You & I~Muke

-Michael-

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Time is a funny concept.

It's been one whole year since Emily died; and I can't tell if times flown by or not, and if it has, I can't tell if I like that or not.

One year today; the 11th December is the date she died on, and 365 days later, look where we are.

With the drama of yesterday, I didn't really think about the fact that today Emily died last year, and that my heart hurts so much.

So fucking much and for a second, while my tired eyes open, I wonder if I'm going ot burst into tears or not.

Luke sits up, staring at me.

"It's b-b-been o-one y-year, L-L-Luke," I bawl, allowing the tears to tumble down my cheeks. Usually, on the bad days like these, I wouldn't do much.

Maybe sit there, numb, and then maybe eventually cry, but right now, the sobs rack my chest, cries strangling my throat as I hiccup in attempts to breathe.

My boyfriends hand runs patterns across my clothed back while I tell myself to hold it together.

I thank god it's a Saturday because that means I don't have to go into school and deal with even more bullshit than I'm already going to have today.

my mind is running, sprinting and I'm left panting in the result of it, I can barely breathe I can barely breathe and I hate myself, because I'm more than sure she'd be fucking embarrassed to have even called me a best friend. Anyone would, look at me.

I'm a disaster in a human body, I can't even function properly; speaking is hard, getting out of bed is harder, making tea is okay, drinking it is easier.

It's the small things that everyone takes for granted- like having a nice family. Having two parents. Speaking fluently and not falling over your words. Not going into school feeling absolutely terrified.

"You're okay, Michael, everything will be fine," he hushes, easing me down, back into bed- and I know every time we cuddle, I say I feel small. But right now, I feel small in more than just my size. I feel like a young child who needs comforting.

I feel like I'm young and stupid- but somehow Luke doesn't care.

Or he does and he's not showing it.

Probably the latter; I annoy everyone in some way or another.

I always have, I always will and that's probably why no one could love me.

"It's n-not o-o-o-okay, L-Luke! I'm n-not f-fine!" I cry, almost screaming at him.

He nods, processing my words after trying to figure out what's going on up there. Up in my head and to be honest, I don't know if I know, let alone someone else figuring that shit out.

"I know, Mikey, but you will be." He takes his soft voice and slender fingers and he wraps them around my body, bringing a sense of warmth, a positive feeling maybe, and I hate that.

I shouldn't be happy.

I'm not allowed- is that not rude?

Is that not disrespectful to be happy when she died?

"B-But what i-if i-i-I'm not, L-Luke?" a pause while he looks into my broken eyes. "W-What if I d-d-don't g-get b-better? W-what if I'm t-thirty y-years o-old a-and I'm s-still p-petrified t-t-to e-eat i-i-incase I g-get fat? W-what i-if I'm thirty y-years o-old and I s-s-still c-can't leave the house? W-what i-if I'm thirty years old and y-y-you d-don't l-love m-me a-anything m-more? H-Huh? H-How a-a-about t-t-that?"