I'm sorry doesn't fix my feelings

Prolonged regrets

Friday December 16, 2016

I sighed and dropped my backpack on the floor as I kicked off my shoes and collapsed on the bed. I pulled of my sweaty tee shirt. It's been exactly eight days since I broke up with my boyfriend, Justin.

I don't know why I did it. There was no fight, no problem, no nothing, except stress. My parents even approved of him.

On top of finals, papers, exams, and projects, I have collage forms to worry about. And of course, my band, our band, Revenge for Roses.

He didn't understand what I was going through. I manage our gigs, on top of homework and our relationship.

I'm the lead singer, but also lead guitarist. Justin plays Bass, Max plays rhythm guitar, and Louis plays drums.

Justin knows that I write. We write some songs together, but I write most on my own. What he doesn't know, is how many songs.

I have notebooks upon notebooks of unused songs, ideas, lyrics, and drawings. Yes, drawings. These he doesn't know about at all. The notebooks on the bottom of my bookshelf he must assume that they are either notes, journals, or he just doesn't know about them.

I miss him. I want him back. I want to kiss him, softly and slowly one more time. I fucked up. I want to go back. I don't know if I can.

No, two days of school left, then winter break. I can be done with him. Done with everyone. Stay inside and hibernate. I can find a new bassist, right? I don't need him, but I do.

I can't even stop the tears streaming down my cheeks as I cry. I don't cry, I sob, I scream. I want him back. I pick up my phone.

I don't even bother to calm down. I wipe my cheek and eyes with my blanket and dial his number.

One ring....
Two rings....
He picks up.

It's a Friday. I would assume he has moved on, at a party, drunk. With another girl. All over her. Kissing her, touching her, more.

He's not.
He's at home, in his room, I hear the soft, calming, rushing water of his fish tank.

"Justin..." I try before I start bawling. I can't go on. I can't breathe. I need him here, comforting me. Hugging me, holding me like old times. I sob into the line. "Please....come over I need you."

"It's okay baby. Calm down" Justin says into the phone. "I'll be there soon. Wait for me and don't move. And please, think before you act. No more cutting."

"Okay" I sniffle. I hear the jingle of his keys and he hangs up the phone. And I look down, not at my arms, but at my legs, my thighs. He knows. He's seen them. He's never said anything, but he knows. He knows why I don't wear booty shorts to shows, or a swimsuit in public. He's not oblivious, he still cares.

I cry and sob softly into my pillow. I'm home alone, I guess that's what happens when your parents almost never live at home because of work. Business trips. Not a billion dollar business. A family owned business said to make it to the top. If it was at the top, why do we still live here? A new house that they just had to build. Sure, it's nice, new, Average size, but it's not home. The slums we used to live in were more of a home than here. My parents haven't been home in months. Sure, they send money and call, but it's not the same. I would kill for a family movie night, for old times sake.