Fell In Love In Stages // a matty healy fanfic

Mr. Serotonin Man

>>PRESENT DAY<<
-Matty's POV-

*t/w: drugs*

In every life there is a turning point. A moment so tremendous, so sharp and clear that one feels as if one's been hit in the chest, all the breath knocked out, and one knows, absolutely knows without the merest hint of a shadow of a doubt, that one's life will never be the same.

For me, that moment came tonight. When the ghost of the woman I'd been chasing all my adult life had materialised in front of me, and vanished just as quick.

I didn't care if society thought of me as a worthless seducer, but when she said the same thing...
It was like acid.
And the worst of it was, I had no one to blame but myself. I'd cultivated this reputation for years, spent countless hours teasing and flirting, making sure everyone around me saw, so she would never guess the truth.
And maybe I'd done it for myself too, because if I was a rake, at least I was something. The alternative was to be nothing but a pathetic fool, hopelessly in love with his high school girlfriend. And hell, I was good at being the man who could seduce with a smile. I might as well have some fun with it.

When she left, she took pieces of me with her. The fragment that harbors empathy, the fragment that can reason, and the fragment that cradles my conscience. In her absence, I felt incomplete, searching for ways to fill the void she left behind. And oftentimes, I filled that hole with sex, drugs and alcohol. And a lot of it, at that.

Oh I hid it well. It wouldn't do to be visibly out of sorts. Then some annoyingly perceptive soul might actually take notice, and—God forbid— inquire as to my welfare.
And so I laughed, and continued to seduce women, trying not to notice that I tended to be drawn to the ones with pin-straight black hair down to their waist and that I close my eyes when I had them in bed.

Funny how I'd never seen all those other women as a sin. They'd all been willing, of course; I couldn't seduce an unwilling woman. The rules of consent were clear. If I sensed even a hint of unease, I turned and walked away.

But when she disclosed that she'd caught me in the act, I felt my skin crawl. This was one transgression that was finally going to blacken my soul.

All this while, I believed that she left because what we had meant less to her than it did to me. I grappled with feelings of hurt, turning my sadness into anger, seeking validation for my pain. In my anger's grasp, I convinced myself that my actions were justified, a defense mechanism to shield my wounded being.

If only I had known that she would return, that being away was just as unbearable to her. I realize now that my actions would have been so different, guided by love rather than the tumultuous waves of anger.
Regret gnaws at my soul.

I yearn for a chance to rewrite those moments, but I know it's futile. Like a relentless plague, I cannot bear to spread my sickness onto others, especially her. She deserves more happiness than I could ever provide. By stepping away, I grant her a chance at normalcy.

Sometimes, love means letting go.

In a swift and subconscious motion, my hand delved into my pocket, instinctively retrieving my cellphone. As I clutch my phone tightly, an unsettling wave of emotions surges through me, leaving my stomach in knots. The heaviness of the moment bears down on my chest, making it difficult to breathe. I feel like I'm drowning.

My trembling hands attempt to scroll through my contacts, but they quiver uncontrollably, betraying the urgency of the situation. The phone slips from my grasp, and my heart sinks further as I watch the screen shatter upon impact as it kisses the floor.

I pick it up immediately, praying to a god that I don't believe in that it still works and miraculously, among the familiar names, I see my dealer's name pop up— a beacon of tranquility.

With a deep-rooted yearning to be sedated, I pressed the call button, seeking the lifeline of some brown to make me forget.
In that fleeting moment, as the phone rang, I found myself reaching out for the comfort that only a true friend can offer; my Mr. Serotonin Man with his bag of dreams.

As the seconds stretch like eternity, my pulse quickens, every beat resounding in my ears. Finally, the weight of the world lifts slightly, as the voice on the other end asks me to meet him in the corner of the street in fifteen.