opia; matty healy.

11%

"I hate my mum," Matty says, breaking us out of our trance during the ad break.

"No you don't," I turn to him and roll my eyes.

"Yes," He states firmly, "I do. She's going out with some massive prick that only cares about money, and now all she cares about is the money he has. He wants to buy me all this shit, as if my mum fucking can't. He's brainwashing her."

"Matty-"

"No, Issy," I flinch, "You of all people should understand."

"My parents aren't divorced," I say.

"No, but they're not fucking great parents are they?"

Although I don't mean to get mad, I can't help the anger that surges through me at this time. How dare Matty assume my family life is shit? It might be, but it's none of his business.

"Don't compare our lives," I tell him, "you know nothing about me, you don't know what goes on in my house. Don't act like I'm the only person you can go to because I understand, doesn't mean I'll sympathise with you or take your problems on top of mine."

Matty stands, equally as angry as I am, "You're a cold-hearted bitch, Isabel."

"Maybe so," I scoff.

He laughs now, "You remind me of myself."

"Stop comparing us," I stand, "get out."

"I liked it better when it was silent," he spits and falters no more before going to the front door and slamming it shut.

I break down immediately under the stress and pressure. The only reason I went off at Matty is because I'm angry at my parents, I needed a release, something to take my anger out on when my own mum won't listen to a word I say. I sit on the couch and cry, curling myself up and grabbing a pillow until I know there's no possible way I'll stop crying tonight.

I drag myself up the stairs, sniffling a little louder as I pass my mum's bedroom, hoping that maybe she'll hear and try to comfort me. But my attempt is useless, pointless and to no avail. I throw myself onto my bed and crawl under the covers, ignoring the banging on the front door until my phone buzzes from my hand. I know it's Matty, I could hear him shouting from the front door.

"What?" I sniff.

"I didn't mean to make you cry," he says into the receiver.

"You didn't make me cry."

"It sure sounds like it," he sighs, "I'm sorry, really. I didn't mean to get you so mad, I didn't know it was a sensitive topic."

"We can't be friends."

It's a spur of the moment decision, but it feels right. Having friends doesn't work for me, not right now when I'm emotional and stressed and dragging myself down each time I so much as think about my parents – which for the most part, is majority of the time. So much of my life is oriented around my mum and dad; it's too difficult to not let it get to me. I don't have the effort for friends or friendships that aren't going to fall to shit and hurt me again.

"Don't be stupid, Issy," Matty tries, but I force myself to have none of it.

"I appreciate the effort, but I can't be your best friend, I can't be your friend."

"You're being dramatic, please let me in," I can almost hear him rolling his eyes.

"Don't call me Issy, don't talk to me... I need space."

"Okay, fine." And he hangs up, just like that.

I hear the gate swing shut as he leaves and it causes me to cry again. This time I don't answer my buzzing phone, leaving it to ring out while I cry until my sore eyes can no longer stay open. But my phone keeps buzzing, right into the night and to the point of waking me up. Perhaps it hadn't rung the entire time, but I'm awake and I'm staring at the bright screen trying to read the words.