Demi Lovato Imagines

Same but different pt.2

TW - self harm

You bite your bottom lip hard, dragging the stinging blade smoothly across your wrist. The line that bubbles red is impeccably straight as if you'd taken a ruler to it. It's just practice, though. Weeks of practice. And you've got a whole lot of evidence to prove it.

You are careful, though. That, you make sure of. Your marred skin is confined only to the underside of your wrist and the area around the waistband if your jeans. It's almost ironic. The high-rise women's cut is perfect for hiding away the evidence, more so than your baggy men's jeans ever were. It's like the universe is saying - yeah, have it your way. If you wanna be a woman, go for it. But you can't have it all. You can't be happy. You can't stop the cutting. And it sucks because you used to think that being a woman was the only thing that would make you happy. But you've been wrong about a lot of things lately, it turns out.

Like how you thought Demi would accept you for coming out to her. At the very least, you didn't think she would go off on a press tour for three months and never check in with you. You didn't think you would get to day eighty-four without even a text asking how you are. I mean, you get it. She's busy. And she has more important things to worry about that some friend who apparently is a lot more clingy than they first thought they were. So it's your fault then. It must be. You're the one who thought everything would be fine and there wouldn't be any need to doubt Demi's friendship. You're the one with unrealistic expectations.

The sound of the doorbell barges into your thoughts with a jolt, causing you to drop the blade onto the tiled floor with a chink. Shit. Pressing your hot palm over your wrist, you try to wipe away the blood, smearing it up the length of your arm. Your head spins. The doorbell rings again. Grabbing a wad of toilet paper, you rub fervently at your arm until the only redness if from your irritated skin. Throwing everything to the floor, you walk hastily through the house to the front door. Only when you open it do you remember to plaster on a smile.

"Hey, Y/n!"

"Demi?"

"Miss me?" she laughs, holding her arms out for a hug.

Without missing a beat, you step forward and fall into her embrace, breathing in the scent you've missed so much. Eventually, you step back, holding her out at arm's length.

"What are you doing here?" you choke. She just smiles knowingly but, to be honest, you demand an answer. An answer for the last three months of silence.

"I thought you weren't supposed to be back until a week on Tuesday?" you prompt, letting her know you're still on the topic. She shrugs with a grin.

"I thought I'd surprise you! My manager moved some things around."

You stand with your mouth hanging open, not quite wanting to believe that she was really back. Because this is too good to be true, right? Demi's your best friend, your only friend. She's the one person you can count on to make you feel better. But she's also the person you are most desperate to hide your struggles from. Because if she finds out about what you've been doing...she'll force you to get help. She'll force you to speak to someone about things you don't want to speak about. She's that friend who calls you out if you're being unhealthy or unsafe, even if you don't want to hear it.

So why hasn't she texted you?

You shake that last niggling question out of your head, pressing your arms tight against your sides.

"Well? Are you gonna invite me in or are we just going to stand out here all evening?" she jibes, giving you a friendly smirk as you step back and let her past into the vestibule. The sudden panic of her going upstairs to the bathroom overwhelms you and it feels as if someone has just grabbed you by the gullet. Demi ambles through the house into the kitchen, grabbing a glass from the cabinet and pouring herself some water from the tap. You stand awkwardly at the edge of the room, counting your breaths.