made of glass

one.

The question comes completely out of the blue. Nothing leads up to it; nothing even hints that it might be coming. It takes you by surprise and for several long moments, you just stare at him with wide blue eyes, your mouth hanging open.

Did you sleep with Bieber?

You try to process it as you stare; Josh is waiting for an answer, eyebrows inching up with every second that slips past, looking increasingly frustrated with your silence. “What are you talking about?” you ask finally. Your voice cracks on talking, like it’s trying to frame you for something you didn’t do.

The whole accusation throws you off guard. It’s completely ridiculous and you want to tell him so, but even as you open your mouth, you know you won’t be able to find the right words. How can he possibly think you’d do that? He should know you well enough to be able to squash the idea the moment it popped into his head. You’re pretty sure that the monstrous age gap makes the prospect of it all illegal. Besides that, you look at Justin as a friend -- practically a brother -- and he’s so hung up on Selena that he’d never even look at you. And, anyway, you’re hung up on the one person who’s sitting across from you with his eyebrows nearly disappearing into his hair.

Not that he has any idea.

Or could ever feel the same way.

Mostly because, at this particular moment, he’s too busy giving a harsh, bitter sort of laugh and standing up, pushing his chair back with a loud screech. “I just want to know if it’s true,” he says indifferently, but he’s trying too hard, because the words come out a little too loud. “It’s all over the Internet. The people are speculating, Carly.” He leans forwards, towards you, bracing his hands on the table in between you. “So enlighten me, Car. Exactly how much truth is there to these rumours?”

You fix your eyes on a point just to the left of his face. “I can’t believe you think I’d --”

But you cut yourself off and only shake your head, pushing back your chair, too. You allow your gaze to drop to the papers covering the table, filled with scribbled lyrics and half-completed melodies that you’d been working on together before he asked. Every other thought that crosses your mind is an order to yourself; don’t look up, don’t look up. You begin to pull the papers towards each other into a messy pile (don’t look up). You straighten the stack of papers’ edges (don’t look up).

Because it’s not worth it, right? He’s not worth it. Not anymore. You’ve known each other for almost four years, and it’s obvious that you’re not all that good at hiding things, even to you. He knows, he has to. He has to be able to see it every time you look at him, every time you say his name, every time you linger just a little too long when you hug him. There’s no way that Josh Ramsay can be so stupid that he can’t see it.

“You can tell me, you know, if it’s true,” he says, like he’s suddenly trying to be a good friend again. But there’s something different about his voice, something harder, and you don’t even have to look at him to know that he’s not smiling.

Still not looking up, you push the stack of half-started songs across the table towards him. “I’m out,” you mumble, just loud enough for him to hear. “Here. Take the songs.” You turn on your heel and start for the door of the studio and, beyond it, the long hallway that leads to freedom. Suddenly, you feel like you can’t breathe, like every last particle of air has been sucked out of the room, like you’re suffocating under Josh’s narrowed eyes. You think he says your name, but you’re not sure, and you don’t plan on sticking around for long enough to find out. Violently pulling the door open, you find that the narrow hallway outside is stifling, too, and all you can hear is your heart pounding and your flip-flops hitting the hardwood -- and, maybe, Josh’s footsteps echoing after you.

“Carly!”

He calls your name from far closer than you expect. You spin to face him, tears blurring your vision, already preparing yourself to shout back at him. But before you even have time to focus on him, he’s slipped one arm around your waist and all too suddenly, he crushes his mouth against yours hard.

You freeze. For a moment, you don’t move, your arms hanging uselessly by your sides. Your eyelids flutter shut without your permission and you find your hands sliding up to rest on his chest and you’re kissing him back --

Which is, if you really think about it, exactly what you’ve been wanting to do since you met him, practically. And maybe the whole situation would be a little more romantic if, less than five minutes ago, he hadn’t asked you about Justin. And that’s why you pull back as far as his hold on you will allow, pushing him away from you. He hurriedly removes his hand from where it rests on the small of your back, taking a step back and looking at you as if he’s trying to gauge the expression on your face.

All you can think of to say is, “What the hell was that?”

Josh opens his mouth like he has an explanation already planned out, but second-guesses himself and pauses. “Uh,” he manages. “Carly, I --”

“You can’t just kiss me and expect that it’s going to make everything better,” you cut in, internally cursing the fact that even when you’re this angry, you sound like you’re half-smiling, like you’re joking. “It’s not going to fix everything, okay, it’s not the answer -- you can’t...” A tear rolls down your cheek and you don’t know what else to say; you just stare at Josh for a moment, willing him silently to say something, anything, to rewind everything that just happened. When he remains silent, you turn on your heel and head for the door, leaving him standing in the studio hallway as you make a beeline for your car.

He kissed you.

How are you supposed to force yourself to get over him when he does that?