JJ Maybank Imagines

[f] You Both Regret Your Break-Up Pt. 2

[FLUFF] : y/n

———

Your eyes crack open the tiniest bit. Lifting your hand, your fingers rub your eyes.

It's so bright and you're having trouble keeping your eyes open for more than a few seconds at a time, so naturally your eyes squeeze back shut. 

Rolling over, your arm brushes over JJ's side of the bed, but you don't feel anything.

Blinking a few times, you gradually fight off the fatigue and lift your head just high enough to realize he's not here.

He's left.

"You're kidding," you murmur under your breath, trying to ignore the drop in your stomach. 

It didn't work. Not right now, anyways.

You'd thought if you pretended hard enough, you might have convinced yourself that you would be okay. Clearly, you needed to try a little harder. 

You fall back on the bed, letting your hair cover your face and you don't even make an effort to brush it off. Rubbing your face, you try to remember last night's events in the full.

Your memory was never particularly good, but even you, drunk and all, could remember the happenings from yesterday evening.

You cursed, wishing to hell you had never woken up. At least that way you wouldn't be forced to bathe in your own misery and loneliness.

Biting the inside of your cheek, you force yourself to get out of bed.

The stairs creeks under your feet after you make your way out of the bathroom, heading downstairs, and you marvel at the fact that the house seems thoroughly de JJ-ed. Every trace of him is gone. 

You recognize the feeling of tightness in your throat, the same one that occurred the first time he'd disappeared. 

Swallowing harshly, you enter the kitchen for a cup of water.

You pause for a few seconds when you notice the note stuck to the fridge with a magnet.

It's small, just a random page ripped from the newspaper, and you can instantly recognize JJ's large, scratchy printing.

Thanks for last night

That's all. That is what covers the face of the note. Four words.

You stand there for a few minutes before placing your cup back on the counter, the cheap plastic emitting a little clink.

Ripping the note off the fridge, the magnet flies off the fridge landing somewhere in the house. You feel a strange mix of regret and humiliation in your chest, threatening to manifest as tears. 

"That's all?" You ask yourself, hands shaking with rage and heartache all at once. "I gave him . . . And I—that's all I get?"

You become even more frustrated, struggling to form complete sentences and thoughts because everything seems to be spinning and it's dizzying.

You forfeit and slump against the drawers and cabinets behind you. You can't handle this standing up.

You can feel the sharp corners poking your skin as you crumple the note in your hand, holding it closer to you.

You don't want to cry—that's the last thing you want, really. You've spent enough time crying and thinking about everything, but by now you don't realize you're crying until you taste the salt on your lip. 

For once, you have no thoughts, no voice in your head. It's like everything around you is abstaining from making noise for the sake of your feelings. Your eyes stare off, but they don't register anything in particular. You just sit, letting your back become numb against the kitchen drawers.