Like a Cigarette (Shakira & Adam Levine / Shadam)

I'm (Not) Okay

Stand up strong even when the world tries to bring you down.

There is absolutely nothing beautiful about Shakira in the morning . . .

. . . especially when there was alcohol from the night before . . .

. . . and a bottle of champagne on her nightstand.

"Fuck," she muttered as she lifted her head to check the time--3:00 P.M.--and took a swing at the champagne bottle only to taste a few droplets. She groaned in protest . . . at her past self for being selfish, at her head for aching and at her stomach for deciding that right now is the perfect time to play whirlpool, probably moments away from becoming a fucking tsunami.

She heard a bell and at first, she thought it was her mind going insane from the lack of alcohol until . . .

"Um, excuse me?" called a voice from outside her door, she presumed. She ignored the boy for his voice did not seem mature enough for her to let him in.

"Uh, this is really important. Um, phone call? Mrs. Shakira?"

From the tone of his voice, Shakira could tell that he was nervous; from what, she could not understand, but she snapped up and slugged all the way to the door miles away. When she flung the door open, she gave the boy--in a bellhop suit, red--a once-over before snatching the phone.

"Hello?"

"Shakira? What the fuck did I tell you?"

She pressed the phone--the one that hotels use--to her shoulder. Yep, it was for her. She nodded at the boy and he blushed red like his uniform before stepping back and away.

"Hey kid," she turned her head slightly to look the boy in the eye, "It's 'Miss.' Don't make the same mistake again," she warned, shutting the door before a boy with skin that was unlike a bright tomato.

"Hi Mitch, what's up?" Shakira flopped onto her bed once again.

"Do you ever listen to me? 'Don't fuck around with other boys,' I said, 'Don't make yourself look bad.' God! And with fucking Adam Levine too? He's--oh my god. What are you going to do now, Shakira? I've been trying and trying to get your shit straight, but you're so fucking--"

"Mitch, what the fuck are you talking about?"

"The elevator! Adam Levine! What shit are you trying to pull, huh?"

Elevator? Adam Levine? Who the fuck is Adam Levine?

"Oh shit," Shakira muttered as the realization dawned upon her, "The guy with the cigarette, is that what you're fucking talking about?"

"What! Are you even listening to me right now? Fuck, Shakira, whatever, you never fucking do anyways. God!"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, Mitch! Calm down! It must have been some sort of mistake. What really happened was . . ."

At thirty minutes past three, Shakira was out the door.

There was something about small walks in the afternoon that's so relaxing and refreshing to Shakira. To her, the gentle winds and soaking sun were better than any painkillers invented when there was a hangover involved.

But nothing's ever perfect . . . even if it first seemed so.

She first met him at a party. She was at the top of her game; her career as an entertainer, magical, they would say. He came up to her and went, "Would you like to take a walk with me?" Gerard Pique he introduced himself as and he was everything she wanted in a man--smart, charming, handsome. His career, also beautiful as he played pro-soccer.

They dated for a few years and he proposed and everything, magical.

But she was young and she hasn't learned, but she was forced to when she got into that accident, the one that broke her hip and made her reputation as an entertainer tumble.

Huh, it's funny, really. He must have loved walking a lot because he was already walking out of her life with other girls he could be smart and charming and handsome to.

Now, healed, she's afraid to dance once again.

But even if her hip did heal, every other part of her body was tired and broken in so many ways.

That's why sometimes, she walks . . .

. . . and most times, she runs.