You & I~Muke

-Michael-

song for the chappy: ^^^^^^^ such a beautiful song and i luv sam smith lots n lots

all the apolgies for taking a tiny bit longer to update than i usually do, i was going to update like a week ago on saturday, but then i couldn't, and sunday i was busy shopping, then monday i went to a melanie martinez concert (OF WHICH WAS AMAZING) and then on tuesday i left for paris and then i was in france for a while and got in last night so i've been all over da place tbh

i'm sorry this is shitty and short and bleugh, but idk i don't want to disappoint any of you ect

i love you a lot 

feel free to comment and vote bc i'm in a low mood 

READ A/N VERY IMPORTANT

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Thousands of shades of grey pour through my window, painting my bedroom a dark colour of safety and sadness as I awaken; my eye lashes batting against my pale, worn cheeks.

I spend multiple infinities wondering whether to get out of bed, wondering if there's any point and how quickly the day will slip through my finger tips if I just lay here; but then I smell food coming from my kitchen, and I remember it's Christmas, and that I really should try.

Taking minutes out of my life as I gather the energy to sit up, I do so, and look around my room; a thin line of light from outside, peaking and painting itself upon my wardrobe catches my attention, a warmth in the change of colour.

When I go into the bathroom, ignoring my ugly reflection and the still rather prominent aching in my wrists, I slip into the shower- even doing this is hard nowadays, for showering used to be a relief for me, but now it's only a chore.

And the truth about depression is as poetic as it's portrayed, it's not so pretty and girls crying with long hair and their knees tucked to their chests.

It's not shaving because your hands shake so much. It's not showering for days because you simply can't be asked. It's your hair getting greasy in the process of that. It's overeating or not eating at all for the comfort of control.

Steam cocoons my underweight body as the hot water strikes down and I wash my greasy skin and unwashed hair, dampening the bandages around my wrist from the cuts and the small plasters everywhere because of all the injections and things- my throat definitely feels better from where they had to pump the pills and things from my stomach, which is probably another reason my appetite has been especially non-existent since waking up.

When I'm finished, I apply some new bandages and cream onto my wrists, struggling to even look at the permanent damage, and then leave my bathroom, somehow mentally preparing myself for the effort today shall bring, the opening of presents and forcing myself to show happiness, because I do feel it and I am so grateful but sometimes portraying those emotions ain't so easy when you can barely speak.

Leaving the safety of my cave and walking into the kitchen I see dad at the counter, chopping some potatoes for today's meal, a large chicken too, which mum is seasoning. The pair look over at me, and soon engulf me within a hug, smiling and I force myself a small smile back at them; it's the last thing they deserve.

"Happy Christmas Mikey!" when they let go, I nod, which they know means me returning to phrase. I sit down at the table, which has some flowers in the middle and a variation of cereals that I chose from every morning, like I'll actually finish the bowl; after deciding on weetabix, something plain and easy, I eat at them.

At first, I enjoy it.

It's nice.

But soon I'm tired of chewing and I'm tired of eating and the taste and my head hurts and the lights on the Christmas tree aren't helping, but then again, neither is the fact that Luke just walked into the room.