Joshler One Shots

Flower

a/n: i'm actually quite proud of this.
i'd advise you listen to the song above while reading.

"It's been a while" I'd say.

You stare at me in silence, and I have to think; what did you expect?

An "I miss you?" or a "how was your day?"

No, unfortunately, those days of ours are over, as dead as we are Josh.

You bite your lip, as you try to calculate what you can say to regain my trust, but you're struggling.

You give up trying to figure it out by yourself,

"how can I make this right?" You eventually ask.

But for starters Joshua, "you can't. There is no way we'll be able to return to the us, the way we were, the things we used to be."

Yet, as I say this, something inside me starts hurting. I should be over you, but the pleading in your eyes, makes me pine for a love that once burned bright.

This thing inside, is what keeps me awake. Writing prose of agony, throughout the lonely nights.

The space in my bed is still warm from where you one laid beside me. I wonder if your bed feels as desolate and cold as mine.

I wonder if you roll over in the night, exhausted arms trying to pull tighter a body that will never be there again. Or perhaps, you crave the frigidity of the sheets, and you're perfectly fine.

We continue staring at each other on the sidewalk, the chill wind of fall making my neck beg for a scarf, or maybe your hands.

Your eyes trace my body, thinking the only thing that has changed about me was the way I looked at you now, hard and angry. Your gaze trails down to my wrist, for the bracelet you bought me for my birthday. It's not there.

All that is left are rubber bands.

"How's your life?"

Without me in it, is the real question. But it's hidden, trapped behind the prison of your lips.

"Perfect." -ly terrible. Like you.

But I hold my words inside. You cannot know the power you still have over me, the way the disappointment in your eyes slaps me like a thousands whip.

Do you remember the day I brought you home to meet my parents? You had promised to protect me from everyone else.

Who knew I'd really need protection from you? And myself?

Yet another question shielded in your eyes, and I wish you would just spit it out.

I know what you're thinking. Are you okay? Are you as depressed as before? How much did I hurt you, did I drive you to do.... anything? Did I make it worse?

And my silent answer; do you mean to ask, do I still lay awake wishing for the day I don't wake up anymore? Do I still fight against the voices that threaten to drive me insane? Do I still plead with demons inside my head to leave my alone? Do I still go days without eating and sleeping, do I still stare at the wall for hours, do I still look longingly out the window for an escape from my own personal hell? Do I still communicate with the villains that make my world dark?

Honestly, the ability to read people is a curse.

You want the answer, but I don't want to talk to you. Did you know, you're the one that's doing the damage. You're making it worse, just stop, you're hurting me, I never asked for this. Why are you doing this, how could you treat me this way, what did I do Josh, what did I say?

I AM NOT OKAY.

But I bite my tongue. You reach out a tentative arm and I shrink back, cheeks burning as I stare at the ground. You broke my heart, for another man.

You're cruel, you know that? And now that you realise what you've lost, you want to come slinking back, you think you can.

But you fucking can't.

Even though, everything about me is a mess. I at least still have a scarp of pride. So, with pain in my heart, I look you in the eye.

I tell you everything you have ever made me feel.

Euphoria, love, pain, agony, tears, happiness, sadness. I tell you all the things you did to make me laugh, and the things you did to make me cry.

Obviously, I was not that important to you if you left so suddenly.

If a flower is pretty, you will stop, stare, and possibly pick it. And once you pick it, you keep it until is shrivels, loses its beauty and dies. But the sun, is worse than any flower picked, at least those that pick flowers care. The sun just encourages it until it becomes what it wants. Then leaves it to die.

The sun then picks another flower, a prettier one.

You see Josh,

I was your flower. And you were my sun.

Taking a deep breath, I turned and walked away for the first and last time. I was indeed a flower, and I could feel my petals withering and dying.

You will never know how long I stayed up that night, staring at the ceiling and crying.

But I think now, now I am okay.

Because,

once a flower dies, it becomes rain.

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