#not a clean milestone but im always happy to have an excuse to draw her

[ninawolv3rina]

"[The prisoner] sat with her eyes glazed over and her mouth slightly agape. Her arms, covered in jagged scars, spasmed every few seconds, but other than that there was no movement. She was staring at her own reflection, examining it. What she thought of herself was anyone’s guess. Whatever it was, she was thinking hard."

Happy birthday, Unwanted Prophet

[breathinginthevapor]

“At least think of me while you’re gone”

Summary: your relationship with Tom is a secret, and you hate it. At a party, your feelings are finally confronted.

A/N: This is a very, very, very late (im so sorry taylor!) entry for @plushparkers 2k writing challenge, so a big congrats to her on reaching on that amazing milestone! I hope you guys will give it a read and tell me what you think afterwards!

Word count: 5600+

T/W: alcohol and swearing

My masterlist

To: The Worst Spiderman Ever🤮🕷❤️ (barf, spider and heart emoji)

When does your plane arrive?❤️ (heart emoji)

You hit send, putting your phone down on the sink. You pick up the mascara instead, painting your eyelashes black before the “Ping!”-sound from your phone startles you and causes you to draw a dark line just below your eyebrow.

“Fucking shit,” you curse, searching through your cabinet with frantic movements for a cotton pad and makeup remover.

While you try to remove your mistake, you look at your phone.

From: The Worst Spiderman Ever 🤮🕷❤️ (barf, spider and heart emoji)

Around 5. Don’t have to pick me up, though.

Throwing the cotton pad in the bin, you quickly type an answer.

To: The Worst Spiderman Ever 🤮🕷❤️ (barf, spider and heart emoji)

You know I want to. Missed you😘 (kissing emoji)

You smile at the thought that you’ll see him today, and that these last months spent longing will finally be over. In just a couple of hours, you will be able to smell him, talk to him, touch him. And yeah, maybe he won’t kiss you at the airport, but he definitely will later, when it’s just the two of you.

Another “Ping” lets you know you’ve gotten a new message, and you try to keep your cool by applying some lipstick, but your whole body is buzzing, eager to see his answer.

Soon, your lips are coated in a beautiful red shade, perfectly kissable in your own, humble opinion. Tom loves having your lips mark him, his jaw often covered in lipstick marks after you’ve been hanging out, and the fact that the popping colour draws attention to your lips doesn’t hurt, either.

You want him to hug you in the airport while he’s yearning to kiss you, yearning to see if you taste like that cherry lip balm he likes, and maybe you won’t when he finally gets you alone, but by then it won’t matter.

From: The Worst Spiderman Ever 🤮🕷❤️ (barf, spider and heart emoji)

There’ll be a crowd, and I’ll be too tired to do anything but sleep anyway.

You don’t understand. Does that mean he doesn’t want you to come? Or that he thinks you’ll get uncomfortable surrounded by his screaming fans?

Because you can deal with the fans, you’ve done so before, but if it’s because he doesn’t want you there, you won’t know what to do.

Before you can answer, though, another text shows on the screen.

From: The Worst Spiderman Ever 🤮🕷❤️ (barf, spider and heart emoji)

I’ll just see you at the party🕺🎆 (dancing man and fireworks emoji)

The welcome home party might already be tomorrow, but you still feel stupid. Here you’ve been, ecstatic for his return for weeks while he doesn’t even want you to be there in the airport. Besides, who knows how much you’ll even see of him tomorrow, everyone’s there to see him, after all.  

To: The Worst Spiderman Ever 🤮🕷❤️ (barf, spider and heart emoji)

👍 (thumbs up emoji)

And yeah, maybe your answer is passive aggressive, but right now, you really don’t care. Not when you’ve spent days debating what to wear for picking him up and figured out exactly what amount of make-up you should go for to ensure you looking great but not over the top.

And now, he doesn’t even want to see you.

You find the makeup remover once more, this time removing all traces of the makeup you’ve just applied. You slide the cotton pad all over your face with harsh movements, and while it might not be the best way to clean your skin, it helps relieve some of the anger.

Both your skin and your eyes are red when you’re finished, but you don’t look at yourself in the mirror long enough to see the tears sliding down.

Instead, you go back to bed, crawl under the covers and cry to a sad teen movie you loved when you were younger.

The worst part is, you find that you still love the movie just as much as back then, all too similar to the way your love for Tom has done nothing but increase since you first discovered it in your teen years.

   Tom’s parents’ house is filled up with people, but as Tom’s best friend through most of your life, you know the bigger part of them.

You spend a couple minutes talking to his aunt about her hip problems, but then you figure you want something to drink and excuse yourself.

There’s a lot to choose from, delicious sodas and expensive-looking bottles of champagne and wine, but you pick up a canned beer instead. You figure you need some alcohol as soon as possible. That way, you hope you’ll have the courage to face him when you have to.

You definitely can’t keep avoiding him, because even though the house isn’t small, it isn’t exactly a mansion, either.

You sip the beer, taking a few steps towards the wall to let Tom’s young cousins access the drink’s table.

Then, your eyes meet his, and you feel slightly dizzy as it seems almost unreal to finally see him in real life and not through a screen.

Still, you’re angry and hurt, and there’s a knot in your stomach. You can’t remember the last time you felt like this, the last you were angry at him. And maybe it’s petty, but you just hate the fact that you always plan everything around him, while he, when it comes down to it, doesn’t even want to see you after spending four months apart.

“Hey,” he greets you with a smile while still making his way to you, squeezing in between people and excusing himself.

“Hey,” you repeat, but your voice is cold as you take another sip of your beer. There’s a flicker of worry breaking through his confident, happy exterior, but it disappears quickly.

When he’s finally standing close enough to you, he engulfs you in a tight hug, and although you’ve dreamt about this reunion, this first hug in months, it doesn’t even feel that nice. Your body is tense, and your attempt to reciprocate his hug is half-hearted, so he finally lets you go and looks inquiring at you, still with a grip on your elbows.

“We cool?”

You swallow a lump, trying to put on a fake smile. You hope he doesn’t see through it, because although he used to be able to read your face as if it was a stop sign or a stupid brochure for a new pizzeria, it’s been a long time since you last saw each other.

“Sure.”

“Why are you acting weird then?” he asks, and you know he’s split between knowing you’re lying and the fact that it probably won’t help his situation to call you out on it.

You shake his hands off you to gulp down some beer.

“I’m not.”

He crooks his head, scrunching his eyes and looking down at his hands that hang loosely down his sides after returning from you. They start fiddling with the red polo he’s wearing, and you let your gaze wander slowly up his body, not missing how strong his biceps look or the broadness of his shoulder, before you get to his face to find him already watching you.

“You are.”

This time, you don’t argue. Why even bother?

A silence settles between you, so different to the happy chatter filling up the room, and you don’t know how to act. You don’t think you’ve ever experienced anything so awkward with Tom, he’s always been the one you could talk to for an endless number of hours, the one you could be quiet with, the one person in the world you were most comfortable around.

“Nice party,” you say when the silence becomes too much for you, but you hate yourself for being the first one to bow down. It seems that you always are.  

He shrugs, “You know my mum. Always inviting people we don’t even talk with often.”

Perhaps it just runs in the family, you wonder; making people feel like they’re more important than they are.

“They’ve missed you,” you just tell him, knowing that it’s true. He tends to have that impact on people, squeezing himself into their hearts in a matter of five minutes. And once you’ve met him, it’s impossible to forget him.

“They?” he softly asks, and you know he wants you to elaborate.

When you don’t, he asks again, this time phrased so you have no chance to get out of answering, “What about you? Haven’t you missed me?”

You look away, your gaze landing on Harrison who’s laughing with Tom’s grandma.

“Don’t know why you would ask something so stupid,“ you mutter.

He steps closer, and you can feel his presence all over your body. His breath hits your face, and you can smell both beer and the homemade chips his dad is famous for.

“Wanna hear you say it.”

You look at him again, and like countless of times before, you are hit by his beauty. You don’t think there’s a single person in this world as handsome as him, but you might be biased.

Being in love with the same guy for years tends to do that to someone.

“Missed you so much it hurt,” you admit, and you watch his face soften. He’s so close that you could just lean forward and kiss him.

Needless to say, it takes everything in you not to.

Luckily, he steps back, and the enchantment is broken.

“I should probably talk to the other guests. Don’t want them to feel left out, do we?”

You force yourself to laugh, “Of course not.”

But everything in you is begging and hoping that he just takes your hand and leads you away from everyone.

You want him to say that he’s missed you too, that he’s been thinking of you constantly, but you know he hasn’t. Or, maybe he’s felt a pinch of pain occasionally, but then he’s moved on and forgotten about it. Unlike you, who has spent so many nights crying, wishing that he was laying right beside you. And you know that it’s not his fault, that your circumstances are different because he’s out there, doing what he loves most while you are drowning in boring schoolwork and waiting impatiently for his return.

He steps closer, and you think he’s going to kiss you, in front of all those people, and your heart starts beating terribly fast, but then he turns his head and whispers in your ear, “Will I see you later?”

You know what he means: Another quickie in the dark, no one finding out there’s any more than friendship between you. Because that’s how he wants your relationship to be, a secret, even from his own family.

It feels like a stake to the heart, and honestly, you don’t feel like he deserves an answer. Instead, you opt for a small smile that could mean anything and then you down your beer, leaving him there and walking over to your other curly haired friend, but not before handing him the empty can.

If he’s so determined to be the perfect host, he might as well clean up a bit.  

“Hey Haz,” you mumble, throwing your arms around Harrison’s torso from behind.

He looks back at you and smiles widely, and contrary to what one might think, you aren’t completely oblivious to how good looking he is.

You wonder if you should have thought of getting some less pretty friends to make yourself shine a bit more in comparison, but you don’t think you’d be able to find someone who could make you laugh as much as Tom and Harrison can, not even if you searched the whole planet.

You just have to live with the unfairness of their unarguable attractiveness.

“Hey Y/N. Tired?” he asks softly.

You yawn, realizing that you actually are and confirming his question. He chuckles, and you press your cheek against his shoulder, closing your eyes for a second.

“I like this sweater. Really soft.”

“Hi nan,” you then greet Tom’s grandmother who has always insisted that you treat her the same way her grandkids would.

Measured in how much time you’ve spent with her and the rest of the family, you might as well be.

“Hello, darling,” she says, sending you a sweet smile. “I have to serve the cake now, but come catch up with me later, won’t you?”

“Of course, nan,” you promise her, watching her leave and then letting go of Harrison.

“Everything alright?” he asks after turning around to face you.

You shrug, “I guess.”

He rolls his eyes, pointing his finger at you in a reprimanding manner, “Tell me what’s wrong or you know what will happen.”

You can’t help but smile, but then you play along and squeeze your eyes shut and crossing your arms, “I’m not scared of you.”

“You’re not? Then you won’t mind if I TICKLE YOU?”

Harrisons hands reach for you, but you run away, squealing, before he can catch you.

“You’ll never catch me,” you mock him, running up the stairs and into Tom’s bedroom before realizing the inevitable: that you’re trapped.

“NOOOOO,” you scream as he pushes you onto the bed and starts tickling you, hands gripping your sides.

“Let me go, please, Haz,” you beg in-between laughs.

“You know what you need to say, Y/N,” he grins, and you shake your head.

“Never.”

However, it doesn’t take long before you surrender, throwing your hands up and rolling your eyes.

“Alright, alright, you are the hottest, coolest, cleverest, funniest person in the world, Harrison Osterfield.”

He immediately lets you go, plopping down on the bed beside you.

“Finally. My arms were getting tired,” he sighs contently.

You grunt, “Should spend a bit more time in the gym, then.”

“Oh, shut up, Y/N.”

He hits you playfully, and you both laugh, looking up to the ceiling and catching your breaths.

When you’ve stopped panting, you speak up, “Would you be ashamed of me if we were dating?”

“How can you even ask me that? You’re the dopest person ever,” he reassures you, turning his head to the side to look at you.

You laugh, “I can believe you still say dope.”

“What can I say, I’m just a dope person, too, Y/N.”

You roll your eyes at his stupidity, before a pang of sadness rushes through you. For a second, you wonder why, but then you remember why you’re feeling down and repeat your question for Harrison.

“No, but honestly, would you be ashamed of me?”

His blue eyes watch you intensely like it’s very important to him that you understand what he says, “Never.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

He laces your little fingers together, the ‘pinky promise’ an old ritual of yours.

“But why are you asking?” he inquires softly.

“I just- I’m just so damn tired of being his secret, you know?”

He gives you an empathic smile, letting you continue instead of answering your rhetoric question.

“I’m not even sure he likes me like as more than a friend anymore.”

You don’t mention a name, but you both know who you’re talking about. Although neither of your families know, it was clear to both of you from the start that Harrison would figure it out no matter what, and that you might as well tell him yourself.

“That bad, huh?”

You sigh, “Yeah. Not even exaggerating, I’m really not sure.”

“I’m sorry, Y/N, that sucks.”

“Sure does,” you agree, laughing involuntarily at the tragic situation, and Harrison soon joins you.

Then, he says softly, “If you aren’t happy, Y/N, you should let him go. You deserve better.”

“I know,” you whisper, “But I don’t think I can.”

He takes your hand, squeezing it and interlacing your hands, and no words are needed. You know he feels bad for you, and you both know there’s nothing he can do to ease your trouble.

“I wish it was you instead. We’d make such a great couple,” you tell him, trying to lift the mood.

He nods, grinning, “Legendary.”

“Shame we don’t like each other like that, really. Our kids would be so beautiful.”

“Maybe that’s why. Would be unfair to their peers when they’d be so much uglier.”

You shake your head, smiling at the thought.

Then, on a more serious note, “Thanks for being here, Haz.”

“Anytime, Y/N.”

He squeezes your hand once more and then helps you get up.

“If it makes you feel any better, he looked terribly jealous when you hugged me,” Harrison tells you, and though it shouldn’t, you catch yourself being happy with it. At least he’s not totally indifferent.

You return to the party, Harrisons hand laying comfortingly on the swell of your back the whole time, until it’s to go home. He presses a kiss to your cheek and tells you to hit him up soon, and you thank him for being such a good friend. He truly deserves the world.

You wish you could go with him, but still, you stay, having been tricked into helping with the cleaning by Tom’s mother, and really, you’d be happy to if it didn’t involve seeing Tom.

It’s hard to even remember what made you mad when you’re near him, and if that wasn’t enough, you’re afraid that you’ll say something you’ll regret later.

Because while this might be tearing you to pieces, you know it’d be much, much worse if you lost him completely.

Although you are deep in thought, you probably shouldn’t be as startled as you are when he speaks, considering you are cleaning the same room as him.

“I got a bit cold out by the grill, so I went to see if I had a sweater in my room, and I didn’t mean to, but I heard you and Harrison,” he softly tells you, eyes scanning your face for a reaction. You try not to give him one, pursing your lips tightly together and remaining silent.

He sighs, running a hand through the curly locks of his hair.

“Y/N, why didn’t you tell me?”

“Tell you what?” you mutter, looking away.

You wish this conversation wasn’t happening. You don’t even dare to imagine the outcome.

“That you feel like I’m keeping you a secret.”

You scrunch your eyes, looking at him again, “What did you think I felt, Tom? Honestly? You haven’t even told your mom, and we both know you tell your mom everything. I feel like I’m nothing to you.”

Your words are harsh at the beginning, anger in your body, but it quickly deflates and leaves you sad instead, making your last words soft and fragile.

And Tom looks taken back by your statement, stuttering when he replies, “I- I- I guess I just thought we were on the same page. That you didn’t care whether people knew about us or not.”

You roll your eyes, “If you truly believed that, you don’t know me like I thought you did.”

You let go of your hold on the black rubbish bag you’re throwing empty cups into as you wait for his answer.

“I guess you’re right,” he admits with a whisper, “I guess I did know.”

You nod, throat tight.

“Yeah,” you just say.

You stand there, looking at each other in silence, and you don’t even try to hide your tears. If there was anyone but him watching, you probably would have tried, but this is Tom, your best friend, the person that has broken your heart but also someone with hands you wouldn’t hesitate to put your life into.

He takes a small step closer to you, looking at you with desperation.

“I wish we could tell everyone, Y/N, I really do. But you know how my agency feels about my image and my availability,” he pauses, swallowing down a lump in his throat before he continues, “But if my next movie just gets big enough, it will be different, Y/N, I promise. Then they can’t refuse.”

You shake your head, your vision to blurred to see anything, but your mind is surprisingly clear. You don’t believe his words, and really, you just wish he would tell the truth, because to you, it seems that this mess has gotten so bad because of lack of honesty, and you’re done with it.

You’re done with being anxious all the time, not knowing if he’s uncertain about his feelings for you, even doubting whether you’re the only one he goes home to. You’re done with feeling inadequate and unlovable and stupid, waiting around for someone who doesn’t want to come home.

“Far from home was one of the best-selling movies ever, but apparently, that still wasn’t big enough. So, what’ll it be, Tom?”

“Are you asking me to choose between you and my career?”

You shake your head violently, not understanding how he could accuse you for doing such a thing, but then you nod, realising that maybe you are. And surprisingly, you don’t feel selfish doing so.

“Not between me and your career, Tom, but yes, I am asking you to choose between me and the stupid rules of your agency.”

Now, he looks angry, brow scrunched and tight jawline, “My agency and their stupid rules,” he starts, emphasizing the last three words mockingly, “is what gets me jobs, Y/N! They are the reason I can live my dream, don’t you understand?”

You step closer to him, not believing he would dare to treat you like a stubborn child. “Of course, I understand, Tom! I’ve done nothing but understand ever since we started this damn relationship, but I’m fucking sick and tired of it!”

Your loudness seems to surprise Tom, who takes a few steps back from your anger, almost tripping over your discarded rubbish bag.

“Please don’t do this, Y/N. Don’t make me choose,” he begs, and there’s a part of you that wants to give in, but the bigger part of you knows that nothing will change if you do, and that you’ll just stay miserable.

“I’ve known you for most of my life, Tom, and I’ve been in love with you for years, but I can’t do this, not if you’re not in it like I am. I can’t keep giving you my everything when I only receive 30% in return.”

Then, he says those words that you know will haunt you forever, “I’m- I’m- I’m so sorry, Y/N, but I just can’t. Please understand, I just can’t.”

You nod, but you don’t, you don’t understand. He won’t even meet you halfway.

You look at each other, and you watch how he clearly fights to keep himself together, and you can’t stay mad at him when he looks so broken. You’re always putting him first.

“Will you- will you promise me one thing, though?” you ask, voice hoarse and broken.

He nods, eyes wet and lips pressed tight together.

When you speak, there’s a salty taste on your tongue, and it feels like goodbye, “I know there’s so many incredible things out there, and I promise I don’t expect anything else from you anymore, but at least- at least think of me while you’re gone, won’t you?”

A sob escapes his lips when he nods, but he still doesn’t say anything, so you gather your belongings in silence, walking into the hallway, Tom only a few steps behind you.

Your hand has just reached the doorknob when you realize that no matter how hurt you are, you can’t just leave him like this. So, you turn around, throw your things to the floor and hug him, relishing in the smell of his cologne and the soft material of his shirt against your cheek.

His chest is shaking with sobs, and his lips feel chapped when he kisses your forehead like he’s done so many times when you were nervous or sad, even before your friendship turned into something more.

There’s a wet spot on his shirt when you pull away, and you smile through your tears, watching him through your blurred vision.

“I’ll see you around,” you tell him, but you don’t know if you’re lying.

You pick up your things, and he looks like he wants to stop you from leaving, but he just nods and says goodbye with a broken whisper, “Yeah, I’ll see you.”

Then, you close the door behind you, your body a mess while nostalgia, sadness, despair and love fights for dominance in your body.

If you weren’t so busy being heartbroken, you might have wondered if it was worth losing your best friend in return for some months in paradise, spent kissing and making love under the covers. And you would quickly have come to the solution that it wasn’t, that if you could, you would go back and undo all this mess and settle for being his best friend.

Luckily, you don’t think any of these thoughts, not yet. That sorrow is for another day.

   “Ping!”

The screen of your phone lights up along with the sound, telling you you’ve got a message. You figure it’s Jake, asking which chocolate you want or if you need more tampons. You smile at the thought, finding it funny how Jake’s biggest fear seems to be that you don’t run out of sweets and sanitary items when you’re on that time of the month. You wonder if he’s scared you’ll turn into some weird monster, but it’s probably just him being sweet.

However, the text isn’t from Jake.

From: The Worst Spiderman Ever 🤮🕷❤️ (barf, spider and heart emoji)

Hey. I’m home for a couple weeks and I really want to see you

You can’t believe he still has that stupid name on your phone.

You delete all the emojis and text and write his full name without any emojis to follow, but your index finger lingers over the save button. Then, you go back without changing anything.

It feels wrong to do so, like deleting a period of your life that should, at worst, be packed away in a box in your closet and not completely thrown out.

On the other hand, though, the box seems to have jumped out of the closet and into your living room instead, making its presence known where it isn’t appreciated.

Still, there’s a small part of you, the part that was Tom’s friend and nothing else, wants to meet him and see how he’s doing. 

To: The Worst Spiderman Ever 🤮🕷❤️ (barf, spider and heart emoji)

Hi Tom

You don’t want else to say, or write, so you just hit send and put the phone down again, your breath quicker and a spark of panic rising in your body. Even after all this time, he still gives you all the motions.

From: The Worst Spiderman Ever 🤮🕷❤️ (barf, spider and heart emoji)

Please don’t be like this

Be like what, Tom, you wonder, but you just text him the name of a coffee shop and ask him to meet you there in a few hours. If anything needs to be said between you, it should be in person and not through text.

From: The Worst Spiderman Ever 🤮🕷❤️ (barf, spider and heart emoji)

Thank you, Y/N. Really❤️ (heart emoji)

You really hope you’ve made the right decision.

   “Y/N, I’ve been a fool, no, worse than that, I’ve been a big, stupid idiot, but I need you.”

His grip on your hands are tight, and you gently try to get him to let you go, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

“We’ll do it properly this time, tell everyone, and we’ll go on the red carpet together and-“

“Tom,” you interrupt him softly, and you just want him to stop talking. This will get embarrassing for both of you if he keeps going, and you don’t want that.

Unfortunately, he doesn’t let you save him.

“And I’ll be home a lot more, Y/N, I promise. We can travel together, to Paris or Seoul or Rio, and I won’t care who’s watching-“

This time, your voice is a bit louder, hoping it’ll get through to him. “Tom, please, stop,” you plead. Still, it seems like he doesn’t hear you.  

He leans closer to you and looks you right in the eye, “I love you, Y/N. More than anything, and I don’t know why it’s taking me so long to realize, but I do, and I’m terribly sor- Why are you crying?“

You haven’t even noticed your tears before he comments them, but then you carefully, as if he’s made of glass, untangle your hands from each other.

“I’m with someone, Tom,” you tell him, and it feels like a knife to your heart when his face slowly falters as he realizes what you mean.

“I- what- who? When?”

“You don’t know him, Tom. He’s from school.” There’s a flash of relief on his face when he finds out it isn’t someone he knows, maybe even one of his friends, but then the hurt returns.

“When, YN?”

You swallow a lump, looking down at your coffee.

“Almost a year ago,” you tell him, knowing that he won’t understand. That he’ll think that you got over in the span of a minute and moved on, but it isn’t true.

So, before he can say anything, you explain, “He was in one of my classes and had asked me out before, and when you left, I just needed to spend time with someone who didn’t know you, someone who wouldn’t ask or talk about you.”

Most of your friends were friends with Tom, too, or at least they knew him, but you needed to be someone who didn’t.

“I told him from the start that my heart was broken, but he was so patient and waited until I was sure I was ready. He really helped me a lot, Tom.”

Tom nods, and you know he understands. Everyone has different ways of coping, and for all you know, he could have slept with half of the world in this past year. You know he probably did with a couple, and the thought doesn’t make you sick like it used to do.

You’re just sad that he probably didn’t have anyone taking care of him like Jake had taken care of you.

“Does he make you happy, Y/N?”

“I-“ you start, but it’s hard to get the words past your lips when you know that they’ll hurt him.

For a long time, you wanted him to hurt, to know your pain and know that he had lost one of the best things in his life, but now, after doing a lot of growing up, you wish you could find a way not to hurt him. Maybe if you lied, but he’ll probably always be able to see through you.

Knowing you have no other choice, you answer him honestly, “Yeah. He does. He really does.”

He gulps, looking away for a moment. You follow his gaze, watch the busy streets of London packed with stylish locals and less stylish tourists, and you wonder if it still feels like home to him. If home becomes a fleeting place when the whole world is at your disposal. You wonder if you’ll ever know, but you don’t think you will.

And as for yourself, you might never get to travel the world like you used to dream of doing, but you’ve realized it doesn’t matter. You have so much else, so many wonderful people in your life, so much love around you. 

“Do you love him?”

You look at his face and know that he wants you to say no, that he wants this to be like a movie where everything works out in the end, and the guy gets the girl, and everyone lives happily ever after.

But this isn’t one of his beloved movies. This is real life.

“Yeah.”

A tear slips out of his eyes, and you notice they are beginning to turn red. You don’t know if your next words will make him feel better or worse, probably the latter, but you still say them.

“Not the same way I loved you, though. Don’t think anything can really compare to that. But I really do love him.”

It’s clear he tries to contain it, but still, a broken sob leaves him, and every fibre of your body yearns to soothe him, to protect him, but you can’t, just like he couldn’t protect you.

“Do you remember that last day? You told me to think of you when I was gone. How could you think I’d do anything but?”

“Tom, please.”

“I think about you every single day, Y/N, knowing that I made the wrong decision.”

He grips your hands again, this time so tight it turns his knuckles white with desperation.

However, you both know it’s not only your hands you’re talking about when you beg, “Let me go, Tom, you’re hurting me.”

His grip on your hand disappears immediately, his face painted with both sadness and guilt, and you don’t know who’s to blame for the fact that both of you have lost your best friend.

And you wonder if the two of you can work it out, if you can get at least an inkling of your old friendship back, but to be honest, you don’t have the courage to try.

Instead, you leave him there, in a coffee shop in London you used to love. And you know you will never have the strength to go back, not to the coffee shop and not to Tom, both places too haunted by bad memories now.