Hi, it's Y/N, if you could leave a message after the beep that'd be great- Stiles, geez, you're so annoying- the voicemail message cut off with a squeal, a joyful sound despite the words she had spoken mere seconds before.
Stiles choked, biting down on his lip with brute force so that he drew blood. He could taste it, the metallic twang of it, on his lips. The pain, he supposed, felt better than the nothingness inside of him that had taken its place there ever since you had left him one week ago. Left. Like it was nothing. He resented whatever had decided that it was your time to leave though you were so young, your dreams so full and vibrant, your heart so willing to love and trust.
Stiles took his phone and chucked it across the room, hoping it would smack against the wall, the screen shattering into a thousand pieces just like he had the moment your breath left your body, your heart beating once more for him before you were lost. But the phone did not break, it bounced almost ironically onto his bed and lay still on the comforter. Stiles let out a frustrated, strangled cry, the result of quite a few sobs that he had not permitted to escape thus far. He had hardly mourned your death in that way, he hadn't cried at all. He had yelled, screamed, threw things, punched things, shut people down, pushed everyone away. He barely slept, hardly ate.
He didn't know what to do with himself anymore, that was it. He couldn't remember what purpose his existence held, now that you were not in his life.
He had loved you with all of his heart and soul. His entire being. Every thought was overwhelmed by you; your intelligence, bravery, kindness, brashness, humor, beauty, warmth. You were everything he had ever wanted and more. But he had been so scared to tell you this, terrified of you rejecting him or laughing in his face because his feelings were so strong and he loved you so dearly. He kept his thoughts to himself, as he always had. And then you died. And it was like everything good had died along with you.
Stiles was shaking now, his hands trembling so fiercely he had to dig his nails into his palms to keep them still. He paced his room widely, removing his hands from his slick with sweat palms and running them through his hair, which reminded him startlingly of a time when you would do that, his head in your lap after a particularly nasty nightmare. His fists came down upon his desk with a thud, so harsh and loud that everything there shook or fell. He leaned over to clean something up, to allow the illusion that maybe something in his life could be organized or put together.
Of course, because Stiles Stilinski had the god damn luck in the world, it was a picture of you. And Stiles, obviously, but he couldn't be bothered to look at his own ridiculous face because you were there, next to him, beaming as bright as one could and mid-laugh, as well. You had always hid your laugh behind your hands, but Stiles always insisted that you didn't. He had never been able to capture a picture of you laughing your laugh, your real laugh, not hidden or apologized for until one summer day when he had smushed ice cream- cone and all- into his face in the hopes of Scott getting a picture at the right moment. And so he had. Stiles was staring at you as if you were the most precious thing in the world, vanilla ice cream smeared across his cheeks and pieces of the cone stuck to his nose.
Scott wandered through the house just in time to see Stiles take the picture and smash it to the floor, his foot coming down upon it equally as hard. His best friend lashed out at everything in sight at that moment, heaving his desk chair across the room as if it weighed nothing, kicking the legs of his desk, punching the walls repeatedly until he felt a pair of arms wrap securely and tightly around his shoulders, yanking him backward onto the floor, where he tried to pull away. He kicked, grunts of pain falling from his lips as he did so, yelling all the while.
"She's gone, Scott, she's gone she's gone she's gone!" He screamed, his voice raw. He hadn't spoken in so long, his tone was rasped and hoarse. "She left me, she left me," he repeated over and over again until sobs were wracking his body so violently he almost threw up. His face was streaked with tears, his eyes lined with red. "She shouldn't have died, she shouldn't have, she was so good I don't understand why she died." He cried, beginning to hiccup.
"She didn't want to," Scott said over and over again, "she didn't want to leave you, Stiles, she loved you so much. It's okay, it's okay," Scott tried to soothe him, and it sort of worked. Eventually, Stiles lay slumped against him, his breathing ragged.
"But she didn't know- she didn't know how much I loved her." Stiles whispered, his voice so soft. "She never will." That was the end of it. The two boys sat in silence, Stiles' room reduced to a pile of rubbish, your picture at the center of it all. Sure, his bedroom could be fixed. But there are some things, inhabitants of that bedroom, that had been broken far beyond repair.
