to recall how to use this to your advantage, as well, “I don’t want to jump to conclusions, but… well, it doesn’t look good. You know that, right?”

No, she’s right – it looks terrible. But how can you make it look good?

You have a crossroads, right here and right now.

You could go with the story you had told Romina – claim that Eddie had wanted a private meeting, and had tried to offer some help upon finding out you’d been struggling. It wasn’t an entirely novel idea, just outside of how you usually functioned. Plenty of your fellow peers did weekend meetings or would visit with clients outside of the office to discuss planning. It was quick, and it was simple, and it would get you out of trouble for now.

But you needed to think bigger than just right now, hence your second option.

Come clean in a strategic way. Soon, the tabloids would be running stories about you and Eddie regardless. You hadn’t memorized the fine-print of your contract – hadn’t even read it to begin with, really – but you had no doubt that public appearances were included in the package. This wouldn’t be the last time you had this difficult conversation now, due to legal obligations outside of these four walls, if you went with your first option. Somehow, you need to get ahead of it.

Getting involved with clients wasn’t forbidden, but it surely wasn’t smiled upon. Especially when the client was as large as Corroded Coffin.

So how do you soften the blow? How do you spin a tale that keeps you from sticking within the intricate web?

“I’m sorry,” you say in a soft tone, a few steady breaths to get into character. Like putting on an old coat, shimmying into a comfortable sweater for the winter. You needed to sell it. Chin down, avoid her gaze just enough, press your lips together. Pick at your nails. Don’t bounce your leg, though – that’s too much. “I… I’ve been trying to figure out a way to come to you about this.”

You’d laid the bricks for yourself long before Eddie was back in your life. You need to use them to your advantage now.

The fright of seeing him in the meeting room. The way everyone knew of your supposed distaste for Corroded Coffin. How a year ago, you’d turned down free tickets to a show.

“Come to me about what?”

There it is. The soft and sympathetic tone you needed.

You pause picking at your nail beds long enough to glance up at her, swallowing hard for show, “I mean, I’m sure you knew how I wasn’t a huge fan of Corroded Coffin before all this…”

“It was why I chose you for the task,” Lydia sighs, starting to look disappointed. Good. Put the worst case scenario in her head, let her spiral a bit, and then offer you an option that will sound golden compared to it. “I figured they’d be more comfortable with someone like yourself rather than a superfan. If I was wrong, by all means, please come clean. I promise you’re not in trouble, yet, but-”

“I’m not a superfan,” you correct with just the right amount of quickness, acting as though you needed to take control of the spiral. As if you hadn’t had the reigns of this entire interaction in your hands this entire time so far, “I just- I…” Pause, sigh, look back down. “It’s hard to be a superfan of your boyfriend when your relationship is meant to be private.”

Bingo.

You see a sliver of Lydia’s shock as you look up through your lashes, biting back your small as you put on the act of a lifetime. As though you’ve just had a secret dredged from your soul, whispered of something that was never meant to see the light of day.

The big B-word. You aren’t sure what sort of public story Matt had wanted to spin for you and Eddie, but you’ve decided to curate one all on your own.

You and Eddie didn’t start dating due to this project – no, absolutely not. That would be frowned upon, wouldn’t it? But how terrible it would be, for Lydia to realize she had pried your private life right open, exposing you and your beloved partner out of the last shadows of privacy he may have within his grasp these days. A twisted tale of a love just having found its footing, only for unfortunate corporate circumstances to come and shake the foundation of it all.

It’d make her feel guilty. It’d make the rule-breaking seem insignificant. It’d make all your behavior over the last year simply make sense.

There was a reason the boys of Corroded Coffin used you as a scapegoat all through high school. You could play people like a violin when you needed to.

When it came to Eddie.

“I…” Lydia is at a loss for words, just how you wanted her to be, “I had no idea, I’m sorry, I-”

“It’s okay,” you soothe over, having flipped the tables officially. Lydia is no longer waiting on your apologies or your explanations; she’s scrambling to offer up her own, almost as though she’s forgotten the reason for the meeting to begin with. You were in the wrong, but it conveniently slipped her mind, “You asked me at one point, remember?” Bring that up to avoid her weaponizing it, stay several steps ahead. “You gave me a chance to be honest, and I… I wasn’t. We just didn’t know what to do, and thought we might be able to keep it all…. All… separate.”

You wish you could record this interaction for Eddie to witness. It’d probably make him laugh. Or terrify him. Either would be reward enough.

Every pause in your words, every forcibly shaky breath, is coordinated perfectly within your mind. You wish half your endeavors could go as perfectly as this one is as of right now. Everything was under control; your job was safe and secure, and your legal contract with Eddie was easily being upheld. It was going too perfectly.

“No, no,” Lydia waves off, face scrunched in deep consideration, “I understand why you didn’t. It’s…. A lot. Relationships like that are always tricky. And we can’t change the past now, only focus on the future.”

Too easy. Too perfect.

“Of course,” you nod along in seemingly eager agreement, “Speaking of the future… how do you want me to proceed? I understand if you want to take me off the project.”

And by simply saying that, you’ve secured that that is the exact opposite of what will happen.

Hook, line, sinker. Eddie Munson owes you his fucking life.

Predictably, Lydia shakes her head, “That won’t be necessary. There may be some extra paperwork, and possibly another meeting with HR or myself, but it’ll all be technicalities. If you’ve gotten this far in the project and kept it going smoothly considering the… circumstances… you should be able to see it through to the end.”

Lydia will perceive your relaxation into your chair as relief, as a weight finally lifted off your chest. But really, it’s just finally letting go of the character you’d assumed – the character you’d have to continue to play until your PR agreement was through.

“Thank you,” you lace your voice with unending graciousness, ignoring the small headache beginning to form behind your temples, “And, if it isn’t too much, is there any chance for me to ask for one last favor?”

“Of course,” Lydia nods ferociously, almost worsening your throbbing temples by proxy, “Anything.”

You force your sweetest smile, one last huff of the pathetic role you need to perfect over the next few days, “May I have the rest of the day off? To settle this… situation with my boyfriend.”

—

“Pick up your fucking phone, Munson.”

Your harsh tone earns a couple of side glances from other patrons on the bus, but you couldn’t care less as you reach Eddie’s voicemail again.

The moment Lydia let you off the hook for the day, you’d gone running for the nearest bus stop. You didn’t have the cash for a taxi right now, and Matt’s office was conveniently right along the path of the bus that ran straight through the city. It would take a bit longer, but getting anywhere in New York took time with the perpetual traffic.

You consider typing out a text to your fake boyfriend, to your real ex-boyfriend, before sighing and returning to your email. Nothing. No news from Eddie, or from Matt, or from anyone. When Eddie had said his ‘people’ would be in contact, you had assumed that it functioned on a much quicker timeline than an entire week.

“Where the fuck does a rockstar even vanish to for an entire week?” you grumble under your breath, hearing a scoff from an elderly woman across the aisle at your profanity. You don’t particularly care, but you look up to her with a glare anyways.

Heading for Matt’s office had felt like the most sensible option, but the closer you get, the more you begin to second-guess yourself. Eddie could be anywhere. The office, the studio, even his own damn home. There’s no guarantee that you’re about to stumble upon Eddie here. It’s entirely possible that your entire afternoon is about to wild goose chase for the world’s sharpest pain in your ass.

The old lady holds her judgmental gaze against your exhausted one, and you wonder if it would have been better to have taken the subway to 52nd street instead.

Regardless, the bus finally rolls to a stop, and you’re quick to exit the cramped vehicle. You nearly knock over some poor fool who’s taking his time getting up, having sat a few rows ahead of you, and you nearly trip over your shoelaces as you bound down the steps. You should be thanking the Universe, you suppose, that you wore a nice pair of sneakers today rather than heels.

“Welcome in!” a kind voice greets you as you burst through the double doors facing the street, open windows pouring afternoon light across the minimalist design. Off-white couches, off-white tables, off-white vases holding mostly white flowers and dull green plants – it all feels a bit cold, a bit dull. “How can we help you today?”

You bound right up to the reception desk, hand flying up to try and fix your hair and face that must have grown messy in your rush, “I, uh, I’m here to see Matt?”

The receptionist’s head tilts curiously, “Matt?”

At least it isn’t the poor girl from the studio. You don’t know if you’ll ever show your face there again after your meltdown on Sunday.

“Yeah,” you card through your brain, trying to remember Matt’s last name to no avail, “He- He’s Corroded Coffin’s manager. I’m sorry, I don’t know his last name-”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“Well, no-”

“Is he expecting you?”

Another no almost falls from your lips, but you’re growing desperate.

So you lie. For the second time today. “Yes.”

It’s easier than the studio was, for obvious reasons. All the representatives in this building probably filter through multiple clients a day. Hell, even Matt himself might have more on his plate than just the boys.

“I see,” she nods, typing at her computer for a few seconds before looking up, “In that case, he should be in his office. Do you know the way up?”

Should the fact that he’s in his office, likely not in the middle of a meeting, be a sign that Eddie isn’t here?

You can’t afford to think so negatively.

“I do,” you sort of lie, again, because you do recall at least the floor that his office was on. It shouldn’t take much to jog your memory from there. Hopefully, “Thank you!”

This time, you’re sure to be polite, enthusiastically friendly to a painful degree. First impressions in the studio may be soiled, but you can at least save face here.

Your journey upstairs is quiet, monotonous.

No sign of excitement, no sign of Eddie, even once you’ve exited the elevator on the proper floor. There’s a soft buzz amongst rooms, normal people working normal jobs during their normal days, completely unaware of the day you were having. The week. The month.

When you make it to the office you believe to be Matt’s, you sigh in relief at the sight of an open door.

“Matt-” you start, knuckles rapping against his door as you enter the doorway, frantic and optimistic to find Eddie sitting in one of the chairs within.

No such luck.

Only Matt sits at his desk, looking up from his computer in surprise at your arrival, “Oh, hello there?”

Eddie isn’t here.

“Where’s Eddie?” you breathe out, eyes darting across a fairly barren room as though there’s any chance the man could be hiding amongst the shelves built into the walls.

“You tell me.”

Your eyes return to Matt, brows furrowing, “Excuse me?”

“I haven’t heard from Eddie since Sunday,” Matt sighs, leaning back into his chair and disregarded whatever work he’d been attending to. The look on his face spells clear trouble, “I figured you might have. Besides, the radio silence is better than seeing a hundred different headlines about him. Figured you were… well, keeping him under wraps. Like we’d agreed.”

You stand, stunned in the doorway, milling through a million different emotions as you process what was just said.

“I’m sorry,” you start in your disbelief, nodding as your eyes survey the room, almost as if looking for an explanation from anyone except the man sitting at the desk before you, “Are you telling me you haven’t heard from your client in nearly four days, and you’ve simply written it off?”

“He gets this way-”

“And?” you take a few brave steps into the office, seemingly on a roll today. Manipulating your boss, lying to your friends, confronting your ex’s manager – your head will surely be spinning by the time it hits your pillow tonight, “He pays you to keep him out of trouble. Your words, not mine.”

“Yes,” Matt says, suddenly no longer reclining, almost seeming nervous, “But like I said, Eddie will do this from time to time, and radio silence is better than-”

“If you tell me radio silence is better than headlines for a second time, I’ll put one of your damn chairs through your oversized windows, Matt.”

That has him startled to his feet, holding up his hands in innocence, “Okay, okay. But I’m not really sure what you want me to do here – he won’t answer my calls, and didn’t answer the door when I stopped by yesterday.”

“What about the rest of the boys?”

“Have I heard from them?” he laughs, shifting his weight from foot to foot, “Well, yes, but-”

“No – have they heard from Eddie?”

A grimace crosses his lips, “Erm, no.”

Maybe it’s residual irritation at Eddie not answering your calls, or the glares from the older woman on the bus. Maybe it’s frustration from the entire situation, this whole predicament, you’ve found yourself in. But words leave your lips faster than you can mull over them.

“Jesus Christ, what does he even pay you for?” you huff, throwing your hands up, turning in a circle, prepared to leave the office after having your time entirely wasted.

“We don’t even have any events until next week!” Matt tries to defend himself, but you’re no longer listening, “I- Why are you even looking for Eddie now? If anything has gone wrong with the planning of the release party, or with the contract we signed, surely you know you can come straight to me. You are considered my client as well, now.”

You sort of feel bad for Matt, but you also sort of want to rip him a new one.

Why would Eddie have gone radio silent?

“I can solve my own problems well enough without your help,” you snipe, returning to the door frame and turning to face him, “And that includes Eddie.”

Matt quirks an eyebrow, “Who said that Edie was one of your problems?”

“You did,” you reach to grab the handle of the door, leveling Matt with an annoyed stare, “The moment you made me sign that stupid fucking contract.”

He doesn’t get another word out before you’re pulling the door shut with a bit more force than might be necessary. Too closely related to being a slam to even consider saving face now.

Eddie would be proud of your dramatics. Again.

—

Thank the Universe for top level penthouses without neighbors, it seems.

And thank the Universe for whatever ice pack you’ll be snatching out of Eddie’s freezer for your sore knuckles once he opens this damn door.

“Eddie!” you call out, pounding on the door three more times for good measure, “I swear to God, I’ll stand out here all night. Just open the door.”

You’re not even sure how long you’ve wasted knocking on the door at this point. Between that and all your incessant calling of Eddie’s name, you have no doubt that someone is going to hear, even from the level’s below.

The man behind the door should also hear you, but apparently, that’s not happening.

“Eddie!” you shout again, slapping an open palm against the door this time.

Or maybe he’s deliberately ignoring you.

“I…” you huff, ready to curse again, but not even sure where to begin. You take a few steps back from the door and glance down at your now sore palm, scowling as it throbs from the force of your slap. “This is ridiculous.”

The elevator dings from behind you, causing you to jump as you glance in that direction. You start to sigh in relief as you see Gareth of all people exit the lift, but all the salvation is overridden with confusion.

“Hey there, Hellfire,” he greets as if it isn’t odd – you with nearly bruising knuckles and hoarse vocal chords, and him… well, him simply being here. “Heard you might be getting some noise complaints.”

You narrow your eyes at him, “What are you doing here?”

“What? Can’t I come visit my good old friend?”

“Last time we spoke, you didn’t seem to be good old friends with Eddie anymore.”

That shuts him up, almost completely cleaning the friendly smirk off his face.

You stare a few extra seconds at him before deciding to returning back to the actual battle you cared to win as of right now, fist raised to continue banging on the hollow wood, when Gareth’s hand wraps around your wrist.

“Hold on,” he urges, tugging your hand down, “Listen-”

“The only person I particularly want to talk to right now is Eddie,” you blandly say, tugging mercilessly back at his hold, refusing to look at him.

“And I get that,” he gives you no choice but to look at him as he twists you all the way around. Facing him, you’re shocked to see him holding a key in his freehand, “Which is why Matt sent me.”

Your mouth falls slightly agape as you stare at the key, “He’s had a fucking key this entire time?”

Gareth’s head tilts, eyes scrunched ever so slightly, “What?”

“Four days,” you slowly enunciate, reaching up to gingerly pluck the key from Gareth’s fingers, “Four goddamn days that no one has heard from Eddie, and you’ve had a key to his literal apartment the entire time.”

“We keep it in case of emergencies,” Gareth shrugs, far too nonchalant for your liking, “Besides, we didn’t have anything scheduled, and this is sort of normal for him-”

“Why does everyone keep saying that?” your voice cracks a bit in your distress, “I- Jesus fucking Christ, when did this become normal? You idiots couldn’t go more than twenty four hours without speaking in high school. What the Hell happened?”

Gareth’s face falls gravely serious, “A lot.”

You take a heaving breath, biting back angry words that the boy before you has done nothing to deserve. It’s not his fault that this has become routine – it’s not his fault that Eddie has made this a part of the regular agenda.

Or maybe it is. Who’s to say? It’s not as though you’ve been present the last two years to witness what was and wasn’t normal, what was and wasn’t deserved, amongst all of them.

You spin on your heel as Gareth finally drops his hold on you, shaking as you shove the key into the door’s lock.

“Listen, before you go in there, I need to warn you-”

“Don’t give me some pep talk as if he might be dead behind this door,” you grit out, pausing just as you feel the click of door unlocking, “Especially after claiming this is normal.”

“He’s not dead,” Gareth quickly reassures, “At least, I don’t think so. But we stopped using this key after the first few times for a reason. It’s not always a pretty scene.”

There’s no need for anyone to physically stop you from opening the door now – you don’t even think you’re capable of moving enough muscles to breathe as he says those words.

It’s not always a pretty scene.

You had seen all the headlines, hadn’t you? You’d heard first hand from Matt just how far from grace Eddie had fallen. You’d seen the damage done between him and the Corroded Coffin boys with your own two eyes. Just because Eddie had seemingly cleaned up his act when around you, doesn’t erase what he had become.

Were you prepared to see that?

Lousy or legendary, it still keeps you up, his words from Sunday night flutter about your mind. It had stunned you where you’d stood to hear him say those words. Not because they were untrue, but because he said them with one meaning and you heard them with an entirely different one.

Since reentering your life, Eddie Munson has been haunting you, leaving you reckless, with every love letter you discover veiled as a song.

No doubt, whatever you were about to find behind this door was going to frustrate you. Or send you spiraling. Or absolutely shatter whatever image you had been curating of Eddie in your mind during this rekindlement. But he had never meant for you to see him as anything besides his worst – he’d said as much within his songs and their haunting lyrics.

I need you to see me for what I have become.

Words he had written – words meant only for you, but cursed to be shared with the world.

“I don’t care,” you finally breathe out, twisting the doorknob harshly and pushing hard, leaving no room for second guessing yourself.

Show me what you’ve become, Eddie.