For Him - Shawn Mendes

all they do is leave AND leave

HANNAH

"I don't understand you," Yasmin mused, her legs dangling between the metal railing, feet circling over the stage we sat above.

I hummed, but my eyes never met her's; they were too busy watching the brown haired boy traipse behind his manager backstage. He couldn't see us up there, and I wanted to keep it that way.

Yasmin pushed a fringe of auburn curls from her face and blew upwards. "I mean, if you like him, and he likes you, then why give it up?"

"Because he can-"

"-Do better?" Yasmin cut in, "Hannah wake up and smell the dog-shit. Celebrities aren't perfect. To be flawed is to be human! Look at me," she kicked my shin and her lips curled at the sides, "you're one hell of a human. Loving yourself isn't easy, and I won't lie and tell you that with time it'll all go away..." Her voice faltered and she looked down at her converse, covered in paint from the photoshoot we'd done an hour beforehand, "I mean, I'm 21 and there are still parts of me I can't stand."

I breathed out, my eyes softening with empathy, "There are?"

"Oh, of course." She went on, picking at the ends of her red hair, "In tenth grade I wore this gorgeous green dress to the school dance, but kids only saw my hair. I copped the nickname 'Christmas Tree' all throughout high school."

I held my breath to trap laugher, only letting go as Yasmin erupted beside me, "I mean," she went on optimistically, "it's better than 'The Grinch', right?"

I nodded, though this time I didn't laugh, because I knew then that Yasmin could joke all she'd like but the pain would always lay beneath. I held a strand of red in my hand and observed it, "But your hair is beautiful."

"I know." Yasmin smiled, and my chest fell at the admiration I had for her confidence. "Well, I know that now. But this is my point, Hannah, you're only 17, there are things you won't like about yourself, and there are things you'll learn to love. Tell me one good thing about yourself."

I opened my mouth to say something; to say anything, but my voice wavered and I frowned, "I like to think I'm okay at writing."

Yasmin grinned, "And when was the last time you wrote anything?" She reached for my hand. I didn't want to admit that it was so long ago I couldn't remember. Perhaps once or twice since being offered the internship; and even then I hadn't sent anything in.

"A while ago." I managed.

Yasmin nodded. "I'll cover your shift this afternoon, because I want you to write. I want you to write anything, fiction, non-fiction, poetry, a fucking recipe for slow-baked cupcakes if that's what it takes- but I want you to love what you come up with."

"Why?" I asked into the air. Though, I had a pretty good idea as to why. She understood, somehow, that when I wrote I wrote with everything within me. She knew I wrote with a flame so delicate and fragile that it only took a puff of self criticism for it to burn out, for me to hate my work. My work that was so much of me as I was of it.

HANNAH

He opened the door to find her standing there, crying. Umber curls fell from her face stained with tears that Leo refused to acknowledge - he didn't want to believe the things she'd told him. They were too horrid, too unbelievably unreal for him to digest. But he knew they were real for her, and that ruined him. It tore at parts of his heart he never knew were left to tear.

Zoe's eyes widened at the sight of him, her hands running lines through the hem of her yellow dress nervously. Her tears fell silent, and she allowed Leo's embrace to calm her.