meghan trainor oneshots // m.t

6.4 • Our Story

When asked to choose between my job, and my boyfriend, I met a crossroads. I loved my career in music more than I loved myself, and I wouldn't be able to live without it. But in saying that, the fear that gripped me at so much as my boyfriend - Ashton's - name, was so immense that I almost broke down at the mere sight of it. So, being asked to choose was putting myself through torture. It was a never ending streams of pro's versus cons, every thought like a whip that made my knees buckle, or a rock being thrown at me. It was the hardest two weeks of my life - attempting to make that decision - and every day, every moment, every second, I wonder where would I be today if I had never been asked this question. And the answer? Probably married to the wrong man, and touring the world, while writing what would feel like my 100th album.

But I was asked that question.

I'm not married to the wrong man; I'm married to the right man.

/

  "Meghan?" Ashton asked, tracing random patterns on my arm. The way he spoke was gentle, but I knew the question that was soon to follow would not be, and the insignificant patterns on my arms would change to fists pummeling my already black and blue skin depending on how I answered this question.

  "Yes?" I croaked, trying my hardest not to tremble. He can smell fear. My eyes became glassy, because I knew that no answer was the right answer.

  "I'm done," he stated, stopping moving his finger, and curling his hand around my arm tightly, making the only just healed bruises, spring with pain once again. Tears threatened to fall from my eyes. What is he done with? "Your career," he practically spat, as though he was reading my mind. Please God, no. "It's too demanding. You need to choose, right now. Me, or your music career." He looked deep into my eyes, and I shuddered involuntarily when his eyes darkened with disgust and hatred. When I didn't answer immediately, he laughed dryly than slapped me across the face, making that all too familiar sting show up. "You have two weeks," he hissed, making a fist before stalking away. I let out a breath I wasn't aware I was holding, and started to cry.

I pulled myself from the couch, gathered my things, and rushed from his apartment with tears streaming down my face, and the fear settled at the bottom of my gut making me near panic-attack every passing second. When I reached my car, I turned on the engine and just let the gentle hum of my range rover soothe me. My phone rang suddenly, paralyzing me with unease, before I saw the caller ID.

Charles Otto Puth.

I quickly answered the call, my breathing still uneven from the terror that had drained my face of color when he called. "Hello?" I spoke into the phone, wanting nothing more than the silkiness of his voice to soothe me.

  "Are you okay?" he asked instantly, after hearing the heaviness in my breaths and the panic in my voice. I nodded, the fact that he was unable to see me slipping from my mind like sand through fingertips. "Meghan," he spoke, concern dripping from his voice as he snapped me back into reality.

  "No," I whispered slowly as my voice cracked and the tears that I'd just plugged started falling again. I heard him sigh, and he sounded stressed.

  "Where are you?"

  "The parking lot of Ashton's apartment building," I told him, the tears never once stopping and sobs rising in my throat, making it hard to breathe; the lack of oxygen making it hard to think. I heard him let a stress replete sigh break free again. I can just imagine him tousling his hair from running a hand through it.

  "I'm coming to get you," he spoke defiantly, the sort of tone that you would never dare try to argue with. Sadly, I'd spent the past year not arguing with anything as sheer terror gripped every ounce of me every time I so much as opened my mouth.