She sits in a wooden chair stiffly, her back aching from the long-term contact. The dark green walls surrounding her clash with the indigo carpet quite awfully. There is a window next to the large piano in front of her. It is raining.
How fitting.
Her long mahogany hair is pulled up into a messy bun; her normally green eyes are bloodshot red, ringed with the pink of outpouring tear ducts. She should thank Eleanor for loaning her waterproof mascara, but she can’t.
She can’t find it inside of her to be thankful at all.
She picks at her black nail polish, chipping it piece by piece. Her black dress clings to her—wrongwrongwrongwrong; her heels give her blisters. Her silver inscribed bracelet feels hot on her cold skin. She chews on the inside of her cheek, and eventually tastes the metallic substance of blood. She’s finally able to stop crying, but not because of her own free will.
She simply runs out of tears.
Her hands are freezing, but she doubts she will ever be warm again. Right now she remembers everything—everything that will ever be important. Everything that matters. Right now she remembers his favorite jumper, how he always complimented her—even when she was wearing sweats. How he wouldn’t leave her alone when she was upset. How he always managed to taste of rain and peppermint when they kissed.
Eventually though, she would forget the exact feel of her hand in his, forget the clean scent of his hair.
“Come back,” she whispers for the tenth, hundredth, thousandth time, “Come back.”
Tears rush to her eyes—apparently she wasn’t finished feeling pity for herself. She brushes them away, and half-heartedly waits to hear his reply.
Always waiting, always hoping.
Nonstop.
She gently hums to herself—maybe if she does it loud enough the horrible, retched thoughts would just disappear from her deluded mind.
“Olivia?” A voice breaks her out of her trance.
Louis Tomlinson stands in front of her, his eyes nearly identical to hers. They have been for a while, ever since—
“Don’t!” She shouts at herself, “Don’t think about it. Don’t you dare.” She manages to give him a smile that comes out more like a grimace.
“Hey Lou.”
He crouches in front of her, grabbing both her hands within his own. “How’s it going?”
“It’s…going,” She manages to get out. He gives her a slight smile, but it falls after his next words.
“It’s almost time.”
She chokes back her tears, hoping, praying, begging that this was just some horrible nightmare; some absolutely sick trick that her mind played on her.
“I hate funerals,” Louis mumbles.
A thousand memories race through her mind.
.
.
She’s sixteen. Just dropped out of high school. Her mom’s pissed….really pissed. She couldn’t care less. Why bother waste time in that hell hole when she could be out in the real world actually living her life. What could possibly be better than that?
She left home, snapped her phone in half so no one could contact her, and broke into her mom’s savings account.
That money was supposed to go towards college—but you can’t go without a high school diploma, right? It was just such a waste to leave it rotting in the bank.
