on tour || DNF

❥43 | lovesick

☆ dreams pov ☆

The days had blurred together, one painfully slow moment dragging into the next. Being confined to my childhood bedroom should've been comforting—familiar walls, familiar smells, the sound of my mom bustling around the house. But everything felt off. I was supposed to be here with George, laughing at the stupid posters from my teenage years, complaining about how small the bed was, maybe sneaking out late at night just for the hell of it. Instead, I was alone, surrounded by memories that only made the ache worse.

Have you ever missed someone so much that you feel physically sick? That's how it was with George. It wasn't just an emotional longing; it was visceral, like my body couldn't handle the absence. Every time he crossed my mind—which was often—I had to brace myself against the waves of nausea. Sometimes, it would hit so suddenly and intensely that I'd have to rush to the bathroom, retching into the toilet until my stomach was empty and raw. The doctors kept telling me it was my reflexes, that it was just a side effect of the trauma and the meds, but I knew better. It was George.

It was worse than anything I'd felt before. Worse than the fallout with Fundy, which had been messy and draining but ultimately freeing. With Fundy, every argument, every bitter word exchanged had felt like a chain breaking, one less shackle keeping me tethered to someone who only wanted to control me. I was the puppet, and he was the puppeteer, pulling strings whenever it suited him. Walking away had felt like ripping off a bandaid—a sharp, quick pain that was gone almost as soon as it started.

George, though... George was different. He was gentle in a way that I wasn't used to, his soul warm and unguarded. Even in our worst moments, the softness in his eyes never fully went away. He wasn't perfect, far from it, but he was honest in his imperfections. He never tried to bend me to his will or make me into someone I wasn't. And that made losing him all the more unbearable. The George-shaped hole in my life was one I didn't know how to fill. It wasn't just about missing him; it was about missing the way he made me feel—seen, understood, loved.

I glanced around the room, taking in the trophies from my high school days, the worn-out desk where I used to spend hours pretending to do homework while actually gaming. It was supposed to feel nostalgic, but instead, it just felt suffocating. George had been here once, just a few days before everything went to hell. I remembered how he'd laughed at the old posters, making fun of my music taste. We'd spent that evening curled up on the bed, the TV playing softly in the background as we talked about everything and nothing. It was one of those moments that felt so ordinary but so perfect at the same time.

But now, he was oceans away, and I was stuck here, counting down the days until the cast came off my leg, until I could leave this room and try to figure out what came next. It had been a whole month, and I still felt like I was living in the aftermath of a storm that had torn through everything I knew. Tomorrow, the cast on my arm would come off, one less reminder of the crash that had changed everything.

I was lying on my bed, mindlessly scrolling through my phone, when my sister walked in. She didn't knock or ask, just made her way over and plopped herself down at the foot of my bed. I glanced up briefly, but she was already making herself comfortable, crossing her legs and folding her hands in her lap like she had something important to say. I braced myself, half-expecting some silly question about school or maybe an update on the latest drama she was involved in, but her expression was serious.

"I know this isn't my place to say anything, but what are you doing about George?" she asked, her tone surprisingly gentle for someone who usually communicated through sarcasm and eye rolls.