a sky full of stars || tom x reader

07

(Y/N)

Tom drops me off at my place, and I smile and wave at Tom and grin at Brian. "Thanks for the ride." I say, looking down at my hands.

"I-it was nothing, really." Tom replies, his cheeks slightly red, like when I first saw him. He's back to stuttering, stumbling over his words.

"Whatever, thanks, anyway." I smile, holding out my fist.

Tom gapes at me. "Are you going to punch me?" He says, his tone dark.

"No, man." I roll my eyes. I gently take his hand. He flinches, probably shocked.

"Relax." I tell him, curling his hand into a fist. He watches me intently, not knowing where I'm going with this.

I gently bump my fist with his, pull it back, and make an explosive sound. He starts to smile. "It's called a fist bump." I explain.

I hold out my fist again, and this time, we both do it, and end up laughing. "Alright, see you later, Tom." I call, walking inside and shutting the door.

I run upstairs, locking my bedroom door behind me. I collapse onto my bed and bury my face into the pillow, letting out a shaky sigh.

I can't believe Star and Marco did that.

Didn't they trust me?

I clutch the pillow tightly, and I can hear a voice in my head.

"What did the pillow ever do to you?"

I sigh and let go, staring at the ceiling blankly. "Shut up." I think.

"You can't ask me to do that." The voice replies. "I'm you. You're literally imagining me as a seperate person in your head and making me talk."

I let out a long sigh. "We lead a sad life." I close my eyes tightly.

"No, you do." The voice replies, before it goes silent.

I roll over on my side and glare at the wall. Am I crazy? Do normal people talk to themselves in their head?

"Maybe we ask ourselves questions by 'talking to ourselves' in our heads so that we can answer it easier." I think. "Don't we want to fit in?  Sometimes, we care about other people's problems more than our own just for the sake of being liked."

I sit up, kicking the pillow away. I rub my eyes wearily and look around my room.

It's a mess, to say the least.

Papers and drawings are scattered on my desk, and my art materials are scattered. A board game with the pieces scattered around lay on the floor, collecting dust.

There are so many clothes on the floor that I can't even see or feel the fluffy white carpet I've had since I was five.

I scrunch up my nose in disgust and stand up, picking up clothes from the floor, deciding to clean my room.