The Journalist (A Tom Hiddleston Fanfiction)

Seven

You never finish with anyone while they can still make you angry.

--

You reread this, the second email from Tom, while curled up on the bench before the bay window in your new place. You've got your tablet settled on your knees as you bask in the sunlight pouring in the window. He hasn't asked for your new number, yet, or asked to see the new place. He sent an email making sure you'd gotten settled, waited a week, then sent this one.

To his credit, he hadn't offered to help you search for a place, or if you needed help moving in. He hasn't been pushing at all. As per your wishes he's giving you space, waiting for you to make up your mind. It's clear that he'd like nothing more than to do all those things, or just have you move back in. You've gotten good at reading between the lines of carefully chosen text.

You're not ready for that, yet. No, you can't even decide if you're going to send the key back to him or try to work through things with him. Moving back in? That's advancing so far beyond the barriers you've yet to hurdle.

Yesterday you'd actually removed the key from the ring and set the thing on the counter, determined that you would rid yourself of it, and of him. It had been a particularly bad day at work. Three weeks hence and still you catch some of your coworkers giving you prolonged looks as you walk by, whispering in hushed tones. 

Truthfully, though you're loathe to admit it, it will probably never change. Years from now when you've moved on to someplace new, just when you think it is all behind you, someone will undoubtedly get that look of recognition in their eye and ask - "Wait... wasn't that you?" – and then you'll be right back here again, reliving it all.

For now you find ways to stomach the knowing looks. At least they've the decency now to murmur their sniggered comments. In the first few days post-incident, they hadn't even bothered to lower their voices.

How exactly you managed to survive the first few days back at work you'll never know.

Wine. Lots and lots of wine.

And Sam putting an end to the zoo-exhibit that was your cubicle.

So yes, yesterday you'd endured enough for one day. You'd stormed into the new place. A massive heave – your full weight against the stubborn door – had been required to grant you access. Goddamn door had been stuck fast even after unlocking it, only adding to the pains of the day.

Bare bones rooms greeted you. You found yourself missing home – missing him.

The drink hadn't even put a dent in your frustrations.

Anyway, attempting to drown your sorrows is no way to cope. Wine glass then pushed aside you'd fumed at the soreness to your shoulder. If you hadn't had to move, your shoulder wouldn't be throbbing – if Tom hadn't thrown you out you wouldn't be trying to force yourself to ignore your heart.

No, it was unfair to focus solely on his actions.

If you'd refused to bend to his anger, if you'd had more of a backbone in the face of his wrath.

You'd had nothing to prepare for the stream of words against your profession.

But he had kept his opinions, those necessary details from his past, quiet. He hadn't shown you trust. He should have shown you trust. If he kept that secret what else had he kept from you? Secrets only weaken relationships.

On and on you spiral.

If you hadn't kept the photos on your phone. If you'd chosen a different profession.

If – if – if.

You continue to list out points against the both of you. There were so many things to consider. Somehow you always ended up with the same final thought: you had stuck your nose up at fate when you chose to date a celebrity.