show me yours | matty healy

chapter forty-four

December 25th 2017

It's Tommie's first Christmas alone in five years.

She doesn't really know what to do with herself, she's currently sitting on the floor of her kitchen, staring at the TV that's playing some shitty hallmark film in her living room.

She's waiting for her pizza to finish cooking, she doesn't want to eat a cooked dinner alone.

Adam invited her to go along to Christmas with him, but he's going with Carly's family, who she doesn't know that well. So she lied and said she's going back to LA to spend it with Phoebe in the studio.

She's not entirely alone, she has Allen who is currently curled up beside her on the floor, and Button who she's been tossing a ball for every now and then the last few minutes.

There's a letter in her hands.

Printed on the front is that familiar messy writing with her address spelled wrong and scribbled out.

Ross dropped it off three weeks ago now, she still hasn't opened it.

Allen nudges the letter closer to her with his nose, as if he can smell the scent of his owner on it.

She sighs and nods, patting his head gently, "I know, Als." Allen looks up, "I miss him too."

Then despite her better judgement she finds herself tearing into the envelope.

Dear Baby,

I don't know how to start. I've written fourteen letters to you and every single one has ended up being crumpled up at the bottom of my bin. I know the reason that I can't write is because deep down I don't deserve for you to hear me out. I fucked up. I fucked up way too many times. And he was right. About you giving me too many chances, letting me walk all over you because that's what I did, what I do. I took advantage because I knew you'd always be there. I knew I could fall back on you and you'd pick me up because that's what you do. You're so good. I don't deserve that.

One of the therapists I've been working with here told me to write letters to the people most important to me. To the ones who I feel that I've wronged with my addiction. Apparently it's a part of my healing journey. I think it's just to make me feel like a dickhead.
I wrote to my mother first, for falling down the hole she worked so hard to steer me away from, the hole she herself fell down.
Then to Louis for being a shit older brother.
To the guys for what happened in San Jose.
And now to you. For everything I've ever done to you.

I'm not going to list all my mistakes. I'm sure you already have your own list highlighted and neatly stashed away somewhere. I've had a lot of time to think while being here (And I already know what you're thinking, 'wow, didn' know you could do that'). I've had to think about what to do when I get out of here. I'm not sure if you'll want to see me. But in my head the first thing I'll do is come and see you. I'll get on my knees before you, lit up by those fairy lights we spent three hours trying to hang on your front porch. You'll open the door and you'll probably be wearing that old AM concert shirt and your stupid rugby zip-up I keep telling you to replace but you won't because you're too sentimental (it's one of the things I love the most about you). I'll beg you to just say that you forgive me. Even if you don't really mean it. And I know you will. I know you would forgive me in an instant because I know you. Then we'll have everything we've wanted, our own studio, we'll be back on the road, never having to settle, just us the guys and the open road up ahead of us. Endless music, endless time, whatever we want.
But I'm going to stay away. Or at least I'm going to try to. I want you to move on and have a better life without me. You'll do great things. And I can't be a part of them as much as I want to be. It'll be hard, for both of us, but in the end you'll come out on top. You're the smarter one, with the talents, you have the voice, the skills, the lyrics, the heart. I just have the confidence. I'm nothing without you. Matty Healy is simply nothing without Tommie McDuff, it's always been that way. But Tommie McDuff is everything. You are everything.
I'll watch from afar as you keep doing amazing things, with Phoebe, alone, whatever it is you're doing. I'll be your biggest supporter, I want you to know that. But I'll do it from afar. I'll try to do it from afar.
I say try because you're my strongest addiction. It'll take everything in me to stay away. I've always been addicted to you. More than any drugs I've ever taken. I'm addicted to the way you touch me, a hand on my arm as you laugh, the way you smile at me, those little sarcastic ones you do when I annoy you are my favourite because I know you're trying your hardest not to break into the biggest grin. I'm addicted to the sound of your voice. And the way your mind works, from your lyrics to your solos, I want to see inside your mind. To study you like an old Victorian sculpture. I'm addicted to your laugh, even when it's directed at me. To the way you love and the feel of your lips. Ever since your lips first touched mine I've searched for others who may make me feel some sliver of the way you did. None have ever compared. Not one. They're not soft enough, not gentle enough, not exciting enough, they're not you. They're never you. I hate myself for doing that to them, to myself, to you. Most of all to you. I hate myself more and more everyday as I sober up, because as each day goes by I'm forced to sit with the knowledge of how I treated you for longer.

One of the questions I've been told to answer is what would I do if I saw you again? What would I do for you? I'm not sure if you'll want to see me again. But if you did, if you gave me that gift of blessing my eyes with you one last time, I'd hold you. For as long as you let me, hours, days, weeks, months, years, until we both grew old and grey. I'd love you until the moment I died, and even longer if you let me. I'd wait as long as you wanted me to, until the earth ends or just the first sign of spring. I'd collect the stars and bottle them up because I know how much you love them. I'd create a whole new religion just to worship you.
I've realised now that I've rambled. (I've run out of paper and only have three lines left) But I have so much more to say. I'll sum it up in a few words for you.
'I would give you the moon.'

Yours, Matt.

She puts the letter down.

One tear escapes her eyes.

There's a knock on the door.