No Strings Attached

Day 270

            "Elena, please, just answer your phone. I was drunk and mad and I'm sorry. That's not me. You know that's not me. Just please, please pick up."

            There isn't anything in this world quite like heartbreak. It's a cold feeling, full of dread and nauseating guilt. It has this nasty habit of wrapping its cold, dead fingers around those foolish enough to fall in love. If one thing is sure to cripple a man, it's heartbreak.

            "I love you. Lena, I love you so much. You know that—god, you have to know that. I didn't mean to hurt you—ever—and I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Please just pick up the phone and talk to me. Please."

            Elena thought she should be used to it by now. Used to the icy sensations that continue to wash over her, hitting her wave after wave. Maybe she used to be, or maybe she never was. Maybe she had never experienced it quite like this. Because this—this thing that had its hand wrapped securely around her heart—was new to her. New in the sense that she had never known of its existence before, and she wished she never had.

            "I know you're listening to these, Lena, even if you're not picking up my phone calls. I know you're listening, you have to be. If you're not... Elena you are the love of my life and I will not stop calling until you pick up the phone and talk to me. Just talk to me."

            The best description she can come up with is the sensation of drowning. The excruciating pain as her lungs heave and burn; the darkness crawling out of the corners of her mind to surround her; the suffocating tightness in her chest cavity as she struggles to adjust... Yes, it is exactly like drowning.

            "You hate me, I get it, and I know it's my fault. Everything is my fault. I chased you down, I made you meet me for coffee, I fell in love with you first. I know that. But was everything a lie? Everything I felt—everything we felt?"

            "You are it. Us—this is it. We have what everyone else is always talking about, I know we do. I know I hurt you, and I know I can never take that back, but... I can't move on, Elena. Not from you."

            "I love you, Elena Gilbert—"

            Elena quickly drops her phone, resisting the urge to chuck it across the bleak hospital room. She can't listen to Dean's pleading, to the pain in his voice. Not anymore.

            It's early, the sun hardly peeking over the tops of the trees. The light warms the room, reaching across Damon's bed to nip at Elena's cold skin. It drastically contrasts the horrid hospital lighting, dancing through the air while the overhead lights remain stagnant. The warm shade reminds her of her last trip to the lake—her head on Dean's chest, the flimsy book in her hands, the grainy sand between her toes.

            In retrospect maybe that's where things went wrong. That was where things should have ended, after all, their choice to continue clearly naïve. Their rules were set in place for a reason—maybe for a complicated, twisted reason, but a reason nonetheless.

            Elena hadn't slept at all the night before, the constant phone calls and never-ending heartbreak keeping her eyes wide open. She told herself she only wanted to be awake in case Damon stirred, but it was a feeble excuse. In all honesty, Elena hadn't spared Damon one thought.

            Needing a break from the suffocating space, Elena rises from the stiff chair and makes her way to the hospital cafeteria. She needs to clear her head, and the only cure she knows is caffeine. It doesn't take her long to pour herself a cup, relishing in the warmth between her fingers and hoping it removes the icy sensation from her body.