It was the morning after. I woke up with a hangover, and Ian and I's relationship was back to square one. He was at work, avoided talking to me all night, and I was on the sofa, trying to nurse my hangover, while feeling guilty about the entire situation.
I hadn't spoken to Roger all day, as well. I'm not sure what I felt guilty more for, making Ian believe there was something going on, and making him angry with me. Or leaving Roger when he was trying to help me.
My legs were still covered in bandages, and still hurts like fuck. I peeled one of the bandages half-way off my thigh, just to see how they look. It just had dried blood, but it seemed to have mostly cleared up.
I couldn't just sit here all day. I needed to apologize to Roger. I stood up, limping, while holding onto stuff, as I walked.
I changed into a white button up, and a knitted, yellow, red, navy blue, and white checkard, skirt, tights, and brown Mary Janes.
꧁꧂
I was walking down the street to Rogers flat, it looked like it was about to start raining.
I arrived at Roger's flat, and walked up the stairs to his door number. I was hesitant to knock, but after a moment of contemplating, I held my fist up to the door, and gently knocked it.
I waited for a minute, looking down at my feet, wondering if I should just run for it. But it was a bit too late, when I heard the door open.
"Look, Rog.. I'm sorry for last...night. " I looked up, and my eyes were met with a girl, with honey blonde, curly blowout hair, thin brows, long lashed, button nose, grayish blue eyes, and peach-coloured lipstick.
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(I was bad at description, so here) •••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
"Who are you?" She asked, looking me up and down. I won't lie. She's so pretty, even though she's acting like a bitch.
"I'm Ophelia.. Who the fuck are you?" I asked, matching her bitchy attitude.
"I'm Christina. Are you Roger's girlfriend or something?" She asked, smirking at me, as if basically telling me that he slept with her.
"No. I'm not. I'm his... Erm... Friend?" I didn't even know what to refer myself when it comes to Roger anymore. "So, is he here or not?" I asked, hoping she'd just move out the way.
"Who is it?!" Roger asked, from the bedroom.
"It's your... Friend." She replied, once again looking me up and down, with an irritatingly, all-knowing grin. I'm about to write this girl as the first name in my suicide note. I swear to fuck.
"My friend?" He asked, walking towards the door, to see who it was. His face faltered, when he saw it was me. I gave him an awkward, smile, to which he continued looking at me with a stern, displeased face. "Chris, go back inside. I need to talk to Ophelia for a moment." He told her. Kinda hurt when he didn't call me 'Spence'. I fucked up, but Jesus.
"I'm fine just staying out here-" She started, smirking, while holding eye contact with me.
"Chris. Go inside. Please." He told her, firmly, to which her smile faltered.
"Whatever." She said, rolling her eyes and heading back inside.
"Does she just listen to everything you say?" I asked, my arms folded.
"Depends. Now, what do you want?" He asked, and I took a deep breath.
"I'm... Er.." I started. I've never been good at apologizing. I cringe at the word 'sorry' leaving my mouth.
"You're what?" He waited, his arms crossed, bored of me.
"I'm...sorry?" I wanted to gag, saying it. He better fucking forgive me, or his name will also be mentioned in my note.
"Really?" He teased.
"Yes. Hurry up and forgive me. I didn't exactly do anything wrong." I said, snarkily. Jesus, shut the fuck up, you left him when he was there for you.
"Oh, you didn't?" He raised his brows, questioningly.
"Well... I could've handled the situation a bit better... But I was drunk! And I had just fallen into a glass table!" I defended.
"Oh! That reminds me, I don't recall getting a 'thank you' for bandaging up your legs." He smirked.
"I did say thanks. Didn't I?" I questioned, to which he shook his head, still smirking. I sighed, rolling my eyes. "Thank you. And I'm sorry for leaving you last night. Please forgive me." I pleaded, more sincerely.
"I like hearing you beg. It's cute." He teased, making me cringe. And blush. "Alright. I consider forgiving you." He said.
"Thanks- you consider?" Just as I was about to feel relieved, a sudden anger shot up through my veins.
"Yes. I consider. I was very hurt last night. So I don't forgive you and your bitchy little attitude." He fake pouted, before giving me a firm look of annoyance.
"Will you just fucking forgive me already?! I'm up every night writing sappy poems about you, when I'm next to my boyfriend! I can't stop thinking about you and it's fucking exhausting. So hurry up and forgive me, so I can move on with my life." I blurted out. You fanny. I thought to myself. I really hope he zoned out of boredom and didn't hear what I said. But the smirk on his face tells a different story.
"You write poems for me?" He grinned, teasing me.
"No. The fuck did you get that from?" I furrowed my eyebrows, slowly dying from embarrassment.
"I heard it from you." He poked my shoulder. "All right, then. Water under the bridge. I forgive you. How could I not, when you're writing poems for me." He said, smiling, and holding back his laugh.
I'm about to fucking cry of embarrassment. I want to end my life right now.
"Okay, thanks. Bye." I said, leaving his flat, while I heard him laugh behind me. I will never recover from this.
