Benedict Cumberbatch Imagine- The Girl in the Window

Love Does That

You didn’t go the Desolation of Smaug premiere together.  And of course that raised questions. 

It’s not as though every celebrity relationship is under deadly scrutiny, tending to be fatal.  And yours and Ben’s certainly was not an exception.   The fact that you were not what anyone would consider special in the eye of the media set you up for the lower end of the disease of the paparazzi.  But under the circumstances of your relationship with him sparked thorough questions and interviews, shippers and haters.  The heat of the spotlight was far more intense then it would have been had you lived beside and fallen in love with a boy who did not have substantial talent and looks that granted him hard earned international fame and adoration.

But you had, and it had impacted the both of you.  You could no longer go on the streets without being stopped or stared at.  You and Ben could not enjoy the simplicity of ordering a coffee and sitting down at a café, talk about nothing.  The privilege of privacy of your love life was shattered, and you struggled to find a grip in the life after a time.  After Christmas, actually.

The Desolation of Smaug premiere had been out of question for you, not because of issues between you and Ben: there had been no such thing at the time.  But instead because of work.  You had been required to work, and hard, due to rigid deadlines that would decide a rather important chunk of your fate.  And so of course, despite how it pained you, Benedict appeared on the carpet in his stunning velvet jacket without you beside him.  

It all began then. 

The questions, the speculations.  Trivia so intense that it made the two of you wonder, think, a subtle paranoia settling secretly in your stomachs.  Articles dripping seething blind hatred were published, blogs of hate, though not plentiful, were just as down putting had there been an army throwing daggers at your chest.  And Ben did not speak of it.  Not because of ignorance, but because you brushed it off, telling him not to worry, mistakenly thinking that the seed the words had planted would not grow.  But they did.  Oh, they did.

There is a purpose to love.  It is meant to challenge, to make you think, stop and question why on earth you would dedicate your life to another human being, with a heart as fallible as your own.  It is meant to hurt: love.  You are meant to cry, to scream, to fall to your knees and beg for forgiveness.  Love is kind, it is strong and everlasting: if it is honest, and true.  If you treat it as mutual, and not a mere favour. 

And you had begun to doubt, doubt that you deserved him, that it was a love made of love, not consideration.  And you had voiced that. 

It was the end of a beautiful day.

“Do you not love me then?  Do you wish to be rid of me?  Tell me!!  Please!” he begged, a delicate anger in his voice

Tears had built in your throat, but you pushed them at bay: you could not show how much it pained you.

“I love you Benedict, I do!  Like I love air in my lungs: I crave you.”

“Then what is the bloody problem?!” he rumbled, reaching for you.  And you flinched.  His eyes widened in pain, a strange glaze appearing over the galaxies.  You could swear his heart broke and struck the air shattered.  But you continued to push him away.

“I can’t do it, Ben!  All of it, any of it!”

“What the hell am I supposed to say to that, […]?!”

“Say that you understand!”

“I don’t though!  How the fuck could I understand?!”

“It hurts!”

“Loving me?” he choked.

“No!  Absolutely not!”

“Then what is it?!” he demanded

“It’s what they say!  About me, about you: us.”

“Don’t let them win, darling.  Don’t give them what they want.”

“But that’s the thing, Ben!  They have won.  They have gotten what they want; I can’t love you when they are screaming doubt in my ear.  I can’t lay beside you at night and not think about all the people who hate me because I love you!”

“What the hell does that matter?  To Hell with them!   I love you, […]. And I will not stop because a group of twats can’t handle the fact that we are happy.”

“Are we though?”

“What?  What are you saying.  […].  What are you trying to tell me?”

Silence.

“WHAT THE HELL, […]?!  I thought you were happy!  I thought that you loved me-”

“I do!”

“You just told me otherwise!”

You could only shake your head.  “This- we- aren’t right.” You told him shakily

“It is right.”

“It’s not right, not right now.”

“How can-”

“I don’t deserve you!” you blurted out.

“I don’t deserve you.” he countered.

You fumbled for words and he stepped towards you.  You refused to sink into his familiar touch.  And he broke.

“What do you want me to do?” he asked unsteadily.

“I want you to let me go.”  Tears had begun to leak past your eyes involuntarily, thudding dully onto the floor.  Ben was far past caring about whether or not he was crying: he was.

“I can’t.  I can’t do that.”

“I’m not giving you a choice!”

He would have spoken, he would have made you stay with just words.  But you never gave him the chance.

“Let me go, Benedict!!” you shouted angrily.  He stood there numbly, mouth wide, eyes glazed, his head shaking in disbelief.  You forced a breath into your lungs and turned to the door, your fingers fumbling to tie your coat as you reached for your bag, your hand opening the door.  

You had packed most of your things, but your trinkets and things were still about the place, your pillows still smiling from the couch. 

The sun was setting outside.  A sunny Sunday evening.  The second day of a New Year.

He strode over to you easily, his hands snatching your waist and bringing you tight to him, lips crushing against yours in a dire last grasp at love.   And you near sunk into it, break down and fall into his arms, knowing that it was where you belonged.  But you stood there blankly until his lips left your unresponsive ones, his tears wet and fresh on your cheeks, your own trapped in your throat, tearing your chest into shreds.  His hands cupped your face as he looked desperately into your eyes, his lips failing to form words.  Devastation.

You tore yourself from his arms and turned on your heel. 

You didn’t cry until you were in the cab.

It was a Sunday, sunny.  The sun was setting in gorgeous colour.  But it was not beautiful.

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I’m just going to leave you with that for a bit.

(Laughs manically whilst dancing satanically)  

I made the dialogue that way because I didnt want to force emotion into it.  I want the words the speak for themselves and so that you can hear them in your voice, not mine.