𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐪𝐮𝐞 | machine gun kelly

35

WHAT WAS THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN running and leaving? Or between quitting and escaping? Weren't they all just words for the same act? Words that each held a different intention for the same thing. Different reasons for the same performance.

But what should I call mine own? As the earliest daylight hit and I snaked my body out of bed, away from Colson Baker's sleeping form, and forced myself into the bathroom. What should I call my own performance, when after twenty minutes I had freshened up, dressed, grabbed hold of my packed suitcase and my phone.

What should I call my own act when I clicked the hotel room door quietly shut behind me and quickly rechecked my purse for my plane ticket to Seattle in the corridor?

Perhaps it was escaping and running in equal measure, and it stemmed from fear.

Why hadn't I ever learned to trust words? Why must actions only appease me? Why couldn't I have been as naïve with Colson as I was when I had met Trippie?

"Because I'm fucking in love with you Davina," His words from last night still echoed in my head.

He had said them, with conviction and the most passion I had ever heard in his voice, but then? Then, he had pulled out a joint, a lighter, and had left the room, only to return in the dead of the night. He had pulled himself into bed and rolled right to sleep, without acknowledging the anxious form laying beside that had been waiting and worrying about him— me.

You don't just leave like that after you confess your love to someone. You don't pretend like you haven't said it, you don't. Had Colson ever implied that he loves me before? He hadn't, not even in passing, so why should his first confession be like this? Why didn't he at least face me, to show me the love he felt through his eyes or through his touch. Why didn't he?

I deserve to be loved, does anyone else deserve less?

But what do you do when that love is only verbal and you don't see it, feel it, sense it, elsewhere?

Had the night we shared even been real? Or was it just sex, with me romanticizing it to become something it wasn't? Was I this desperately blind and head over heels? To feel something when it wasn't there?

I had decided then. When Colson had tumbled to sleep smelling of his joint and that musk he always has on him. I had decided to leave, to run, to escape.

I was taking the plane and going to Seattle and Colson's words of love wouldn't stop me.

I took a cab to the Balmain venue of last night first, and found some of the staff inside, including the infamous Claire Randolph with her pressed sleek hair and glistening red lips stark against her pale skin.

"You have an offer on your dress," She told me, her tone ever so formal as her heels clicked against the floors as she led me inside to a glass showcase hung on a wall in a backroom, with the dress I had designed inside.

The place seemed silent, without the buzzing of anxious assistants and workers running around with wheeled racks and models with chatter spilling from their lips.

"An offer?" I asked startled. Who would want to buy my dress?

"Yes," Claire smiled. "A customer by the name of Monsieur Antoine Gaston. He chose your dress last night and wishes to purchase it. We told him the dress has not yet a price since it had not been showcased on the runway with the intention of a sale, but Monsieur was adamant."

I swallowed, the surprise still swelling inside me.

"I—I don't know what to say," I stammered.

"He is willing to settle on any price you ask. I must say, his wife might certainly be a hard person to please."