The Alchemy

You're losing me

-A few weeks before the first day of the Eras Tour-

The sunlight streams through the curtains, heading straight for my eyes, waking me up. As I open my eyes, I feel dizzy and everything seems to be spinning. I close my eyes and take a big breath before opening them again. I taste the alcohol in my mouth; I must have drunk a lot because I don't remember what happened last night. The only reason for me to drink so close to the first date of the concert is if Joe and I had a fight last night. I pat the other side of the bed, still half asleep, but I feel nothing. I straighten up on my elbow and scan the room. He is nowhere to be found. I get out of bed and head to the bathroom.

"I am a mess," I declare in my mind as I inspect my face in the mirror. My hair is in a low bun with half of it out. I am wearing a white top that is falling off my shoulder, and I still have my makeup on, now melted all over my face. I fix myself before going downstairs. I find him sleeping on the sofa. I glare at him with stones in my eyes. I stop myself, ashamed of the feeling I have for my boyfriend. It hasn't been the first time that all I wanted to do when I wake up and see his face next to mine is run away without looking back.

I try to push away those thoughts and get ready for training since the concert begins in a few days. I bite my nails as I climb the stairs. The room is a mess; we must have had a really bad fight because all the pictures are on the floor, along with his clothes and stuff. I lean down to a frame at my foot. It's a picture of Joe and me during the lockdown. We are sitting on a bench in the garden, and he is kissing my cheeks, which are red from the cold. It was fall, and everything felt good. We baked, read, and wrote songs together, but mostly we didn't fight. I miss that time.

Ready for training, I head to the door before a shadow catches my eye. I follow it into the kitchen. It's Joe. He doesn't look any better than I did this morning. He is sitting on a stool, eating a bowl of cereal. I come to join him. He doesn't even look up. For a moment, we sit there in silence when his phone rings. I look at it as he rushes to catch it. I have never seen a guiltier face than right now. I don't even need to look at the phone to understand.

"Who is it?" I try to say as I feel my eyes watering.

He doesn't answer; he doesn't even look back at me.

"Who is it?" I say with more confidence than I have.

"Joe, answer."

No response.

"Joe, please," I plead.

"God damn it! You promised you would not do it again! Who is it, Joe?" I say, now pissed off.

Still no answer.

I feel some pain in my chest. So this is where the expression "a breaking heart" comes from.

"Joe, say something. Please stop ignoring me," I sob.

But he doesn't. He stands up, puts his bowl in the sink, and leaves without even a look. I freeze, feeling the warmth of my tears falling down my burning cheeks. I put my hands over my mouth as I try not to sob loudly; I don't want him to know the effect he has on me.

Incapable of moving for a few minutes, still sobbing with my hands over my mouth, I hear the front door shutting. It is then that my legs stop working, and I collapse to the floor. I don't know how long I stayed there, but when I stand up, it's already 3 p.m. I hardly manage to reach the armchair in the corner of the living room. I try to breathe slowly and take back control of my body, but it's shaking from exhaustion.

I look at my phone on the side table: four missed phone calls and ten messages from Tree Paine, my publicist. I am late for training. I don't even try to take my phone to answer as it rings again; I just look at it. I don't move at all for a while.

The sun has gone down, but I am still sitting in the armchair. I haven't moved. If my head weren't hurting so badly, I would wonder if I haven't just died in it. I love him so much. I gave everything I had to him, everything I am. But it wasn't enough; it never has been enough. He says that I am not trying, that I am abandoning the relationship, but I am going down with it. I am drowning. I feel like I am the only one still fighting for us. He swore he loved me, but it's been a while since he showed it. He never hugs me or kisses me, and we don't talk anymore. I don't really know when it began. Actually, I do. It was the night I told him I was going on tour. He said that I had betrayed him, that he never thought he was enough for me. He told me that he wasn't ashamed; he said that if I loved him, he would be enough and I wouldn't need to be in the public eye. I replied by yelling at him that he caged me, hid me, that he was the one who was ashamed of our relationship. Maybe he was right; we were both right.

—

It's the doorbell that wakes me up. I feel better than I did when I fell asleep, even if my eyes are still sore from crying. I open the door, hoping it's him, but it's Tree. I invite her in. She looks at me with concern. I know that by now she must have figured out what happened. We sit in the kitchen. I am ready for the reprimands she doesn't miss to add.

"I know that sometimes it's hard, but we were waiting for you—the dancers, the band, the technicians. You know how many people work on this project. You cannot disappear a few weeks before the first show."

"I am sorry. It's just that Joe and I had a fight yesterday morning and..." I stop myself as I feel the tears coming back.

"I understand, honey, but you could have at least called."

I nod.

We talk for a little while before she leaves.

As she hugs me, she says,

"Don't you worry. He'll come back."

I believe her.