Selfish Appetite [5 Seconds of Summer]

[52]

"Where old ghosts meet new beginnings."

- - 

Sloan 

The next morning, the house is quiet.

Quieter than I remember, a silence so deep it feels alive.

It presses on my chest, dense and heavy, like the air before a storm. I can't tell if it's the house or me, but everything feels like it's holding its breath.

I wander from room to room, my steps light as if I might disturb the ghosts of this place. The walls seem to whisper memories: my dad's laughter as he read one of his cheesy detective novels, my mom humming along to a Sinatra record while she painted.

The warmth of it is gone now, replaced by an ache that's been waiting fifteen years to claw its way out.

In the living room, the fire pops and crackles in the hearth, its glow casting shadows that stretch and twist like they're mocking me.

A box of my parents' things sits on the floor, unopened. I've spent the last hour pretending I'm going to unpack it, but every time I reach for the lid, my hands falter.

Instead, I think of Luke.

It's not intentional—at least, not at first. He's always there, though, lurking in the back of my mind. I close my eyes, and his voice from Mina's party rushes back, low and raw.

Maybe I should just let you go.

The words hit me then, and they hit me now, with the same brutal force.

Part of me wonders if he meant it, if he's somewhere in New York actually letting me go. The thought sends a sharp pang through my chest.

But then I remember the way he looked at me that night—like he wanted to kiss me and scream at me in the same breath. The way his hand lingered on mine, his fingers warm and rough against my skin, before he stepped back and left me standing there, torn between anger and wanting to pull him close.

I don't know which is worse: the fact that he hurt me, or the fact that I still want him.

The crunch of gravel outside snaps me out of my thoughts.

My heart leaps, irrationally hoping it's him, even though I know better.

It's Michael's car pulling into the driveway.

I meet him at the door, forcing a smile. He hugs me tightly without a word, his warmth steady and grounding. For a moment, I let myself lean into it.

"You okay?" he asks when he pulls back, his sharp green eyes studying me.

"I'm fine." I lie.

He doesn't push, just steps inside and sets down the duffel bag slung over his shoulder. "Brought toffee." he says, holding up a pastel yellow box. 

I grin widely, taking it from him. "You always know how to cheer me up."

"Years of practice." he quips, but there's an edge to his tone.

I can tell he's holding something back, and I don't have the energy to pry.

Not yet.

We settle in the living room, the fire crackling softly. He makes small talk about the drive, the weather, but I can feel his gaze flickering to the unopened box beside us.

Finally, he sighs. "Ally and I were talking."

My stomach tightens. "About what?"

He hesitates, and I already know I'm not going to like what comes next.

"We think it's not great for you to be here alone," he says carefully. "In this house. With everything."

I stiffen. "I'm fine."