24 Hours - Phan

4:00am

Dan POV:

As soon as he was gone, I slid down the wall and landed solidly on the wood floor. Barely having moved since then, I cradle my face in my hands and sob until I'm empty and left gulping for air. Even an hour after he walked out, the finality of Phil slamming the door is still cruelly echoing around the apartment.

After a few minutes, I struggle up, brushing away the tears, and scramble to the living room window in desperation, hoping to see Phil coming back or just sitting on the front stoop. He isn't there. I look both ways down the street, but he's gone. If I could see him or know what direction he went, I could run after him and fix this. He never stays upset with anyone for very long and I know I can make him understand. Frantically, I start looking for my cell phone, tossing through the couch pillows and random objects that always seem to get abandon in the living room. Finding it, I take a deep breath and look at the screen, willing a text or call notification from Phil to be there, but there's nothing. I quickly call him, but it goes straight to voicemail. I listen to his entire cheerful voicemail greeting instructing me to leave a message before I disconnect and call back, not expecting a different result but needing to hear his voice again.

On a whim, I cram my feet into my shoes and search for my keys. Locating them on the coffee table, I flail down the front steps and open the door. I make it out to the front step before I stop, reconsidering my actions. I start to think about what would happen if Phil came home to an empty apartment while I was out looking for him. What if he only comes home long enough to pack a bag? It wouldn't do any good to leave a note for him to find, plus, it may be my only chance to talk to him. I strain and peer into the darkness, praying to see his familiar shape walking down the sidewalk before slowly turning around and climbing back up the apartment stairs. Ironically, I take my spot back at the same window I was looking out just a few short hours earlier when Phil got out of bed to find me. Sighing, I put my hands over my face, letting the tears flow down my cheeks again. I think back to waking up and untangling myself from Phil's arms and how he smiled and murmured my name in his sleep. I've dreamed of him being in my bed for so many years, how could I have ever walked away from that no matter how scared I was? I'd give anything to have those arms around me again right now.

Nothing. I laugh in disgust at my own words that are coming back to haunt me: "We can pretend last night didn't happen....that it was nothing." Those horrible words feel like they are still hanging over me and following me around. This is my punishment for having said them, I guess. My stomach twists violently. I don't know why I said that or did what I did. I'm furious at myself for even implying that every second spent with Phil was anything other than perfect. And what happened last night wasn't nothing. In fact, it was everything I ever wanted. So what's wrong with me that I have to screw up everything in my life that is good? It's like my brain is programmed to self-sabotage my own happiness.

It was my fault that I let such an intimate moment suddenly make us strangers.

But were we ever really strangers? I'm not sure we were. That day I first saw him online, there was something even then, though I didn't understand what exactly. It was enough that it was worth the risk of humiliation to send someone I didn't know a fan email gushing about how incredible his videos were. I remember waiting anxiously for a response even though I didn't expect one, and then felling elated when he finally did. Everything after that was a blur of emails, phone calls, and visits. It felt like my life had finally begun after waiting for 17 years. If we're strangers now, it is quickly becoming clear that my actions and words are to blame.

I walk back into my bedroom searching for my abandon shirt. I stand in the doorway, the room entirely lit by the moonlight now. It's like last night is frozen in front of me. The laptop is still on the floor in the same place where Phil set it down. My own t-shirt and jeans are still crumpled on the floor. The comforter is half on the bed. The sheets had been pulled loose of the mattress at some point. The two pillows are in the center, squished up next to each other. What I wouldn't give to reverse time by a few hours and be back in that bed with him. When I woke up scared, I wouldn't wander off and let my anxiety get the better of me, and I would wake him up to talk instead. Feeling lost, I lay down on the side of the bed he had slept on, but it already smells like Phil even though he was only there for a short time which somehow makes me feel even worse.

Not being able to bare the memories in the room, I quickly climb back out of bed and gather up my shirt and pants, but leave everything else untouched. It almost seems wrong to disturb it. Like it would erase all physical evidence that last night ever happened.

I should have said yes. The fear that I felt earlier now seems childish and small, insignificant when compared to the love I saw he had for me. When he figured out what the photos were really about, when he pressed his lips to mine for the first time, and certainly when he came in the living room to bring me back to bed, the answer should have always been yes.

I start rhythmically pacing from one room to the next. There's nothing left to do but wait.

Oh God. I've made a huge mistake....