All of my 5sos work

When Things Fell Apart: V

"Wait, but can't you at least tell me who wrote the song? You know it's my favourite!" My memories echo in my ears as I stare blankly at the sky outside, I remember it all so vividly. He kept laughing at how intrigued I was by the song that was crumpled in my hands now, how creased it was and words had been crossed out, misspelt or even smudged in the time he wrote this. 

The Only Reason. When he first played it to me I fell in love with it, the lyrics were so meaningful and had so much life in them, the passion, the melody, all of it just enticed me. He knew how much I loved it yet he never admitted who wrote it, he told me someone I wouldn't know, another artist did it and part of me just forgot. That was until now, seeing the lyrics written on this paper in his handwriting, how I turned it around to see some doodles of guitars that made me chuckle. In very small print at the bottom, hidden by the creases in the paper I squinted to just about make it out. 

For you. 

This writing seemed newer compared to the rest which made me struggle to breathe, had he added this recently? I glanced next to me to see the couple still fast asleep, blinking rapidly I placed the paper in the box and shoved it into my bag, wanting to not think for just a little while. 

Closing my eyes the memories continued to play like a classic film, "You'll find out someday, just you wait." His words felt like fire in my mind, burning everything that was there until they were etched into my memory, on repeat like a record. The words played on until I drifted off into a pleasant sleep, a light jolt woke me up as the lady next to me chuckled. 

Glancing down I had fallen asleep on her shoulder, apologising to her she shrugged it off. "I'm glad you slept, you worried me for a bit with that look in your eyes dear." She joked and noticed the box was absent from my lap, raising her faint eyebrows I motioned to my bag. "So, anything that took your breath away?" A watery laugh escaped my lips as I nodded, automatically wiping my face as I did so. 

"That's the problem." I muttered through silent sobs, looking up to her she wore that look everyone seems to have when I talk about it, about him, about her, about everything that happened. 

They all seem sympathetic, they're cautious, wary of me snapping suddenly. To all of them I'm a volcano that has the potential to be threatening but seems dormant, to some I may be perceived as beautiful - to him I was at least, or he made me think so. Yet no matter how much everyone cares or seems to they don't understand my thought process, or how much my heart aches whenever someone mentions his name. So many of them remain unaware of how long it took me to be this stable, if this can be considered a stable state. 

Yet I did what I always do in response to that look, I nod and give them a polite smile and hope they just move on with the conversation rather than let it lurk in the air around us, within the bubble we remain in. "You know," She began to speak up, silently I thanked her for doing so. "there are cases where the one's we love the most can be the ones that leave the most memorable pain." Motioning to her husband who was now reading a book she continued, "Took us years to finally be together, yes, we married but with the war I worried night after night about his safety. I thought maybe he won't come home this time." She sniffed but wiped her nose with a tissue. "But he did." Smiling she placed her hand into his, something so natural to the two of them it was like a second nature. 

"And that was the pain? The worry?" I asked, unsure on the meaning behind her little tale of love. Wondering what went through her mind she focused on the safety guide in front of her, unsure on what to say. 

"It is a unique pain." Confused I remained quiet, "It's something that tears you apart inside but the way it lingers is more of an ache rather than that sharp pain. With a sharp pain it fades, it doesn't linger for long and soon enough it's gone." Mentally I heard his voice, the first time he told me he loved me, how he would never let me go. "Whereas that unique pain, all the time in the world can pass but it'll still hover close to home." 

*

Her wise words echo as I find myself sat at home, back in the place we once shared. My bag sits on a chair where I tend to sit and watch the night sky, finding it more comfortable and ideal than my bed these days. Yet every time I enter the room my vision fixates on it, knowing what is inside, but also what could be inside. 

Thinking back to the brief visit Luke made from their first tour, how I was ill and barely able to stay awake. To begin with I was convinced he was a hallucination that was just watching me as I slept, despite how creepy it seemed it was comforting. How he came and rested next to me, holding me close and kissed my forehead. Within hours I realised subconsciously that he was real and got closer to him, snuggled up into him and never wanted to let go. 

Yet now I look to that bed and I see the days where I didn't move or speak. The times when the sound of a song that reminded me of him sent me over the edge and hurt too much for me to even consider continuing with even the simplist of things. The hours I spent convincing myself that I didn't need him, that I didn't want his embrace or the kisses on my neck or the soft lulls of his voice when my eyes felt heavy or the dances in the rain or the conversations, not any of it. 

Closing my eyes I tried my best to shut it all out, every single bit of it, all the feelings that are attached to each memory. Taking deep breaths was useless as all I could hear was that song, the lyrics becoming more apparent than ever before. 

I find myself lying in his arms wearing one of his hoodies that I loved with all my heart. His smell lingering along the cuffs that were too big on my small arms compared to his and all the marks it had collected over the years. Looking up he played with his lip ring and his hair remained perfectly quiffed out of his face effortlessly, I snuggled closer to him and felt his arm tightening around my waist. The song came to an end and I glanced up to him, unknowingly wearing that smile that was rarely displayed. To me that smile he wore told more than words ever could, I should've known it when I told him how much I loved the song, how the lyrics meant so much to me yet he just nodded and smiled. How did I not know it was for me all along? 

Snapping out of the distant memory I return to my current state at home, such a weird word to call this place. It has been my home for years but within those years I've had people come and go but he stayed, he lingered here for me but now it has resorted to its default; one occupant. Even now I still found things that reminded me of him, seeing the wall where he fell and it cracked due to him thinking it'd be entertaining to steal my bras. Or the wall he painted but forgot a portion of it so he covered it with prints that I loved, one's that are still there today and hide the unfinished job. 

Hearing my door ring I walked away from my bed, away from the chair with that ambiguous box inside, full of mystery and fear. Humming the tune as I go I open it without a second thought to how I look, how I seem to be to whomever is behind the panel of wood. Opening it I wished I had put more thought into how I present myself as it was one of the last people I'd expected to be greeted with. 

Once curled golden locks now reframed and cut back, the grin that never left his face had sunken from tiredness- something I knew all too well. He looked older, taller, wiser even yet still managed to maintain that child like glint in those hazel eyes. Leaning against the frame of the door my mind pointed out obvious questions to ask, to suggest yet my mouth refused to co-operate. 

"Hey nightingale," He started after a long silence between the two of us, the nickname only he called me. To him I was something loving, helpful and always caring yet if necessarily deadly. He remained a good distance away in case I chose to slam the door in his face not that I could, not to him. "'bout time we spoke."