infatuation // m.h

37

Matty and I didn't talk for two weeks.

I avoided social media - it was full of girls telling me to die for 'cheating on Matty'.

Matty didn't say anything. He didn't tweet to anyone. He didn't call. He didn't text.

Silence. For two weeks.

I drank a lot. Most nights I sat at home, and drank and smoked until I passed out.
I stopped crying as much.

Matty was making no effort to even call me.
Maybe he really didn't want me, maybe he was off with Gemma.

He'd find another girl to write songs about.

The thought replayed in my mind.

Matty didn't need or want me any more, I was useless.
I was just another name. Another face.
I wasn't important to him.
It occurred to me that other than Matty, I wasn't really that important to anyone.

I didn't have a purpose.

Days trickled by, a week turned into two weeks and two weeks turned into three weeks.

Matty hadn't called. I knew I could just call him, dial his number and talk, but I didn't have the courage.He probably wouldn't pick up anyway.

He hated me. He didn't want to talk to me. He made it obvious.

I found myself stalking his Twitter and Tumblr, not quite sure what I was looking for. I found myself obsessively watching videos of his shows every night - watching him sit on the amp and sing Me, chugging his bottles of red every single night.

I was worried about him.
But was he even thinking about me?

~ Matty ~

I was petrified of losing her. But I couldn't call.

Every time I tried, my fingers would shake and I decided that I needed a smoke or a drink.

I kept my thoughts away from lines - I promised her. I promised her I wouldn't.

I loved her.
I was obsessed with her.

I didn't want Gemma, I wanted her. Nikki.

Just thinking her name made me want to catch a plane in the middle of the night and surprise her.

I wanted to be home.

I knew I was being unreasonable. I knew I was playing games. I knew I got jealous too easily.
I knew that I must have been making her feel like shit.

This was never what I wanted.

I loved my job, I loved being able to do what I loved. I loved seeing thousands of faces every night, screaming along to our songs. Songs I'd written about her.

I loved what I was doing, but I hated having to.

I so desperately wanted to apologise. I knew I was in the wrong, I was the one that overreacted. I wanted to go home.

But I couldn't let the others down - the millions of people that lined up for hours just to hear us play.

Every night I sung my songs, but every night I wished I didn't have to. I wished I was at home with her.

Two weeks went by. I hadn't said a word to her.

I felt like shit. I could only imagine what she would have felt like.

Three weeks went by.
Three weeks to go.

I had three weeks to clean up my act - to apologise and tell her I loved her.

But every time I tried, something stopped me.

I was being a coward. I was overreacting. I was making it all about me, when, it was me that fucked up. I started this shit.

I couldn't even remember what started the fight in the first place. I just remember being angry at her, then feeling guilty, then angry again. Then calling up Gemma for lunch. Then guilty again. Then angry when I saw the photos of Nikki and the guy.

But every time I thought about him - that guy she was dancing with at the club - I wanted to punch a fucking wall.

She wasn't his.
She was mine.

5:18am - Me: I'm sorry.

I tried to call her. She didn't pick up.

Why would she? You've been a terrible boyfriend.

I tried to call again. And again. Before she finally picked up. I sighed in relief.

"Hey." I whispered. I stepped out onto the balcony. The other boys were sleeping. I sat down at the single plastic chair on the cold hotel balcony, watching the sky change colour and city lights flicker off.
"Hi." She mumbled. I heard her yawn. I smiled at the thought of her, just waking up.
"I'm sorry." I said quietly.
"I know." She said.
"I love you."
"I know." She said. I imagined her laying on her side.
"I miss you."
"I know."
"Please say something." I begged.
The phone call ended with a beep.