how to make a mixtape :: mgc (fin.)

34. michael's shirts & maggie's name

u best read this entire chapter it's long but very important
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"Where'd you get this from?" Mara asks, holding up Michael's old Def Leppard shirt that she found hidden in a box in my wardrobe. She twirls it around her fingers as she watches me apprehensively. Her gaze softens as she must've realised -- I visibly shrunk back at the sight of it, and looped my thumbs through the worn out sleeves of my much-too-big shirt. "Is it... is it Mi--"

"He who shall not be named," I snap, and she drops the shirt in disgust, wiping off her hands onto her jeans. "And yes, it is his shirt."

We're both sorting my clothes, as I decided that my room was much too messy for me to be able to maintain a sane state of mind and a successful journey towards recovery. Everyone reckons I have PTSD -- which I agree with -- and despite my numerous efforts in staying as far away from the house as I possibly could, it's beginning to become difficult, seeing as I have all my clothes here. Mara offered me to stay at her place until I felt more stable, but God knows how long that could take. Perhaps it would be better if I stayed in this little shop, since it's better to recover around the things I'll be seeing every day rather than things that I'll just leave. Everything leaves in the end, to be honest. Might as well cling to the things that stick around a little longer.

She gingerly picked the shirt up and placed it back into the large box in front of her. I don't think she knows that's a box of all the shirts and the one jacket Michael left at my house. It's just a box of the Michael I used to know.

"Wait--" She digs through the box and I feel my cheeks heat up. There are some... personal things in there. "Wait-- Maricruz, don't tell me these are all his?"

I stay silent.

"You can't just keep your ex-boyfriend's things lying around in your room," she says. "That's--that's crazy!" She cuts herself off before she says anything more, giving me a solemn look. "That--that came out wrong, I didn't mean to--"

"Don't worry about it." I take the box from her and pick out one of the other shirts. "But I need these."

"Why?"

My ears feel hot, and the blush moves up my head and burns my cheeks like flames. "I can't really afford any other clothes."

She quiets, running her finger over the seam of one of the other shirts. "You shouldn't do this to yourself."

"Do what?" I stare at her through my hair, my hands tensing into fists. I wait to see how she'll phrase what she says next. "Do what? Because if I had an option on whether I wanted to be living like this or not, I'd rather not be."

She shakes her head, closing the lid on the box and pushing it back into the wardrobe. "I'm sorry."

Bringing my legs up, I press my forehead to my knees. I just want everything to stop, and take a minute to register everything. I just want to take a breather from breathing for a second, and walk around without worrying about anything for a while. I need a break, for goodness sake. I don't want to worry about Maggie or Michael or debts or immigration or staying in this godforsaken country. I don't want to think about how everyone around me needs to tread on eggshells before saying something, I don't want to have all these illnesses and medicine shoved in my face and expected to balance a damn career and life. I'm only seventeen. I don't want this, I don't want this, I don't want this.

For the second time this week, I cry.

Mara's arms are around me quicker than I apprehend, and she's pushing my hair around my ears and humming into the crown of my head and rubbing my shoulder and I cry harder because that's what Michael does and I want Michael. I don't want the Michael who showed me up at Costa, or had his hands around my throat, or threatened to out me to the police. I want the Michael who was nervous when he asked me out, and the one who tastes like watermelon, and the one who smells like cookie dough and rain and God help me, I just want him to have a reason for hurting me so much. I want him to burst through my bedroom door and lift me up and cradle me in his arms and kiss me over and over and over and tell me it's all okay and that those horrible things that happened between us and everything else will never happen again. I just want Michael, and for everything to stop.