(Y/F/N) = Your Friend's Name
It's been about a month since you and Patrick broke up.
You have no idea what's he been doing since he left. When he came by to grab his things a week after your falling out, the only words exchanged between you two were "Hey" and "Hey" along with "Do you know where my favorite shirt is? I can't find it" and "No I don't know where your favorite shirt is" as well as an argument about how he insists you stay here because you have nowhere to go.
Your mom, stepdad, and stepsister are moving out of state, your mom told you that at the mall. Your biological dad is of no help either, he's always traveling and doesn't even talk to you except on your birthday - even then it's not really talking to him, it's just some pathetic postcards he got from whatever places he'd been to in the last 359 days that you receive in the mail. Your best friend is married and has a daughter - of course she, without a doubt, will let you stay with her, since you had done the same thing when her and her then-boyfriend were having issues themselves, but you think that after a while things would get weird, her husband would probably want you out of the house and you just didn't want to deal with that.
So there you are, still living the house you used to live in with Patrick, thinking how it's not right that you're in living in the house he bought.
You don't know where he's been staying or what he's been doing for money, more importantly, you don't know how well he's been taking the separation. He showed no emotion when he came back to retrieve his belongings.
As for you, you are't taking the breakup poorly, but you're not taking it well either. You put on a show when you're in public, when you're around people, but when you're home alone, you're a complete mess. You wear sweatpants and a loose t-shirt. Your hair is a mess and mascara streaks your sticky cheeks. Your nose is constantly in flux from running off your face to being stuffy, and your eyes are always red and puffy.
Eight years, you think, Eight years of my life I spent with that man. And for what? For him and me to grow apart and agree that some time apart will be good for the two of us?
Yes, you were unhappy. He was too. It was obvious.
But being away from him makes you more unhappy. You can't even begin to imagine what the pain is going to be like a few years from now.
You imagine he'll probably have a wife by then. A beautiful wife who mothered the son or daughter he's always wanted but you never gave him. They'll be living in a nice house, nicer than the one the two of you lived in, and they'll be happy. Way happier than the two of you were.
As for you? You picture yourself to be alone and miserable, with maybe ten cats and empty buckets of ice cream scattered about the house. You'll hear his song on the radio and you'll start to believe that he was better off without you. That you only held him back. Eight years and he could've been something bigger than what he was.
That's the last thing you want to happen, so you're tempted to just apologize to him and beg for him back, but your friend tells you not to.
"You need to move on, (Y/N)," She tells you.
Your friend called you up and invited you over. You at first objected, but she somehow persuaded you to come. You cleaned yourself up and there you were, sitting in your friend's daughter's bedroom at a small white table with matching chairs. On the table is an entire plastic tea set. Her daughter is preoccupied talking to the other guests, which are her stuffed animals, while you and your friend talk about your situation with Patrick.
"You need to meet someone else," She suggests.
"But I don't want to meet someone else," You mutter, pulling out your phone and looking at your background - which is of you and Patrick. You haven't changed it yet and you don't plan on changing it anytime soon.
"Hey!" Your friend's daughter snaps at you, "No phones at the tea party table!"
Your friend rolls her eyes, annoyed.
You sigh and comply with your friend's daughter's wishes, pocketing your cell phone.
"Come on, (Y/N)," Your friend remarks as her daugher goes back to talking to herself, "You can't keep moping about. I'm sure Patrick's moved on already, and you should too."
"I was with him for eight years, (Y/F/N). I can't just simply 'move on'," You snap at your friend, "And how do you know he's moved on? For all I know, he could be the same way I am." You cross your arms.