Demi Lovato Imagines

Fight pt. 2

You're lying on the bed, listening to the shower run from the bathroom next door. 

And there's a pit of dread in your stomach. That pain that claws up your spine to your chest then spills out into your lungs, making you feel like you're suffocating on your own misery. 

But hey - this might just be a misunderstanding...mightn't it?

I mean, that text could mean anything! It could be...um...it could be her sister? You know, just wanting to have another movie night? Or...it could be Marissa? Yeah, it could just be Marissa asking after Demi.

But Marissa wasn't at work with Demi. She was still here in LA.

And Marissa isn't saved as an unknown number on Demi's phone. 

Who am I kidding?

So consumed in your attempts to rationalise the text message, you hadn't even realised that the water had stopped running. The sound of Demi walking through to the bedroom drowned out by the heavy thumping in your chest as it worked to keep you alive, battling against the sticky terror coating your internal organs. 

As your girlfriend came into sight, she gave you a small smile as she pulled off the towel wrapped around her hair, shaking her tresses out. Everything seemed normal. Normal: as in the 'normal' you guys had felt before she left for work. The 'normal' that didn't include the huge argument you two had like 10 minutes ago. 'Normal' in the best way possible. 

And you were about to ruin it. 

About to take that phone that is lying on the bed and confront her about the text. And tell her that you were done with the bullshit and that she needed to have respect for you as much as you have respect for her.  And then ignore her as she tries to deny anything ever happening, grovelling at your feet for you to believe her. Ignore her as she plays the card about her being desperate. Or sad. Or depressed. Or lonely. Because you were done.

You were sick and tired of it. 

And it wasn't worth it anymore. 

"Y/n?" you watch as Demi looks at you with questioning eyes. She's standing in just her underwear and a t-shirt to sleep in. Her hair is still damp from the shower and her face is void of any makeup. She looks beautiful. No wonder she can get any person to sleep with her. 

"Huh?" you reply, automatically. Like a student who was just caught out for daydreaming in class. Feeling indebted to the teacher who was obviously asking a question. 

You're already on the backfoot. Way to go, Einstein. 

"Are you alright?" Demi repeats, giving you another small smirk as she busies herself around the room. You wonder if she really wants to hear the answer. Whether she really cares. 

Refusing to let yourself be pushed under the riptide of her voice, preventing you from getting answers, you quickly grab her phone that is still lying beside you. It's not until you hold it up in front of you, displaying the notification on the screen, that she stops dead in her tracks. 

"What are yo--, I mean...what are you doing with my phone, Y/n?" she corrects herself, and you see her try to extinguish a fury behind her expression. Trying not to make it seem like she's freaking out over some invasion of privacy or whatever. Trying to look 'normal' herself. 

"You got a message," you say. Monotone. Curious to see if she will figure it out. 

"...yeah?" she rebuffs, and you're not sure what your next move should be. To manoeuvre a knight or to conquer the queen. Your mental chessboard is overcrowded with pieces - reminding you how this was no simple match. Demi was smart. And rich. And you were not in a - what you would call - serious relationship. Not by her standards. You two didn't have the 6-year history she has been used to. And it made you shudder to think that you were just one of many ivory statues that she used at her leisure. Easy dispensible. Small and inconsequential. Invisible on the black and white tiles.