The Fan- A Bastille/Dan Smith Fanfiction

Chapter 22

I rifle through my keychain, trying to find the long-forgotten one that opens my apartment door.  It's been so long since I've had to use it, I almost forget what it looks like.

Finally, I find the correct one and twist it into the lock until I hear the familiar, painful creaking of the door trying to open. I take a deep breath and tentatively walk inside.

Everything is just how I left it, minus a few things. The old couch is still resting behind the small, brown coffee table that my mom gave me as a college gift, and the TV is propped in front, waiting to be turned back on. There are still various magazines and books strewn haphazardly everywhere, reminding me of how much time I used to spend reading. 

The sight of my old apartment brings a hollow, empty feeling to my stomach, and I might've cried if I hadn't already used up every last one of my tears. I keep telling myself that this is it, this is where I want to be, back in America where I belong. But then I think about Dan and the guys and Mary back in England, and I realize that I can lie to myself all I want but this will never be my home, not after what we shared.

But I don't have a choice, Dan took that from me; so with a heavy sigh I set down my bags and let Raider out of his kennel so that he can inspect his new home. He seems to like it, and I am relieved to know that at least one of us will acclimate well to the change.

I go through the house and make sure everything is still working. The tenant turned my electricity back on now that I'll be living here again, but you can never be too sure. Satisfied that everything is functioning properly, I plop down onto the couch and turn on the TV, rifling through the channels until I find Doctor Phil. As if I wasn't already depressed enough. I blow out a puff of air as Raider jumps up onto the couch and lays his head in my lap. 

"And so begins our new life, buddy," I say to Raider. He wags his tail, but only a little, as he stares up at me with his melancholy eyes. He seems to be deeply sad, which in turn makes me want to cry. Again. But instead I just pat his head and scratch behind his ears, just the way he likes it. "I know. I miss him too."

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Several months pass by