Patrick Stump Imagines

You're Like Porcelain

A/N: Trigger warning. If you don't like these kinds of imagines, please skip. You're free to do it.

(The title is from Patrick Stump's 'Porcelain'. It's an amazing song and I highly suggest it.)

•••

• Your POV •

I stared at the girl in front of the mirror. A celebrity with thousands of caring fans and a husband who's basically perfect.

Too much. I knew with all my heart that I didn't deserve any of this fame and fortune I was experiencing.

I don't know why people still adore me, or why my husband stays with me. People say that I'm gorgeous, but I don't believe them. Not when they're just fans. They only think I look better famous, but they don't know what I really look like.

I grabbed the blade and slid it across my wrist deeply, not minding that I heard someone coming to the door of the bathroom. It was locked anyway.

My eyes started tearing up from the pain, so I accidentally groaned. The footsteps stopped in front of the bathroom door, and the doorknob started twisting rapidly. Shit, not now.

I hurriedly grabbed one of the towels from the back of the door and wiped the blood off while dipping it in the bathtub, closing the curtains as the door was practically about to break down with all the force that I assumed was Patrick was making.

Once all the blood has been wiped out, I took a bandage from the medicine cabinet with my hip accidentally hitting the sink, letting me moan once again in pain. I hurriedly put the bandages on my wrist before putting the black hoodie with I brought earlier to the bathroom. The door finally sprung free, revealing a raged Patrick, but was replaced by a confused look when he saw me.

"Oh, hey there, (Y/N)," he greeted nonchalantly as if he wasn't just murdering a door a minute ago. "What were you doing in there?"

I felt a lump come up in my throat, and I said the most illogical answer anyone could spit out. "Why do you have to know?"

He shook his head. "Why were you making all those moans?" He got a glance of the closed curtain and pushed me aside using my wrist, which made me groan in pain once again. He turned to look at me, then realized what was happening. I gave him a stare as cold as ice.

"What do you think I was doing?" I hissed. He ignored my question and pulled my wrist, revealing bandages.

"I'll ask YOU. What were you doing?" He caressed my wrist and dragged me to our bedroom, not even minding to close the goddamn door.

He carried me bridal-style to the mirror and set me down gently, as if I was something that would break if I was dropped once. "Do you see what I'm seeing?"

I titled my head to think what it was, but nothing came. "Me."

"You see yourself, but I see someone beautiful-someone special," he said, kissing my neck gently. "And that someone special thinks she's not perfect when she doesn't know what the definition of perfect is."

I turned my head at him. "Then what IS the definition of perfect?"

"Perfect is having flaws. Perfect isn't about physical flaws. Perfect is knowing that you're a creation of God, and that no one can bring you down. (Y/N), I know you don't think that about yourself, but deep inside, I know you are. You just let your negative thoughts tell you who you are, but you never let yourself do the talking. You know you're someone brave; you just don't show it. And I know you can do it even if you think that you're like porcelain; something that can break with just a little force. You're not. You're someone strong. Physical appearances don't matter to anyone, (Y/N). It's all about who you are on the inside, and I tell you, you're beautiful to me, inside and out."