I Turn To You | Eminem

Nine

Months had passed since Marshall and Christina's stint together.

The evening, or well, morning had ended with a promise to keep in touch, but after that day, their communication dwindled. Life had moved on, and the distance between them had grown almost as quickly as their initial connection had.

Marshall threw himself into his work; the studio was his refuge. The place where he could focus on his music and escape the thoughts of Christina that lingered in the back of his mind.

Days blurred into nights, then into weeks and months.

He'd leave her message unread for days. Even weeks. Every time he thought about responding, his thumb hovering over her name, fear crept in — the fear of opening up a door he wasn't sure he could close again. The thought of commitment weighed heavy; he'd always been wary of it, knowing how easily things could go wrong.

It was easier to leave her in digital limbo, easier to convince himself that if he just stayed quiet and hidden behind his work, everything would sort itself out. But was this really true?

He'd seen relationships crumble before, and the last thing he wanted was to drag someone in only to let them down. In his mind, staying silent felt like the safest option, even if it meant burying his feelings and hoping that, somehow, down the line, the other person might find it in themselves to forgive him.

He just hoped Christina could.

Sure, that night was good. Hell, she was incredible. Better than anyone he'd ever had. Or maybe it was just the years of abstinence talking.

But how did it all end up like this? Had they rushed into it too fast?

But then, Christina, too, had been occupied with her own professional commitments. Album releases, promotional events, and performances filled her schedule.

No, he couldn't lay the blame on her; this was on him.

He shouldn't have jumped in so quickly.

And it all changed again, that one cold winter evening, where Marshall sat alone in his apartment, reviewing some new tracks. The room was mostly silent, punctuated only by the soft hum of his laptop and the distant thump of a bass line.

He picked up his phone, absentmindedly scrolling through his contacts. His finger hovered over Christina's name, a gesture that had become a habitual, but ultimately unfulfilled, impulse.

He didn't even check her Instagram anymore.

Sure, he'd thought about calling her several times over the past few months, but the fear of disrupting the delicate silence they had maintained kept him from doing so. There was a part of him that missed her, that wanted to talk, but he didn't know how to bridge the gap that had grown.

If only they hadn't crossed that line.

Marshall looked at the email properly and saw it was an invitation to a charity event happening in a few weeks. He was scheduled to perform, and Christina's name was listed among the other artists.

The event seemed like a golden chance, but yet, he hesitated. His phone buzzed, and he saw a text from his manager, Paul.

Paul: Hey, Em. Just a reminder about the charity event. Looks like it's going to be a big night.

Marshall stared at the message, blinking a few times.

In the days leading up to the event, Marshall found himself preoccupied. He drafted a text to Christina several times, only to delete it each time before sending.

No point, he sighed.

Finally, the day of the charity event arrived. Marshall was backstage, trying to calm his nerves before his performance. The venue was abuzz with excitement, and the air was thick with the anticipation of the evening's show. He saw the crowd gathering, heard the collective applause, and the music.

As he got ready to go on stage, he spotted Christina across the room backstage. She was deep in conversation with a few other artists.

Seeing her again brought back a flood of memories and emotions. He wanted to approach, to talk, but he chose not to.

The adrenaline of his performance still thrummed in his veins as he stepped off the stage and made his way to the dressing room. Pride mingled with anxiety, twisting in his gut.

He grabbed a bottle of water, chugging it down before splashing some on his face. His shirt clung to his skin, drenched in sweat, so he peeled it off, feeling the cool air against his chest.

Just then, he heard a knock. Figuring it was Paul, he shouted, "Come in!"

Marshall looked up just as the door swung open. It wasn't Paul standing there. Instead, Christina leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, a half-smile playing on her lips.

He stood there, shirtless and still glistening with sweat from the performance. He froze for a moment, unsure of what to say or do. The sight of her there, in his space, was something he hadn't prepared for.

"Hey," Christina said, her voice soft but clear, cutting through the fog of his thoughts.

Marshall grabbed a towel from the back of a chair, wiping his face as if it could somehow hide his surprise. "Hi," he finally replied.

Christina took a step inside, closing the door behind her.

"I saw you were still here. Thought I'd drop by. Say congratulations." She paused, her eyes trailing over his bare chest before snapping back to his face. "You were good tonight."

He nodded, tossing the towel aside. "Thanks. You were too."

A silence settled between them, thick with the weight of everything left unsaid. Finally, Christina broke it, her voice almost a whisper. "Marshall, we need to talk."

He nodded, taking a step closer. "Yeah, we do."

Marshall felt the air grow heavy between them, the silence stretching like a wire pulled tight, ready to snap. Christina's eyes were searching his, trying to read whatever thoughts he was holding back. He wanted to say something — anything — to break the tension, but he couldn't.

"What are we doing?" Christina finally asked, her voice steady but edged with something he couldn't quite name.

He ran a hand through his hair, stalling for time, his heart pounding harder than it had on stage. "Man, I don't even know. Been askin' myself that since... well, since that night."

Christina nodded, taking another step closer. "You don't even look at me anymore. You don't call, you don't text, you don't reply. Nothing. It's like you just... shut down." Her voice tightened, a hint of frustration creeping in. "I thought we had something. I thought—"

"Yeah, we did," Marshall cut in, his tone sharper than he intended. He softened immediately. "We do. I don't know? Maybe I freaked the fuck out."

Christina's expression shifted, something like sadness or disappointment flickering in her eyes. "You freaked out? Or you just didn't want this? Me?"

"No," he said, running a hand over his face. "It ain't like that. I want you. Plain and simple."

"Then why all the silence?"

Marshall sighed, rubbing his temples. "It's not about not wanting you. I just... I got scared, alright? Things got real fast, and I didn't know how to deal with it."

Christina's gaze softened, though the hurt lingered. "So, what now?"

"I don't know."

"Is that all you've got?"

He looked away, feeling the familiar frustration bubbling up when he didn't have the right answers.

Christina's contempt was surprising.

"I don't even know why I called you in the first place. You haven't changed at all. Just... go fuck yourself!"

He stood there, dumbfounded, as the door slammed shut behind her.

He truly fucked up.