Demi Lovato Imagines

Bad Date

"What's up, squirt?"

You ignore her, pacing down towards the kitchen, the reverberation of the front door following in your wake. Grabbing a glass from the top cupboard, you turn the faucet on full, letting the cold water gush up and spill over the lip, soaking your sleeve. You leave it running, staring into the stream, unblinking. 

"Hey-"

The water stops. Her hand appears in your vision, twisting the tap. 

"-What's wrong?"

You breathe deeply, in through your nose then out the tiniest gap between your lips. In the corner of your vision, you see her lean her elbow on the counter so she can see your face better. Angling away, you lift the glass, taking long gulps until it's empty and your chest burns from the cold. When you finally place it down with more force than was strictly necessary, you reply. 

"Nothing. It's nothing, Demi."

"Doesn't look like nothing."

"Just leave it!" you shout, whipping your hands up to your ears. 

She shirks back slightly but slowly sinks back into the relaxed pose she was just assuming. You can't tell whether you're annoyed by that or not. 

"Tell me."

"What?"

"Tell me what you're so upset about."

Scoffing, you turn away and reach down under the stove for a saucepan. 

"I'm not upset."

"Yes, you are."

"What, you a mind reader now?" you bite back, not even turning around but donning a sharp expression all the same. 

"It doesn't take a mind reader to know," she says softly. Her gentleness, her sympathy, makes your heckles rise as you pour a glug of oil into the pan and turning on the gas. As you wait for it to shimmer, you feel the silence weighing down heavier on your shoulders. 

"I'm not upset," you repeat, "I'm just frustrated."

You wait to hear her move, to walk closer and put a hand on your shoulder, or go and take a seat at the kitchen table. But you hear nothing. She doesn't move. 

"Okay, frustrated then. About what?"

Grabbing one of the peppers from the bowl by the spice rack, you cut it in half, then slice it into thin strips without the care you usually exert when cooking. You want enough time to pass that she ends up asking a different question. One you'd rather answer. But the silence is oppressive now, cutting into your skin as it presses you further into the floor. You're acutely aware of how much the balls of your feet ache. But maybe that's just from the long walk home. 

"It's stupid. I told you, just leave it."

"Tell me, Y/n. I want to know."

You roll your eyes, narrowly missing slicing your own finger off before you toss everything into the pan, hearing it sizzle. Demi's changed now you're both older. She used to have no time for your issues. You remember sitting outside her bedroom, fake-crying about the latest drama at school or at your athletics club. You remember making your stories sound more and more shocking, inventing whatever you could that might lure her out and get her to give you the attention you craved. It never worked. Eventually, your mom would peak her head up through the bannisters of the stairs and tell you to stop bothering your sister, she's just got back from tour! She just wants time by herself! Come down and help me with dinner. She'll speak to you then.