Dylan's pov

The thing about love is that it doesn't just fade away. My pain doesn't just dissipate. My heart doesn't suddenly heal. And although I spend the next few weeks feeling the aftershocks of our relationship pierce at the crevices of my heart, I don't stop loving him.

For a long time, Thomas's journal sat tauntingly on my desk. There were times when I could pick it up, could brush the leather and even contemplate opening it. Those were the courageous times. There were also the times when all I could do was sit in my desk chair and stare at it as if it was the offender, as if it was responsible for everything that went wrong.

And then there were the times like today. The times where I was sitting on my bed and I was crying, and I was clutching it to my chest like that would somehow bring Thomas back to me. Despite my attempts to be quiet, my sobs rang out just as loudly as they had over the past few weeks. With each tear my heart tore, and suddenly I was hating everyone--and everything--and Thomas--and mostly, myself. Because it was my own dumb fault for having fallen. My own dumb fault for trusting him. My own dumb fault for being me. My own dumb fault for giving my heart to the Hollywood bad boy and expecting him to hold it carefully.

It was my own dumb fault that I hated him so much it burned ferociously inside of me, and my own dumb fault that in light of it all, I still loved him.

My bedroom door opened and the journal fell into my lap as I tried to quickly wipe away my tears. It was pathetic of me, really, because when I looked up to meet my mom's gaze, there was still sympathy lacing her aged eyes.

She sighed and I looked away. Without a word she stepped into my room, perching softly on the bed next to me. For a moment, she was quiet, and so was I.

"Hey," my mom said after a moment. She hesitated then, wrapping a soft arm around my shoulder. I willingly leaned into the comfort of her hold. "How are you doing?"

"I'm--" I wanted to say fine, but my family wouldn't let me say that anymore. Instead, I finished, "--tired."

She nodded like she expected that. Looking down at the journal in my lap, her brow furrowed, then cleared with recognition. Whether she knew what was in the journal or not, she seemed to sense the stigma surrounding the leather book. Her eyes rose to meet mine in a careful, yet unsure inquisition. Fingers stretching out, her nimble hands wrapped my own up in a reassuring squeeze.

"I know this isn't what you want to hear," she said, breaking the silence again, "but sweetie, have you thought--well, maybe the reason it's still hurting--it's because you're still letting it hurt you."

I tensed. Her arm fell from my shoulder, and I turned to her with a well-aimed glare.

"Oh, we're victim-shaming now?" I sneered, and it was horrible of me to take all of confused and frustrated and hurt emotions out on her. Still, I continued, "This is my fault that I'm hurting?"

"That's not what I said," she said simply, all the patience in the world.

"No, that's exactly what you said!" I stood. Waved my arms in a dramatic, wild motion. Voice pinched and raised to vaguely impersonate her, I continued, "If Dylan hadn't fallen for that bastard, we wouldn't be here! If Dylan could suck it up and be a man, we could move on with our lives! If Dylan stopped acting like such a fucking pussy--"

"Dylan," my mother interrupted, now far more strict, far more unforgiving. "That is not what I said and that is not what I suggested. Please, let me finish."

And just as quickly as my anger came, it dissipated. Deflating, I sat back down beside her. I blinked, unsurprised by the warmth behind my eyes, and looked anywhere but at my mother. I was going fucking crazy and that made all of this so much worse.

From the corner of my eye, I watched my mom shake her head at me sadly. "This isn't about Thomas anymore, love. It's been weeks since you broke up. Now--you have so much hurt in your heart, and it just keeps building up inside of you and poisoning you and destroying you."

"So?" I asked, voice laced in skepticism.

"So," she continued, "If you ever want to move on, you're going to have to start forgiving."

I shook my head without hesitation. "I don't think I'll ever forgive him, Mom," I choked. "He lied to me, embarrassed me in front of the entire world--"

"Maybe not Thomas, not yet," she conceded, putting her arm on my shoulder. "Others, though."

"Kaya?" I asked.

My mother reached around me, picked up the journal and placed it in my lap.

She smiled, stood, and look down at me with kind, loving eyes. "No. You should start by forgiving yourself."

I watched her leave in silence. After she was gone, I released a small sigh. My eyes fell to the journal again and with shaking hands I picked it up, brushed my hand across the cover. Was it weird that I felt this journal had its own heartbeat, had its own life? It was so intangible to me and yet so concrete, hiding secrets I didn't know and secrets I didn't ever want to know. It was its very own being--its very own truth.

Hesitating only slightly, I smoothed back the first page. My eyes widened at Thomas's familiar handwriting, and before I could even stop myself, I began to read.

___________________________________________

May 2 2016

I'm not quite sure I understood you Reggie, when you told me to take notes on my supposed relationship progress, nor do I feel eloquent enough to be able to write down all of what occurs in the next five months. I will, however, give it my best shot, though forgive me if I miss any substantial information.

This is in fact my first journal "entry" as one says. To be quite honest, though I've known Dylan for nearly a week and a half know, I didn't feel the motivation to write down anything, feeling a bit too cliche.

But now, after a week of knowing that bastard, I've drawn one conclusion that I felt was necessary to document:

He hates me.

As in 'despises-my-guts-wants-to-light-me-on-fire-and-chop-me-into-a-million-pieces' type of hate. As in 'would sell me to Satan for a hotdog' kind of hate. As in there is no way in a billion years he would ever fall in love with me kind of hate.

It's a bit discouraging, but I like a bit of a challenge. We'll see how this goes.

Until next time,

Thomas Brodie-Sangster

_____________________________________________

It was a sunny day when I asked Tyler to hang out. He stumbled into my kitchen with black stubble around his chin, looking slightly hungover. When I made the suggestion to go to the park, he raised an eyebrow in confusion. Behind me, my mom's hands stilled as she washed the dirty dishes.

"O-okay," he replied, and the word was long and drawn out.

I nodded, grabbed my keys, and led us out the door.

When we were outside, Tyler squinted at the bright light of the sun, confirming my hungover suspicions. "Couldn't have suggested we do something dark, like a nap or something, huh?" he jested.

I smirked, unlocking the doors. Not bothering to reply, I slid inside the car. I paused right before I started the engine and Tyler cast me a furtive glance.

"Are you sure you want to go out, Dylan?" he asked.

I blinked, looking over as if reminded he was there. "Yes," I nodded, twisting the keys.

He paused, still watching me. I couldn't tell what he was thinking, but it was beginning to creep me out.

"What?" I asked, but it came out more defensive than I intended.

"It's just--" Tyler finally looked away. "You haven't asked me to hang out in a while, that's all."

"Not true," I argued, pulling out of the driveway.

Tyler held up his hands in admission, then replied, "No, I've asked you to hang out, but it's been--it's been weeks since you've asked me."

I rolled my eyes. "Don't get all stupid, Tyler."

"I'm not," he said. "It's just nice to see a change."

I didn't bother replying, mostly because I knew he was right. I had subconsciously been trying to alienate myself for weeks now, even with the support of my family.

"Yeah," I replied, although my heart felt heavy.

____________________________________________

May 12 2016

Okay. So maybe he's not horrible. I can definitely see the appeal. The truth is though, how could he ever love me? We spend most of our time together arguing. Even if he didn't hate me, we'd still have the compatibility of a turtle and a spoon.

Until next time,

Thomas Brodie-Sangster

_____________________________________________

My footsteps echoed on the wooden steps as I scaled our staircase down. My hand glided along the banister effortlessly, soundlessly, and when I finally reach the bottom, I set off in pursuit of our family room. Finding my mom, my dad, and my sister all lazily sprawled across the various couches, I took a seat in the single armchair remaining without a word.

My presence did not go unnoticed. My sister and my mom exchanged a look, and even my dad looked up from the baseball game. I smiled awkwardly and turned my attention away.

The last time I had come out to join them all willingly? I couldn't remember. I couldn't explain the sudden need to connect either, nor why my heart didn't feel as heavy when I was with them.

Unable to stop myself, I glanced over at my mom. There was a small, proud smile on her lips.

We sat in silence for a long time, eyes trained on the game. Occasionally someone would offer a jibe at the television, a jest at my sister, but mostly we were content to wallow in the security of our home.

At half past nine I noticed my phone notifications were blowing up. I unlocked my phone and immediately clicked on Twitter, my stomach quickly dropping.

@thomasbrodiesangsterofficial: hard to stop loving someone even when you don't deserve their love. I'm sorry.

My mentions were exploding, and I scrolled through comment after hateful comment condemning Thomas, myself, and Reggie. His words were burned into my brain and his voice from weeks ago echoed in the stitched up parts of my heart. I could hear his guilt and grief even five weeks later, even from across the country.

As if sensing my tensing body, my mom looked over to offer me a reassuring grin. It sent a confident warmth through my body and when I looked down at my phone, it didn't hurt quite as much. I took a deep breath, and with fingers that seemed detached from my body, I finally blocked Thomas.

___________________________________________

May 24 2016

Holy fucking fuck. We're going on a date. Like, a real fucking date. And I'm excited. Fuck, I'm excited. I'll have to find something good to wear--my leather jacket? No, Dylan isn't a fan of that. A button-down. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Every moment I spend with him is so effortless and easy. We can pull pranks on set together, we can be throwing the most kickass party in Louisiana, or we can just be sitting in a coffee shop, chatting for hours. It's simple despite being the most complicated relationship I've ever been in.

Until next time,

Thomas Brodie-Sangster

___________________________________________

My eyes opened and I looked out onto the open grass field. The breeze pushed my hair off my forehead, and I shivered despite the warm air. I softly inhaled through my nose. When I let it out, my breath came out calm and clear and content. Similarly, the long grass waved as if it was dancing to no music, carefree, and the birds sang as if there was no one listening, untroubled. I watched in a trance.

A young couple walked along the footpath in front of me. His hand was entwined in his boyfriend's, and my eyes locked on the small motion of endearment. They cast me a glance as they slowly trudged by, perhaps wondering why I was in an open field alone, perhaps not even caring. My eyes fell away, but unlike I might have been a few weeks ago, I wasn't upset at all.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. I wasn't surprised to see a text from Thomas.

'please talk to me dylan. just let me know that you're okay, please'

My immediate reaction was to shove my phone away, ignore the message as I had for the hundreds of similar ones preceding it.

But then I paused. I took a deep, calming breath, looked out on the tranquil landscape painted like a dream in front of me, and found that my heart was still completely intact even after witnessing his name flash across my screen.

So instead my fingers typed out a reply.

'I'm okay' I replied.

When I looked back up at the dancing grass, I smiled--because for the first time in months, I found that I actually meant it.
____________________________________________

May 28 2016

I think I'm fucked.

Until next time,

Thomas Brodie-Sangster
___________________________________________

My lungs were bursting and my hair was flying and the windows were down and my screams were being ripped from my throat only to be drowned out by the music pulsing through the car. Tyler and I were going fast, too fast probably, and we were singing along to songs that were decades old as if they came out yesterday. My hands were playing air guitar and his palms were drumming along on the steering wheel.

It was in the middle of a song when I turned to him, and there was light shining in my eyes, and there was hope in my heart, when I suddenly shouted, "I'm happy, Ty!"

And when he looked over at me, I had never seen him smile wider.

___________________________________________

May 30 2016

Romantic bullshit aside, I'm really fucking worried. Because every time he kisses me my heart beats like a fucking jackrabbit, and every time he hugs me I feel safe. How can I destroy my safe place? I'm so fucking scared I'm going to hurt him. But how on earth am I ever supposed to fix this?

Until next time,

Thomas Brodie-Sangster

__________________________________________

Sometimes I still can't fall asleep. Sometimes my skin crawls when I lay in my bed, my hands seek warmth they won't find. Sometimes I stare at the ceiling for hours, refusing to let myself cry. Every night I have some sort of nightmare.

Sometimes I'm not okay--but I don't expect to be okay all the time anyway. That's what healing is, right? Those small, infinitesimal moments that seem like nothing at all, adding up together as you grow until one day, you're not so sad anymore. And you didn't even notice it happening until it already did.

Exactly two months after Thomas and I broke up, I slept through the night without a single nightmare.

_____________________________________________

May 31 2016

Everyday is a lifetime that passes in the blink of an eye. I swear, we never stop moving. I'm at Dylan's family's home, and we spend literally 24/7 with each other without ever getting bored or sick of each other. Everyday is a new adventure.

I can't help but have this feeling though--this, "I'm betraying him in his own home" kind of thing. As if I don't hate this fucking bet enough, I'm hurting him in the one place he's supposed to always feel safe. Do I hate myself for it? Yes. Would I go back and change everything if I could?

A thousand times yes.

Until next time,

Thomas Brodie-Sangster.
__________________________________________

Press for The Maze Runner wasn't over yet. In fact, it had barely even begun.

On September 5th I flew out to California once again. There we would start the official press tour, promoting the movie before it came out. Emma greeted me and talked to me normally, but there was a protective glint in her eye when she asked how I was doing. She also asked if I minded not doing press with Thomas--bad publicity for the movie or something. I obliged.

I spent most of the first three days everywhere the rest of the cast wasn't. It wasn't all entirely my fault; because I had gone off the grid after our last press conference, I had a lot of catching up to do. My days were long but I welcomed it, especially because it meant avoiding the reality that hid behind the closed doors.

The first time Thomas tried to approach me, I was getting in the elevator with Emma. We made eye contact for just a flash of a second but it was just a second too long; I turned away jerkily, and hurried away. Emma looked up in time to see him coming closer, so she closed the elevator doors. Shaken, I sent her a wavering smile in thanks.

The second time I saw him, I was even less prepared to run away. Despite the two months I had spent away, I was much less sure of myself when he was around. When I turned away from the snack table on the fifth day of press only to find him standing beside me with dark, pleading eyes, I jumped and stumbled backwards. My back collided with someone behind me and there was a muffled curse as she spilled her drink--but without even apologizing, I sprinted out of the room, too caught off guard, too unprepared to be so close to him.

Unlike Thomas however, I wasn't trying to avoid Kaya. She, on the other hand, was trying to avoid me. I think it was more of a courtesy thing than an "I hate you" thing, but it wasn't all that surprising after the last time we had spoken.

On Tuesday, I managed to finally track her down.

"Kaya," I said curtly, pulling out a chair beside her. She tensed and looked up with hesitant, apologetic eyes. For a second, she stared at me in utter shock before she stood up so abruptly her chair fell to the ground.

Launching herself into my arms without resistance, she began to plead into my chest. "Dylan, please, I'm sorry--I fucked up, I--" and so on, drawing the attention of others sitting nearby. I pushed her off of me and gestured for her to sit without a word.

As I sat down beside her, my heart ached. I missed her.

"I want to know why you didn't tell me," I started after a brief pause, straight to the point.

She looked up from her hands. Like a small child being scolded, she started hesitantly, "I wish I could tell you, Dyl, but I don't even know myself. I--"

She sniffed, then grabbed my hand. "I don't even know what was going through my head when I promised Tom I wouldn't tell. I tried to get him to--tell you--he said he was going to, but then--" she cut herself off. "I wanted to tell you every single day, Dylan. But it wasn't my place. Or maybe it was my place and I was just too cowardly to do it. I'm sorry."

It was genuine, and despite everything I felt heat gather in my eyes. Somehow it was worse knowing she had asked Thomas to tell me, and he promised he would--somehow it felt like another twist of the knife I had just begun to remove.

She seemed to take my silence as a bad sign because her fingers tightened on my hand. "Is there anything I can do," she asked desperately, "to get you to ever forgive me?"

"Kaya," I shook my head at her. "I already forgave you."

__________________________________________

June 5 2016

He's magnetic. The type of personality that draws you in, catches you in a snare. We're two opposite ends of a magnet, and he's had a hold of me for a very long time.

I've never fallen in love before. Is this what it feels like? Fuck.

I'm going to end this. I have to.

Until next time,

Thomas Brodie Sangster

___________________________________________

The third time I saw Thomas at the press conference, I didn't try to run away. He must have been surprised when I sighed and then began the deliberate steps in his direction because he stayed rooted to the spot with wide eyes.

I tried not to notice how tired he looked, or how dull his eyes had gotten. I tried not to feel how thin his arms had become when I grabbed his bicep and dragged him out of the room. I tried not to care, but I did.

When I stopped in an empty hallway, it took all my courage to face him. He was staring at me with wide eyes. I wore a similar expression, I'm sure, because despite how many times I had practiced this in my head, I never actually thought I'd get this far.

"I need you to let me go," I finally relented when the silence became too much, "because this--" I gestured between us, "--is killing me."

"I--" He looked dumbfounded. Definitely was not what he expected. "I--I can't."

"You have to! All these calls, texts, tweets, those looks you keep giving me--I'm trying so hard to let myself heal, Thomas, but I can't when you won't let me," the words poured of me and it wasn't what I had rehearsed, but it was the truth. I thought I was healing, but was I?

"I'm trying," he said in a painfully small voice. "I'm trying so fucking hard to let you go. I want you to move on, stupid!" it burst abruptly out of him. Voice lowering, he continued, "I don't want to keep hurting you, Dylan. I'm trying to stop, I swear."

It was honestly so hard to watch. I thought we had both hurt each other so much over the past few months that nothing else could ever compare. But as my next words came out of my mouth, it burned far more than anything else I had said, anything else he had done.

"Please, stop trying to talk to me. For both our sake," I said.

Looking like I just crushed his entire world, Thomas nodded his head. "Okay," he agreed in a whisper.

___________________________________________

July 12 2016

Dear Dylan,

I doubt you'll ever read this. It won't matter if you do. Should the circumstance ever arise, I'm sure it will already be too late.

I'm flying out to see you now, although I have a horrible feeling in my stomach. I want to see you. I miss you. I understand why and how much you hate me though, so if you throw me from your doorstep, I'll completely understand.

I won't have the courage to say this to you in person if things don't work out later. So, here:

No matter what happens, I want you to be happy. Please don't let me ruin you. I don't deserve to even have a place in your thoughts. I want you to forget about me and move on, and let the world see how beautiful and talented you are. I want you to find another love, maybe get married or have children one day. I want you to get that suburban house you always talked about with a green lawn and a white picket fence. I want you to do all of that or do none of that or do a combination of all you never thought you would; I want--I need you to be happy again, even if that doesn't include me.

I will spend the rest of my life regretting what I did. I'll probably spend my next 5 lives regretting it too. But I won't regret you. And I know it's selfish of me, but I hope one day you won't regret me either.

I love you. I would give anything to change the past so that our story ended differently, and I'm sorry.

-Thomas.

//

A/N

1 chapter and an epilogue left! I'm lowkey sad

until next time,

//sam\\