Bleeding Hearts

nineteen

for millie, because she's so sweet and hilarious and an aMAZING writer—like, holy cow

NINETEEN

All over my body I'm numb. My skin is cold and dry, my heart barely feels like it's pumping, and my brain is throbbing with pulsating thoughts about what happened last night. And as I stand at my locker, just staring into the book filled space, I've come to one single conclusion.

I have to talk to Brady.

I slam my locker shut, not even bothering to grab the right binders, before turning and slowly beginning to walk down the hallway leading to first period. Every step weighs a ton as it slams into the floor of the school, and every innocent glance from an innocent passerby feels like a threat. I'm so paranoid that I can barely handle a strangers breath in my direction. My eyes are puffy and red from my sobs last night and this morning, my hair is tangled into a low bun, and my leggings and plain tee shirt are making its second debut on my body since last night. I've never felt so disgusting.

And then I see him.

His hands are shoved deep into his pants pockets, head down as he speed walks down the hallway. I want to scream but my voice won't allow it, so his name escapes my mouth in the form of a pathetic croak. "Brady."

He doesn't stop for me, instead moves even faster down the hall. I dash towards him and grab onto his shirt before jumping in his way. "Brady, listen to me." I plead with him, fingers digging into his blue, short sleeved tee shirt as my eyes attempt to connect with his downward cast ones. "I'm so, so—"

"Save it, Leah." He grumbles, swatting my hands from his chest.

I don't budge. "Will you at least let me explain?"

Brady looks at me then, his eyes a dark forest green. "Your lips on his was a good enough explanation for me."

"I'm sorry." I croak. "I know I messed up—"

"You did so much more than that." Brady was practically towering over me now, his shoulders broadening and the veins in his arms gently beginning to press against his tan skin. "You crushed everything that we had Leah, in one fucking night you managed to throw away ten years of a friendship and six months of a relationship. But worst of all," Brady's jaw clenches, "You threw it all away for dip shit like Ford Turner."

"I kn—"

"And for what?" Brady continues, and I then realize that my back is literally pressed up against the wall. "To experiment? Was I not good enough for you? Was my undying devotion and ... love for you not fucking enough?"

"Stop," I plead meekly.

"No, you stop." Brady grabs my wrist and slams my palm against his chest so that I can feel the erratic beat of his heart. "Stop this searing pain inside of me, this gut wrenching feeling of love and loss that's slowly consuming me. Stop my fucking heart from breaking for you." Brady's voice cracks but his face gives no sign of weakness. Unlike Ford, Brady is a stone cold wall when he's emotional.

"I'm sorry, Brady." I whimper as tears begin to fall, and honestly, that's all that I can say. I've completely reversed the roles—I'm no longer the heart broken, but the heartbreaker. I just wish that it had been Brady's heart that I would mutilate, but that's just the cards I've been dealt. "I'm so sorry."