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fourteen

FOURTEEN §

     It's funny how things can go from sweet to painful in such a short amount of time. It's ridiculous.

Three days. That's how long our relationship lasted. You would have laughed. I mean, come on, we didn't even out-last Romeo and Juliet's love story for fuck's sake! And that was a time when it took mails half a year to cross 15 miles of sea, and plus they were torn from family feuds. And they were teenagers. And it wasn't summer. 

      (a month ago . . .) 

     The car ride is painfully silent. I look out the rain-blurred window, thumb between my teeth, trying to mentally dry the wetness in my eyes. It's a desperate effort. 

"I told him not to come." I know he's looking at me, but if I look back I might break right here. I can't have that. That'd be pathetic. 

I just nod. "Okay." Please. Just stop talking. I don't want to hear your voice. I don't want to remember anything that's happened tonight. The look on his face . . . god, Niall. Stop it!

"Niall . . ." 

"Shut up," I snap, not moving. My chest feels heavy, and I can't stop it from rising and falling at a pace faster, more erratic than normal. I can't contain my lungs. 

Liam doesn't say anything more throughout the ride. When we pull out by the curb I bound out the car, my head down, and jog through the rain. 

"Niall, wait!" 

I don't stop. It thunders. Ha. Way to go, Heaven. Thanks for the cooperation. 

Harry opens the door. "Niall! how'd it g--"

I cut him off. "Where's Theo?" Stepping inside, I shrug off my jacket and hang it on the rack on the threshold. My socks are wet. 

"He's, uh, sleeping upstairs. Louis went home earlier because his Mom called, but, like . . .  is everything okay?" There's concern in his voice. There shouldn't be. This was his idea, right? He pushed me on, shoved me forward. I don't want to be mad, though. I can't be mad. This is my fault. 

Liam steps through the doors behind me. "Niall--"

"Oh, just dandy," I answer Harry. I kow I sound bitter, but I have the right to, right? "Pefect." 

"Thanks for taking care of Theo, Harry," I hear Liam say.

I speed-walk across the living room, where the telly is featuring some old indie movie Harry must have been watching, and jog upstairs, to my room. Our room. I feel sick thinking that now. My lungs feel like they've been frozen over, my guts curling around the food we ate, and my throat feels thick, clogged, as I plop down on the bottom bunk, the cushion catching my fall. 

No, Niall, you idiot. The boulders caught your fall. I hope you're happy now, you stupid, stupid moron. You idiot.This is what you get. 

I don't take off my clothes--even my wet socks--when I lie on fully on the cushion, folding my arms over my face so I don't have to look at the underside of his bed. And also to somehow seal the tears in. 

Come on, Niall. It's not like you didn't saw this coming. Keep it together. 

And the scenario plays over and over and bloody over in my mind, like a broken record from the time when the music makes every modern-world teenager cringe. Or like a dull knife cutting back and forth across my chest. Really, I wouldn't have minded it if that raven-haired boy--whatever his names was--was Liam's boyfriend, or that he never even told me about him, but fuck. The way Liam looked at him was what made it so painful. Like, like he wanted to reach out for him and hug him or kiss him.