Kayla
“Listen,” I poked his chest, hard, making him stagger a step back. “I’m sick of all this crap, and I’m fucking tired of you not doing anything about it. Do you not care about me at all?”
We were at Justin’s house. He had taken me out for lunch after recording a couple of songs at the studio. He had then suggested we go to his place. Of course, lots of paparazzi were waiting both outside the restaurant and his house, asking questions that didn’t concern them and making comments about our relationship.
He glared at me, before taking a step closer. “Do you seriously think I don’t care, after all I’ve done for you?” He asked indignantly.
“Well, if you do care,” I began, crossing my arms across my chest. “Then you sure as hell have a knack for not showing it.”
“What do you mean?” Justin’s glare never left his face.
“Oh, you don’t know what I mean?” I laughed humorlessly.
He laughed humorlessly, too, mimicking my gesture, and admitted. “No, I don’t know. Please enlighten me.” He said this last sentence in a mocking way.
“Oh, so you don’t know about all these articles about you that always portray me as the bad character of the story?” I asked sarcastically, looking up and tapping my chin as if I were pondering upon something. “And you also don’t know about these people following me around up to the point where I can’t go out anymore without fearing that some rude fan might pop out of nowhere and insult me as if I were Adolf Hitler?”
Justin blinked.
“Of course you don’t know.” I looked back at him and dropped my hand from my chin, turning around to head to the door.
He grabbed my hand and made me face him. He put his hand on my cheek and looked into my eyes. “I’m sorry, Kayla. I didn’t know you felt that way.” He bit his lip in guilt.
Anger bubbled up inside me. It was way too late to say sorry. I had had enough with his obnoxious fans that threatened to kill me. I was fed up with those fans that somehow managed to find where I lived and camped out of my house, yelling profanities at me, whenever one of those fake stories of me cheating on him and whatnot appeared on the Web.
I jerked his hand off my cheek and glared at him. “You didn’t?” I asked him sarcastically. “You didn’t know?”
He was just staring at me, so I continued.
“You didn’t see all those mentions on Twitter? All those trending topics that made me feel worthless? You didn't see them?” I asked him in disbelief.
“Kayla, I…”
“I think we should break up.” I was straightforward.
“No, Kayla,” Justin tried, “I swear I can change. But, please, give me another chance. I promise I can make it up—“
“Justin, just stop, okay.” I held my hands up to silence him. “I don’t think I can cope with any more death threats, and I don’t think we’re meant to be either.”
“Please don’t leave me.” Justin pleaded quietly, taking my hand in his. “You’re everything I have.”
I nearly rolled my eyes. ‘Everything I have’, sure. What about all those pretty girls that would kill to date him or about those who would faint if he merely looked at them? Did this guy not appreciate that? Talk about ungrateful.
I pulled my hand away. “You’re Justin Bieber,” I stated the obvious, “I think you’ll survive.” I said, before turning on my heel and walking out of his house.
***
After our breakup managed to reach the ears of the paparazzi, I can honestly say that I wished I hadn’t done what I did.
Everyone had gone insane.
I even had to quit Twitter because of all the rude messages I received. People saw me as the inconsiderate bitch that broke Justin Bieber’s heart. They didn’t know that he had been breaking mine every day with his careless behavior.
I sighed and took a sip of my coffee.
I was at my house, sitting in front of my computer. I was planning on leaving the States to go live in the UK, seeing as Justin’s American fans were taking things way too far.
It was around ten o’clock, and I was still in my pajamas. My hair was a mess, and my eyes seriously looked like they could use some sleep. The past few days I had been doing nothing but sitting in front of the computer, looking on the Internet for flats and jobs.
I browsed through a couple of sites where I could find work, scrolling down the options. I sighed again. None of them seemed to be ‘my type’.
Kayla, you’re not going to date them.
I mentally rolled my eyes at the voice in my head. If I was going to work, I was going to be doing something that I at least enjoyed. And, hell, I would not enjoy cleaning floors at McDonald’s.
I squinted my eyes at the screen as I saw some options that involved working behind the register. I liked that. I didn’t have to do much.
With a smile, I leaned back, still staring at the screen, and brought the cup of coffee that was resting on my desk next to the screen to my lips, taking a long, relaxing sip.
I instantly spat out the warm liquid, dropping my cup in the process, just as an ear-deafening screech made its way to my eardrums.
I looked at the shattered glass on the floor and then glared at the window.
That was my favorite New York cup, you pricks, I mentally grumbled.
I pushed myself up off my chair and walked over to the window, pulling it open.
The crowd of hardcore fans looked up and started screeching and holding up signs where unpleasant things were written in eye-catching handwriting.
I glared at them and screamed at the top of my lungs. “EVERYONE, SHUT THE HELL UP!”
Surprisingly, everyone went quiet.
I mentally smirked in victory.
“LISTEN, OKAY!? YOU CAN ALL GO HOME, BECAUSE YOU’RE WASTING YOUR TIME! IT’S NOT LIKE HATING ME WILL MAKE A DIFFERENCE. SCRATCH THAT, MAYBE JUSTIN REALIZES HOW UNSUPPORTIVE YOU GUYS ACTUALLY ARE! AND WHEN HE DOES, I’M GOING TO BE HERE, LAUGHING MY HEAD OFF AT YOUR LAME ATTEMPS ON GETTING HIM TO NOTICE YOU, BECAUSE, BY THAT TIME, HE WILL HAVE ALREADY COMPREHENDED HOW FAKE YOU 12-YEAR-OLDS ARE!”
And with that, I slammed the window shut and turned on my heel, dusting the palms of my hands against each other. As I was about to walk back to my spot in front of the computer, I decided to turn back around and open the window once again to find the now shocked and silent fans already looking at me.
“OH, AND, BY THE WAY, YOU MIGHT WANT TO START HEADING HOME; THE COPS ARE ON THEIR WAY.”
I slammed the window closed once again, radiating pride. It was not like I was going to see them again, anyway. I was going to move in to the UK to start a new life. A life that didn’t involve mentally ill fans, thank the Lord.
