Valerie's Guide To Postponing a Breakup

In Which Drunken Spiders Converse

The addicting violin in the intro of 'Rather Be' by Clean Bandit blesses my ears, and it takes all my willpower to not get up onto my bed and start jumping around while yelling my head off to the first verse. It's also partly due to the fact that if I did do that, Mum might have me dropped off at an insane asylum.

I turn my attention back to the assortment of pens, markers, pins, and pieces of paper that litter across my bed, deciding which quote to pin on it next.

What am I doing, might you ask?

Well, firstly, I'm distracting myself. Secondly, I'm making a vision board for this year.

Pinning my goals, my wishes, and all my hopes and dreams on a sixty times forty-five-centimetre cork board, which I bought ages ago, but have only had the motivation to actually start now.

I pick up a picture of me, Mum, and Dad. I look to be around six in the photo. It's honestly crazy to me how the years go by and how things can change in an instant if you blink twice.

I pick up a pin and stick the photo on the side of the cork board marked 'Family', smiling to myself. I honestly should be careful with the pins. I had exactly fifty at the beginning. And I've stuck about ten things onto the board—I'm practically only getting started. But the numbers don't add up since I've got thirty-nine pins. I've lost one, and I'm starting to think the only way I'll find it is by treading on it—probably in the most painful way possible, while I'm not wearing slippers.

I pin down the printed-out song lyrics from 'Rather Be' next, beside a picture of Leo, and as if on cue, the chorus comes in.

When I am with you, there's no place I'd rather be.

I open up one of my alcohol markers, using the brush side as opposed to the chisel one. It's a wonder to me how they always have such complicated names. For example, none of them are simply called red. It would be 'Dark Crimson' or 'French Vermillion' instead.

The next song comes on in my playlist, and ironically, it's not nearly as bright or cheerful as the last.

But that's the thing with my playlist. It has its highs and lows.

Just like real life.

I colour in the rose I drew on a neatly cut-out square of paper, hoping the red ink doesn't bleed into the green one that I used for the leaf. That's the thing with these markers. They tend to be very... inky.

Underneath the rose, I write something in swirly writing with my favourite purple pen.

I am beautiful.

I check my phone, which was lying face down on my bed. No messages from Leo. But somehow, I feel like even if he does message me, it might not be what I want to hear.

Satisfied, I pin the paper onto the board, close to the centre. If I see that message every day, I'll believe it.

Fake it till you make it.

From downstairs, I hear the front door open and close again. I wonder how I never heard Mum leaving, but I heard her come back. I shrug away the thought, turning back to my vision board, contemplating what to pin on next.

That's when I hear the stairs creaking. Curious, I sit up, creeping towards the doors with my scissors in hand. I open the door, peering out.

My eyes widen by a fraction. "Leo?"

A lump forms in my throat. And when he doesn't greet me with his usual grin, I shut the door. "Hey!" I hear Leo's voice from outside. "Why'd you close the door like that?" "You don't get to ask the questions!" I argue. "Why are you here?" "Angela let me in."

I cringe, knowing that Mum hates being called by her first name. Especially by Leo. Hates, as in, it could totally turn her day upside down and make her go from smiling mum to dragon.

"We need to talk." Leo continues through the door, his tone serious.

Those are the worst possible words to hear in a relationship.

"What?" I ask, and before I can catch myself, my voice trembles. So I return back to my stationery, flinging my scissors dangerously onto my bed, and grab a pad of sticky notes, tearing one out and grabbing a pencil. I scribble a message down on it, sliding the pencil and the note underneath the door. The gap underneath my door is abnormally large, and I have a sneaking suspicion it has something to do with previous residents since it looks like it's been cut.

Blowing out a breath, I don't care if my handwriting is harder to follow than the trail of a drunken spider—I'm really quite bad at having conversations like this. Because I always start crying when things start to go pear-shaped.

I hear a noise from outside the door, and I'm not sure if it's Leo's stifled laugh or a scoff. I anxiously wait for his reply, biting my lip. The sticky note reappears, along with the pencil. Open the door? Says the note.

No, is my short reply. I shove the two items back under the door. I'm sorry if I've upset u. Comes his almost instantaneous answer. You haven't. I scribble back, hesitating before writing something else. I just miss you. I draw a lopsided frowning face, but then I cross it out frantically, cringing inwardly as I realise how immature it looks.

I slide it back underneath the door, and this time, his reply takes a while. For a second, I think he's left. I know four times on the door rhythmically, and Leo knocks back the reply to our secret code. A secret code that we made a long time ago. That's when it dawns on me that he didn't use it when he first knocked. He forgot.

I don't realise I'm holding a breath in until his reply comes. I'm sorry, it says. I've just been really busy, honestly. I think maybe it's best that we hang out only on weekends. After all, we don't have to see each other all the time. I miss you too, of course, but recently there's been some stuff I need to do, and—I promise it's all for a good reason... I just need some time. And forgive me if this is rude, but you're being dead immature about it.

My heart sinks. He doesn't want to spend time with me anymore, and the sarcasm in that last bit kills the part of my fragile, barely-there ego that once boasted maturity.

OK, is my response.

But what guys never seem to get is how those two letters can mean a thousand words. It can simply mean what it says—OK. It can mean I'm angry. It can also mean that I feel like you just stood on my heart, but I don't know how to tell you without being dramatic.

Leo pushes the note back under the door, but he hasn't written anything else. I don't ask him to stay, because I am not going to be the only thing keeping this relationship together. Instead, I go and curl up on my bed, not caring when the momentarily forgotten scissors dig into my ribs slightly. Seconds later, the four knocks on the door come, and I know Leo's leaving.

I also know that he's losing interest in me.

He's realised what a hopeless case I am after that day at the brunch place.

You could hurl my glasses across a playing pitch and five rugby teams trample over them—because I don't need them to see that Leo used every excuse in the book to not hang out with me.

I sniff miserably, not allowing myself to cry. Instead, I burrow my head under the covers, my vision board moving down on my list of prorities.

Above all else, I know that I've got to end things with him.

Why?

Because if I don't, sooner or later he will.