"Fuck, that doesn't even make sense! You're a terrible songwriter. Who even put you on this job?" Patrick asked angrily. You slammed your pen down on the desk before crumpling the paper and throwing it somewhere.
"Well, if you just acted kindly and helped me out with it instead of just sitting there and watching me fail, we would've been done an hour ago."
"Listen, pencil neck, I don't tell you how to do your job, you don't tell me how to do mine."
You ran your hands through your hair before looking him in the eye. "I don't even see how Pete thinks that this will actually work us out. You're an asshole."
"So I'm the asshole?" he asked in disbelief.
"Oh, no! You're a fucking angel. You're so kind and generous that my heart melts for you," you retorted sarcastically. He ran a hand through his hair, pulled his fedora off and faced the door, giving you a view of his jawline. Shit, he was hot.
"I'm leaving. Tell Pete to kick me out of the band or whatever." He stood up and left the room, slamming the door along with it. You sighed and took another piece of paper before writing some lyrics down.
You liked him. Of course you did. You fell for him the second you laid your eyes on him just like a cliché love story. But he hated you; or that's what you previously knew. He allegedly had a crush on you, but you weren't believing that even though it came straight from his mouth; his words, his breaths, his body. You thought to yourself that if he loved you, he would've told you sooner.
You ripped the portion that you wrote on and stuffed it loosely inside your pocket and leaving the room.
Meanwhile, Patrick was locked up in his dressing room, throwing whatever his eyes laid on across the room. He slammed his hands on the coffee table and groaned. "Why can't I stop this? I like her. I do. But I don't understand. Yes, I look for the flaws in her, but does that actually help me with my situation? It just makes me love her more."
He took out his phone and wrote some lyrics down, wanting to spit out the feelings he had. Luckily, he managed not to break his phone amidst how hard he was tapping and sighed.
When you're feeling petty and overwrought;
I'll be there to be your target, you can throw me what you got.
I will take it with a smile,
you can dole it without shame.
"Patrick?" Pete asked as he opened the door and poked his head inside. "I thought you were writing?"
Patrick stayed silent. "What's wrong, buddy?" Pete checked, sitting beside the vocalist. He was always this concerned about his best friend.
"It's (Y/N). Am I-am I unlikeable? Do people hate me?" Patrick finally asked. Pete raised his eyebrow and sighed.
"I found this on the ground somewhere near my dressing room. I think it's from (Y/N). It looks like her handwriting. What I'm trying to say is that maybe this will give you hope that maybe she likes you." Pete handed the piece of paper to his best friend. Patrick's eyes immediately scanned the paper.
I'm not bluffing;
you should've been a friend of mine.
"This is bullshit," Patrick mumbled. "'You should've been a friend of mine'? What does that even mean?"
"If you just stopped being mad at nothing and stopped wasting time denying your feelings for her, you could've actually been friends and you could've had a shot with her. You blew it, man. You fucked up real bad." Pete stood up and left the room, leaving Patrick in ruins.
To be continued...