Love To Hate You | 𝙹𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝙷𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚎𝚜 ❈

Thirty Two

"Lyla, sweetie," my mother whispered, cracking my bedroom door open slightly to poke her head through. "He's here."

Bracing myself by burying my face under the covers, I didn't bother to reply, knowing that at the end of the day, mom was probably going to let him in, and there was nothing I could do to stop that. I had run out of places to hide, and honestly, I was exhausted from running. In the end, either way I'll get closure.

We both will. And we both deserve at least that much.

I couldn't quite believe it. My first ever real relationship--if that was what you could call it--and it had turned to complete shambles. What did this say about me as a person? What did this mean for all future relationships. Would my heart remain broken, a little piece of it being lost to Jack eternally, and most of all, would I feel like this forever?

A full five minutes later, my bedroom door was creaking open again, only this time, the person slipping their way into my sanctuary didn't make a sound. I held my breath, wishing that this would all just go away. But, I wasn't a child, and I knew that my problems wouldn't just magically disappear, and that the only way to resolve this whole mess was to face him head on.

Even if it meant he saw how puffy and swollen my eyes were.

Jack placed himself on the very edge of my bed, his body as far from me as physically possible. He sighed deeply placing both of his hands in his lap and focused on them like his life depended on it.

I glanced up at him, peaking my eyes out of the top of my comforter. He almost looked as bad as I felt with his usually perfectly messy hair flat on his head, the skin under his eyes dark and his nails bitten down too far, leaving red skin and cuts all over the tips of his fingers.

I hadn't realised this whole thing had been getting to him as much as it had been getting to me, which was selfish. Of course, he was feeling horrible for himself, he just lost me over a dumb fight and a mistake I made.

I took a mental note of the slight bruising that spread over his knuckles. It didn't look fresh, maybe a week old, but there was definitely bruising there. An image from Monday of Luke's bright purple jawline flashed through my mind. Had Jack been the one to punch him that weekend? Maybe Luke had told Jack everything after all.

Oh God.

Did that mean . . . he knew about what happened in Luke's car?

My cheeks burned a horrible shade of red as I remained gazing at him from between my pile of pillows and blankets. He sat as still as possible, not speaking a word as he bowed his head and fidgeted with his fingers. I swallowed all of the fear I was feeling, wanting to break the silence.

"Jack," I whispered. "I'm sorry."

He sighed deeply, rubbing a hand over his face. "You can stop saying you're sorry. You have nothing to be sorry for."

"Sorry," I mumbled, before my brain registered I had done it again. "I mean . . . sorry."

Jack's lips pulled into a gentle grin, though his gaze remained on his own hands as he twiddled his thumbs in silence. He shook his head incredulously. "How is it that we can be in the middle of a fight and you still manage to take my breath away?"

My own breathing came to a stand still, and a frown grew on my lips. "I don't much like fighting with you, if I'm honest."

He finally turned his full attention to me, his ocean blue eyes piercing through all of my built up emotions and forcing my heart to ache. "This is entirely my fault, isn't it?"

"What?" I cried, holding my hands over my heart as my lips turned from a frown to a full blown pout. "No, Jack. That isn't true at all. I was the one who. . . I was the one who went to him. I was the one who kissed--"