Thomas's pov

5 days passed. 64 phone calls went unanswered. 216 text messages were left unread.

I kept reliving it. Kept seeing the tears rise in his eyes, kept hearing this is a joke, right? Kept watching him back away from me until he had put enough distance between us that I wouldn't be able to cross at all.

Five days later, and yet no time had passed at all. Vaguely, I remembered Kaya putting me in a taxi home, tears falling from her own eyes. I remembered clutching at the hem of my shirt, curling into a tight ball, and sobbing in bed until my exhaustion gave way to sleep. I remembered waking up with red eyes and fingers stretching out across bed sheets for warmth they wouldn't find. I remembered crying again when it hit me what had happened.

Somehow, though, that time had disappeared. Maybe it had never existed at all. Maybe I had just cried until I was numb. Five days was nothing, absolutely nothing, when I had just lost what I had felt was forever with the boy I loved.

A breath of fresh air ghosted across my skin. I inhaled deeply, watching my feet dangle off the side of my apartment building's roof. I was looking down on the streets below, far, far below, perched precariously twelve stories up. Breath held, fingers clenched carefully on the ledge behind me, watching small figures of thousands of people rush by without a single care at all. All striding quickly, determined, with purpose and direction--I wonder how it felt to not feel so lost.

My eyes stung for the thousandth time in the past five days and I quickly looked up, away, as if to hide from my hurt. It was gray outside. Dark, thick rain clouds hung over our heads--fit to burst, yet choking back tears. I couldn't remember the last time it had rained in Los Angeles. It seemed fitting now.

My chest felt tight suddenly and I was pulling myself away from the ledge. My head was spinning. I felt like I might throw up. I stepped down, back onto the roof and onto safer ground and fell to my knees.

Slowly, maybe because this wasn't the first time it happened, my gut twisted and my stomach churned. Like a dam breaking my face crumpled, and then I was crying even though I thought I had no more tears. Crying right there on an L.A. rooftop, alone.

All fucking alone.

____________________________________________________________________________________________

Thump, thump, thump went my boots on the hardwood floor. They seemed to echo loudly. I felt like everyone was staring at me.

Thump, thump, thump, went my heart as I sat down at the bar. My eyes cast down, shoulders hunched as if to hide from everyone in the room.

Out of place. An ant among bees. I was the stain on a perfectly white shirt.

My eyes met the bartender's and he came closer with a friendly smile. He scanned me for a moment and for a second I wondered--Are you looking at me because I'm famous? Or are you looking at me because I'm another sad, pathetic soul that stumbled his way into your grasp?

"Strongest thing you have," I said before he could ask, throwing my I.D. on the bar for him to see. He nodded, gave me another sad once over, and began to prepare my drink.

I stared down at my hands for a moment, letting them trace the surface of the wooden bar. I felt dirty--disgusting. I deserved it.

The drink was placed in front of me and I had no idea what it even was. I didn't move. Staring blankly, I took a deep breath.

Five years of sobriety--and now the thing that I had once sworn was the root of all my problems proved to be exactly the one thing I craved. The one thing I needed. Among all the fear in my mind was a desperation to get numb. To stop hurting. To blank out completely.

Shaking hands took the shot glass and it was smooth in my palm. I swirled it slowly, looking down into the light auburn mixture as if maybe there I'd find the answer to all my problems. I wouldn't.

My breath was coming out in shallow pants when without another thought I tipped the glass into my waiting mouth. It burned as it went down, scorched me from the inside out. Perhaps it hurt more than it should have simply because I needed it to.

I raised my glass in silence for another, and the bartender obliged. Two went down in succession. My head spun.

"Maybe you should slow down there, kid," spoke a man next to me as I ordered a third. I glanced over, noted his mustache, and paid him no mind. A third shot wove its way down my throat, and I coughed.

"Until it doesn't hurt anymore," I muttered, placing the glass back on the table, "I'll drink until it doesn't hurt."

It was a lie. I'd drink until I forgot. But it wouldn't stop hurting--possibly ever.

There was a gaping hole in my chest, a bullet shot clear through. I was bleeding and chipped and wounded, and I needed to feel something besides the pain. The world felt dull. I wanted to be numb so maybe the grayness of it all wouldn't hurt so much.

Down went another shot.

The man from before moved closer. This time I actually looked him over--he had to be in his fifties or sixties--and he took the vacant seat beside me. I arched an eyebrow, expecting him to try and stop my obviously unhealthy coping mechanism, but instead he ordered two more drinks.

When the bartender, now offering me a slightly skeptical look, set his order down in front of him, the man pushed one toward me. Since I had seen the bartender place the drink down, I accepted it with a grateful nod.

"My wife wants a divorce," the man spoke after a moment, almost to himself. I glanced over.

"Sorry," I said, and I found that I meant it.

"Not your fault," the man said. "I'm the one who cheated on her."

I took my drink into my hand and looked away from him. Funny. Two horrible people, in the same bar, sitting right next to each other.

"You married long?" I asked, even though I didn't really care and it didn't really matter.

He sighed. "Six years."

I hummed. This time when I brought the drink to my lips, only two small sips went down.

"What's your story?"

I tutted, breathing out the little air I had stored in my lungs, deflated. My story? Haven't you heard? It's on the front page of every major celebrity magazine. Flip a couple pages in and maybe you'll see my tragic backstory.

Instead I replied, "My world was sucked of color."

He blew out a deep breath and his mustache danced. Tipping his glass to me, he said, "That's deep. Unless you've suddenly went colorblind. Then--well, sorry, I suppose."

I managed a half smile. "Not colorblind. Just--I made a mistake. And I don't think I'll ever be able to fix it."

He was quiet for a moment as he took a deep sip of his beer. I watched my own drink as I swirled the contents around.

"Listen," the man said, and he leaned forward to gain my attention, "I was your age once. And I made my share of mistakes. But this," he waved his hand around the bar, "doing this doesn't help anything. Talking though--talking helps. Try talking to her before you get all dramatic."

I grimaced, pained and weak. "Do you take your own advice?"

He snorted. "I don't."

I shook my head. Glanced around the bar. Blinked back the tears that were slowly becoming familiar. "He won't talk to me. Won't even listen to me. I don't blame him either."

"So go to him! Make him listen."

"And what am I supposed to say?" I snapped. "'Sorry I broke your fucking heart'? 'Sorry I used you for my own benefit'? 'Sorry I lied to you'?"

The man wasn't fazed by my anger. "How about," he said, "you try telling him the truth."

I shook my head. Tipped the rest of the contents of my glass down my throat. "Is that what you did to your wife?"

"Yes," he admitted, to my surprise. "And although she hates me now, at the very fucking least, she won't hate me forever, because I told her the truth."

"It's not that easy. I broke everything."

He shook his head at me. "Nothing's broken until you stop trying to fix it."

The man placed a hundred dollar bill on the bar. Enough to cover both our tabs. He stood and began to put on his coat.

Just as I thought he'd leave without another word, he turned back to me and asked, "Is this kid worth fixing it all for?"

"Yes," I replied without hesitation. "A thousand times over, yes."

"Then go to him," the man said. "And take a fucking shower too."

And then he left, leaving me alone once again.

I sat there for another hour at least, his words echoing in my head. I downed a few more drinks and I was so fucking drunk, but to my dismay, drinking hadn't helped. I couldn't forget him. Probably because he didn't deserve to just be forgotten.

I was sprawled across the bar, wallowing in my own misery, cursing the sage advice of the old man, when the bartender approached me again.

"Is there someone I can call for you?" he asked. His brow was crinkled with concern. I realized that, before Dylan, I would have found him attractive. Now, no one compared.

I grimaced, and it was bitter and loathing and painful all in one. Someone he could call? Who? I had no friends. My family was on the other side of the world. Dylan was--gone.

I had no one.

"Jack," I said at last. "Call Jack, please."

____________________________________________________________________________________________

Jack wasn't happy to see me. He rarely ever was. I didn't quite realize his anger though until he tossed me into my apartment, the door slamming behind him.

I swallowed. It was difficult because besides wanting to cry, I also felt the need to throw up.

Jack was absolutely livid. I had rarely seen him in such form, and for a flash of a second I was scared. He looked at me as scum beneath his shoe and I didn't even have the energy to glare back. The last time he had looked at me like that was four months ago when I had yelled at a young girl in a coffee shop.

"So this is what you've been doing?" he asked, voice low. "Getting drunk on street corners? Hiding from the rest of the world?"

I didn't answer. I sank down onto my couch, prepared to be scolded.

"Do you have any idea," Jack began, "what would have happened if someone had seen you like this? What if the press got wind of this?"

Ah, there it was. Again, caring only about my reputation.

Jack came over and sat beside me. "What the fuck has gotten into you lately, Thomas? First the Dylan thing, now this?"

I visibly winced at that. He didn't seem to care.

Silence stretched between us for a few moments. It echoed off my apartment walls, made the already empty void inside of me feel that much larger.

Finally, finally Jack stood. He picked up the magazines on my counter, flipped through them for a few moments. I looked at the carpet as I awaited the final blow, but it never came.

"Your legal team already filed the suit against Reginald Mills and The L.A. Times. The hearing won't be for a few months, but for right now its based on allegations of slander, defamation, and heresy. You better have your act together by then," Jack said, tossing the magazines on the coffee table in front of me. I stared at the picture of Dylan and I splashed across the front cover, and gave a small, barely noticeable nod. It's not like it mattered anyway. The damage had already been done.

Jack got me a glass of water and an advil, and then he left. And it was just me once again. Alone.

I took a deep breath. Tried to sober up. Drank the water. Swallowed the advil.

Somehow I found myself, hours later, sitting in the middle of my carpet floor. Jack had turned off my apartment lights as he left, but by now my eyes had adjusted to the night. I was staring around my apartment, eyes flickering from one spot to the next, and my heart was aching, and the alcohol had done nothing to numb my pain.

Every spot in my home was stained by Dylan. The kitchen counter--our first kiss. The couch--cuddling together as we fell asleep. The kitchen table--eating overcooked, limp pasta from the same plate. Even the fucking doorway--where I had turned around, saw Dylan standing there, and suddenly wished I could see him coming home to me every single day.

The only place I was safe was the middle of my carpet floor. And even there, I wasn't really safe at all.

Because Dylan had stained me too. And in return, I had ruined him.

I stood. Go to him, the old man had said. Make him listen.

I stumbled, drunkenly, dazedly, through tears and a headache and bile rising in my throat. Into my bedroom I fell, without a heart, without a mind, and began searching for a bag. No, fuck it--I don't need a bag. Just a wallet, keys, my passport--

I stopped in the middle of my room, stared at myself in the reflection of my mirror. My hair was unwashed and I looked gaunt and tears were somehow still falling from my eyes. I hated the person looking back at me. I looked, even to my own eyes, completely and utterly destroyed.

Nothing's broken until you stop trying to fix it.

With one last look in the mirror, I grabbed my wallet and left.

//

A/N

Wow this was short and horrible and probably the worst thing ive ever written

Anyway here's a joke because it's been a while and i keep getting yelled at for not putting one

How does Moses make his tea?
Hebrews it

hah okay

also there's a lot of bad fucking stuff going on in the world right now so this is your general reminder to be the good that the rest of the world doesn't have. be the person that loves in the face of hate. Be the person that spreads positivity, even in the shadow of negativity. Be unapologetically you

i hope everything is going well. i hope you're all safe, loved and happy. and i hope you're doing everything in your power to be good.

until next time,

//sam\\