Cassie // Mitchel Cave

19

Cassie's POV
[3rd Person]

She always thought heartbreak was like ripping a band-aid off, fast and painful.
And if it was, she might've experienced something deeper and way more painful than heartbreak, misery, agony, or deep hatred.

something between losing herself in hate and hating herself because it bothered her so much.

After all, she promised him.

This wasn't fast; it was slow; it was like a realization. It felt as if all the life had been drained from her body, and all that was left was a pathetic, endless, painful existence of flesh and blood.

"It's a one-time thing, promise me."

Her heart was bleeding out, and her eyes might've been as well. It was the first time she opened her heart up to anyone other than her mother, and look how that turned out.

She wanted to laugh at how recklessly she'd been giving her heart away like that. and cry because why wouldn't anyone warn Casie of him? and not the other way around, and scream and throw up.

Oh God, she needed to throw up.

She ran out of the hallway, away from her problems, like always.
The bathroom stall still smelled like activities from two weeks ago, and they made her stomach turn around even more.

"I promise. I promise."

The taste of vomit was sour on her tongue, and she'd never wished to die so badly in her life; she just wanted this to end.

Her heart needed to stop beating. Maybe then it would finally shut up, the ache would fade, her blood needed to stop flowing, and maybe then the endless tears would finally end.
Her brain needed to stop working, so maybe then the thoughts of what if wouldn't kill her and force her onto her knees.

She screamed in agony. Something between physical and emotional pain caused her to rip open her mouth and scream out her guts, and maybe it worked because anything after that turned to ash and went black.

-

"Cassie?" The voice was muffled, like someone put a pair of headphones on her head but didn't play any music. "Cassie, please wake up!" but her eyelids were so heavy, and all she wanted to do was keep sleeping.

Though now that she thought about it, her matress felt like bricks, and eventually her eyes unwillingly opened, and she stared back into dark brown eyes.

When she first met Clinton, she assumed he was the most uncaring since he never talked or gave any opinions, but now, when she glanced into his eyes, they were soft and sad, and she could also find pity in them.

Why was he pitying her? She didn't need to be pitied; she needed to be

oh.

and it all came crashing down again, and if Clinton hadn't held her so close and so fucking careful that it made her sick, she might've crumbled into the floor and never came back.

Sobs were shuddering all through her body while Clinton's hand softly stroked her back.
"I'm so sorry," and maybe she imagined it, but his voice slightly cracked at the end.

"He held her so close." The rest of her words got swallowed by another sob, and maybe in another life she could erase those pictures of the girl next to Mitchel cradled up in his arms, decorating his neck with kisses, so softly, so confident, so... public.

"No one can know about this, okay? We don't do relationships in the band; it's too complicated."

She recalled his words right before he left her alone in the cold bathroom stall two weeks ago.

A few minutes later, her sobs calmed down, and she sat up straight, across from Clinton, who looked like he might've gone through something similar to her.
His eyes were bloodshot, and his hair was messy, as if he hadn't slept at all.

Then he pulled out a pack of cigarettes. "Want one?" and who were she to decline, so she nodded.

"So, who was?" Her voice cracked slightly, and she took a drag of her cigarette before continuing, "Who was she?"

He side-eyed her as if he wasn't sure he was the one to tell her, but eventually gave in.
"Her name is... her name is Angeline; she's his ex," he trailed off.

"What do you mean, his ex?" Her voice was steadier than she felt, her limbs were pudding, and her brains were something between a puddle of mud and thick fog.

"They were on and off for a few months until Mitchel eventually broke it off when we started touring, saying it was too complicated. Two weeks ago, I assume she saw us at our concert, and, uh, you know the rest." He fiddled with his cigarette as if he didn't dare to meet her eyes. She didn't blame him; she didn't like them either.

"Oh." But no more words made it out of her throat—only bile. She doubled over the toilet and threw her guts up.
She was getting sick.

"Are you okay?" She felt Clinton's hands wrap her hair up in a ponytail and hold it there until she was done.

"'M fine.". Her words were slightly slurred, but she waved him off. "I just need to rest."
Clinton didn't seem to believe her, but he also didn't push it, and she silently thanked him for that.

"I'm gonna.. I need to call someone. Hold on." She pulled her phone out of her pocket and scrolled through her contacts. She scrolled past I. Isabella's name flashed at her for a quick second, but she kept scrolling. She stopped at J.

Jordan's name filled her screen, and her heart broke once again.
She thought she was in love, and then she broke her heart. Nothing has changed, has it?

She didn't call Jordan, though; she kept scrolling until she finally found the person she was looking for, Qualyn.

She met him through Jordan; he always used to hang out with them until Jordan and her broke up, and she started being a bitch about it.
She remembered that one time when he defended her from one of Jordan's new boyfriends and earned himself a few slurs and a shove into a locker, but he never left her side.

They grew apart after he graduated and left for college, with only the occasional 'happy birthday' and'merry 'Christmas' message; other than that, she hadn't seen him in a long time.

She knew he was a fashion designer, and his brand wasn't small; in fact, she had seen his follower count grow into the threes a few months ago.

She also knew he lived in New York with his boyfriend.

She hesitated before clicking the 'call' button.

Three seconds later, he answered.

"Hello?" His voice was a bit higher than it used to be, but it still felt like home in some way. He was always there; maybe he would still be.

"Hi, um, it's Cassie." She paused and glanced at Clinton, who was rolling his cigarette in between his fingers. "I need a place to crash for a few."