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(DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. It's important to remember this is all totally fabricated, embellished, and exaggerated for entertainment purposes.)

"I know places we can go, babe."

Lykke Li - I know places

August 2013

He hates me. He hates me. He hates me. I couldn't get it out of my head. He hates me. He wouldn't let me touch him anymore. He was ignoring me everywhere we went. We hadn't made eye contact in a month. He hates me. He wouldn't answer my texts. I'd sent three the night before, and he still hadn't responded by afternoon the next day. He hates me. I had really fucked up this time. He would never be the same again. We would never be the same again. Not until I called it off. Not until I told him she was gone. He was punishing me. He knew how badly I needed him, yet he wouldn't answer. I can't believe people thought he was a nice guy.

"Fuck youh." I spat, tossing my phone way. "I'm tryin'!" I shouted, to no one but myself, seated cross-legged at the head of my hotel room bed. "I dunno what to do..." I grabbed my phone and went to his text thread again. Cold as stone. Still no response. But there was one from Pez, and a few from Tommo. He had some weird rash growing near his groin and had sent a pic. I tossed my phone away again.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. It felt like my intestines were crawling all over the place, getting entangled, pulling at my other organs. I was starting to sweat. I slammed my head back into the headboard until I was sure something had fractured; whether it was the wood or my skull, I couldn't tell. I just needed him pick up.

"Now, Haz, now!" I quailed, absently biting the collar of my t-shirt. Would he never love me again? Would he never give a fuck again? He acted like he hated the sight of me; like I was the Elephant Man or something. Like my hands disgusted him. My eyes, my lips. My smell. All the things he used to be addicted to.

What are you afraid of? I asked myself. Quit being a bitch and just call! It rang and rang and kicked over to his voicemail. Shadows were beginning to shift in the room, like everything was edging closer to me. Trying to wall me in; shut me down. But the voicemail was enough for me. I just needed to hear his voice. Even through the phone; even in a generic, indirect way. I hadn't heard it since the last press junket at the end of August, and it was already the end of September. This was by far the longest we hadn't talked or texted since we'd met. I called a few more times just to hear the recorded message, heedless of the fact that I was leaving tons of missed calls on his log. He'd probably think I was daft when he eventually saw it.

A knock landed on the door. "Hey....Zayner..." I could hardly summon the energy to utter: "Yeah?"

"Time to head to soundcheck, mate. We'll head downstairs in about 15." It was Preston.

"Yeah, got it." I replied, shutting my eyes and vibrating with an inexplicable rage. I felt like I was five again, back when I simply couldn't understand when my parents told me I couldn't have something. It was the worst feeling on the planet. I would sit and cry myself to sleep and convince myself they hated me. Now it felt that way times 1000, because I knew for a fact he did hate me and that I disgusted him. My absolute worst nightmare was to repel people. I felt like I had repelled people my whole life just by being quiet and brown, sat in the corner of the classroom looking suspicious to all the white kids. I never had their approval. Now I was reliving all those apprehensions I felt when he and I first met, back when I thought someone like him would never find interest in someone like me.

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