"You don't fucking understand, Selena. I live and breathe the idea that we could be together. I haven't known you long and you've got this hold on me. I want to wake up to your face every god damn morning. I want to kiss you whenever I want. I want to hold your hand. God dammit, I want to fuck you senseless." Demi was yelling at me.
After she told me she wrote the song for me, I decided I could be honest with her and tell her that I had some sort of feelings for her, or I could deny them all together and lie. I opted to choose the latter. I told her I wasn't going to tell her I love her because I didn't. It was true, I didn't love her, however I did like her, a lot. And I wasn't certain she was in love with me like she claimed. There was no way. And there certainly was no way I was allowing her to pull down the denfenses that I put up and get to my heart.
I also stupidly decided that it'd be a smart idea to tell her that she didn't love me and that it seemed as though she didn't truly understand the meaning of love. That's when all hell broke loose. I knew it was a ridiculous thing to try and tell someone how they feel, but there was no way Demi could possibly have felt such strong feelings towards me in such a short time. Or maybe, she could have and it wasn't her that didn't know how to love, but I, who didn't know how to feel loved. This whole affection shit wasn't something I was used to. It was a new gesture and I didn't want it, at all.
"Can you calm down?" I asked her, my voice low.
"I will if you stop trying to tell me how I feel, dammit."
"I don't want you to love me." I said blanky.
She choked and her voice broke. "Why?"
"Because Demi!" I shouted. "I am not capable of feeling those kind of feelings. Love. I'm not capable of it, can't even approach it from the side, let alone head-on. Nor am I alone in this - everyone is like this, the liars. Singing songs and painting pictures and telling each other stories about love and its mysteries and its marvelous properties, myths to keep morale up - maybe one day it'll materialize. But I can say it ten times a day, a hundred times, "I love you" to anyone and anything, to a woman, to a pair of pruning shears. I've said it without meaning it at all, taken loves name in vain and gone dismally unpunished. Love will never be real, or if it is, it has no power. No power. There's only covetousness, and if what we covet can't be won with gentle words and often it can't - then there is force."
"Love is the most powerful thing in the world, Sel."
"Lies. Its all lies."
"Fine."
"Fine."
"Good."
"Good." I stormed out infuritated with how this whole situation had panned out.
~
"Dude. Fuck art." I heard some fuckboy say.
"No, man. Art is everything. The world would be so plain without it." Another males voice sounded.
The - what I was assuming - other guy scoffed. "Art is dead."
Already vicious, I stomped towards the uneducated prick. Art is not dead. Music is art and Demi had only just recently proved to me that art, very much so, does still exist.
"I swear to every heaven ever imagined, if I hear one more dead-eyed hipster say that art is dead, I will personally summon Shakespeare from the grave so he can tell them every reason why he wishes he were born in a time where he could have a damn G-mail account. The day after I taught my mother how to send pictures over iphone she texted me a blurry image of our dog ten times in a row. Don't you dare try to tell me that that is not beautiful. But whatever, go ahead and choose to stay in your backwards-hoping-all-inclusive club while the rest of us fall in love over Skype. Send angry letters to state representatives, as we record the years first sunrise so we can remember what beginning feels like when we are inches away from the trigger. Lock yourself away in your Antoinette castle while we eat cake and tweet to the whole universe that we did. Hashtag you're a pretentious ass hole. Van Gogh would have taken 20 selfies a day. Sylvia Plath would have texted her lovers nothing but heart eyed emojis when she ran out of words. Andy Warhol would have had the worlds weirdest Vine account, and we all would have checked it every morning while we Snap Chat our coffee orders to the people we wish were pressed against our lips instead of lattes. This life is spilling over with 85 year olds rewatching JFK's assassination and 7 year olds teaching themselves guitar over Youtube videos. Never again do I have to be afraid of forgetting what my fathers voice sounds like. No longer must we sneak into our families phonebook to look up an eating disorder hotline for our best friend. No more must I wonder what people overseas sound like or how grasshoppers procreate. I will gleefully continue to take pictures of tulips in public parks on my cellphone and you will continue to scoff and that is okay. But I hope, I pray, that one day you will realize how blessed you are to be alive in a moment where you can google search how to say I love you in 164 different languages." I took a sharp breath in and began to walk away.
"Fuck." I heard one of the guys say.
"That was hot." A familiar voice caught my attention.
I turned around and was met with Nick leaning against a wall, his arms crossed.
"You just told him." He chuckled. "I don't think he's ever going to recover from that. You sure shut him down. I think he's gonna need some ice for that burn, huh?"
I rolled my eyes at his fail attempt of flirting. "Not now, Nick."
"Not fucking ever, fuckboy." Another familiar voice chirped in.
Here we go again.
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Guysssss. I REALLY appreciate every single person that is reading this and I love writing it for you all but PLEASE vote and leave comments. I just feel as though you guys aren't enjoying it because of the very few comments and votes. I don't wanna do it, but if I'm not getting enough feedback, I'm gonna have to request a certain amount of votes/comments before I start uploading the next chapters. Please, don't make me do that.
I love you all.
Stay strong x
