Demi Lovato Imagines

Listen Closely pt.2

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ddrrrriiiingggg

You pull the phone slightly away from your ear as if that will make it hurt less when the metallic voice starts speaking telling you that the number you have dialled is no longer in service. It's not like you hadn't expected this though. It's not like you thought, five years later, she would still have the same phone nor the same network contract. And, in complete honesty, it's not like you still held out hope that the number she gave you was even real. With all the optimism beaten out of you through school, many may call you a pessimist. You just see yourself as a realist. 

Holding your breath, waiting for some pizza delivery place to click on and ask for your order, her voice appears. 

"Hello?"

The air stays in your lungs like there's a stopper jammed down your throat preventing it from escaping. Your chest starts to burn.

"Hellooo?" she says again, voice drenched in tired agitation. Finally, you manage to choke out a response. 

"Hi."

There's a pause. A long one. And suddenly you wish you'd written some sort of script. 

"Who is this?" she asks after a faint crackle, probably her looking at the screen to check the caller ID. You do the same, tapping on loudspeaker and setting the phone on your desk, leaning back in the chair to try and dupe your own body into relaxing. 

"It's Y/n," you say, then, a second later, "You probably don't remember me, though."

There's another pause. 

"Y/n who?"

She doesn't know your last name. You never told her. That night was wholly spent by you trying desperately to escape - the arena; Melissa; Demi's dressing room. 

"Y/n Y/l/n. I came to your show in twenty-seventeen? At the Cammes Centre in Nebraska? You, um, you cleaned up my, um...my face..."

Shame burns the tips of your ears and you're tempted to slide the phone away from you, across the desk, until it hits the frame of the open window and tips out. 

"Hold on a sec," she says and you hear more crackling. Then the sound of footsteps as the hum of background noise gradually disappears. 

"Okay, here we go. Sorry, I needed to go somewhere quieter. I've got people round for a meeting."

"Oh God," you say, dropping your head and pressing the heels of your hands into your eye sockets, stars exploding across your vision. "I don't want to interrupt! Please, I can...I can phone back another time, it's not a big deal, I-..."

Your ears are so hot now, they make the sides of your skull hurt. It's clear she has no idea who you are, no memory of that night which you've carried with you every day since. And here you are, expecting more. Expecting more time from the woman who has little to spare. You go to apologise again, hand reaching for the 'end call' button. 

"No, it's alright, Y/n. Honest."

You freeze, trying to work out whether the way she said your name indicated recognition or simply politeness. 

"You sure?"

"Yes!" she laughs, "Completely. I've wanted a reason to leave for ages and so you're the perfect excuse."

You can almost hear her smile down the line and your insides start to relax, first from your kidneys, spreading outwards until your shoulders drop down from the ceiling. 

"So, you calling to thank me then?"

"I'm sorry?"

"For that night? For my amazing, inspiring, motivational pep-talk I gave you?"