Imagines and One-Shots (Book Two)

Demons (Michael Clifford) - Part 2 *

He felt your body immediately relax as you stopped fighting him – you knew he was right – but that didn't mean he was going to let go of you just yet. He dropped to the floor and held you tightly against him.

"I know I haven't been the greatest at showing it, but I really do like you," he shook his head, "And I like you far too much to let you do something you'd regret halfway to the ground."

"I didn't regret it the first time; I'm not gonna regret it now," you growled, but you didn't try to escape anymore.

It was silent for a moment before you could feel Michael let out a breath, realization finally hitting him.

"That girl you were talking about..." he trailed off, "The one you said tried to jump at your old school... That was you, wasn't it...? You were talking about yourself...?" You let out a soft, dry laugh, Michael's arms falling from your waist as you crawled away from him to sit back against the balcony's railing.

"I guess we've all got our demons, don't we?" you said, not looking over at him but knowing he was looking at you.

"Y/N... I-"

"I don't want sympathy, Michael," you told him, "I don't want pity, and I certainly don't want that 'it gets better' bullshit."

"I wasn't gonna say that..." he whispered. You finally turned your head toward him, the look on your face prompting him to continue. "I was gonna say... Why choose me?" he asked shyly, "Why tell me about your demons?"

"I don't know," you answered honestly, looking at the clouds in the sky, "Maybe because you're the only person who would believe that I have them."

"What do you mean?"

"People who aren't victims of their own mind don't get it," you stated, "They don't see how someone so 'pretty and popular and rich'-" You rolled your eyes. "-can have the kinds of secrets I do. They think my life is perfect – that I have everything I could ever want – so I must be happy. But the only thing being rich gets me is weekly therapy sessions that aren't even working anymore; Can't choose not to go when they're the 'doctor's orders' though."

"Why'd the doctor order therapy?" he murmured.

"I tried to kill myself on school grounds in the middle of the day, Michael," you replied monotonously, "Why do you think?"

"Maybe you just need a different therapist," he suggested.

"My parents have an image to uphold," you said softly, "If they sent their kid to a therapist that wasn't 'the best damn one in town', they're convinced it'll ruin that image. They already think it's bad enough everyone knows I'm suicidal; They're not gonna risk people finding out I'm not going to a 'good therapist'."

"You've tried to switch already..."

"Of course I have!" you let out a broken sob, "I don't enjoy feeling the way I do all the time! What good is paying for therapy doing when it's not working anymore?! It's the same shit every time: go to the appointment, ask about how I'm feeling, talk about how I'm feeling to someone I know damn well isn't really listening, suggest new medications, deny new medication, end session, go home, continue feeling like shit! I don't need some stupid 'best therapist in town' bullshit; I need someone who listens and cares and stops brushing me off as someone who won't even make it to their 20's!"

By the time you finished ranting, you were full-on crying. You did your best to cover it up – you tried to slyly wipe your face – but Michael could still tell; He could hear it in your ragged breathing and broken whimpers.

And although he didn't know what to say, he figured he could give you some of what you wanted; He figured he could care.

Michael put his hand on the back of your head, pulling you so your face was pressed to his neck. He scratched at your scalp as you – without any prompting from him – climbed onto his lap and wrapped your legs around his waist. His other arm wound around your back while you clung onto him for dear life. As much as you hated when people saw this side of you, you wouldn't be the last to admit you were starting to feel a little better when you felt Michael's lips hit the side of your head and stay there.

But while you knew this wouldn't magically cure your depression, maybe you'd finally found something you never thought you'd have: a happy place.

And maybe your happy place was the nerd from your Chemistry class.

~

inspiration: http://imaginethesedorks.tumblr.com/post/105813976066/dance-dance-nerdy-ashton-imagine

https://ever-since-kiwi.tumblr.com/post/162258248496/the-train-part-three