Useless Fan {Grapeapplesauce}

Part 5

A/N: Surprise, I'm back.

•

Sean's P.O.V

I answer my ringing phone to hear Melinda stifling back tears. Did I do something wrong?

"Hello?" I frown, worried.

"H-hi," she sniffles, miserably failing at trying to sound like she's not crying.

"Are you okay?"

She hiccups and gasps for a few moments before replying, "I don't know," another pause, "I just need to talk to someone."

"How about I drive over in a few minutes and we'll talk at your place? We live only about five minutes away from each other." I try to suggest rationally. She agrees and we say goodbyes, hanging up. What could be the problem?

I sigh and fall onto my bed, curling up in my sheets and zoning out in the moment. I should be recording right now, but I'm so lost in being worried about Melinda. Maybe the problem had something to do with her eating disorder. Whatever it is, she sounds so much more defeated than she did when we were laughing at the coffee shop an hour ago. Still confused and anxious, I head out into the freezing Cheyenne night, hopping into my car and driving off into the velvet starlight.

•

"It's open," she croaks as I knock on her door. Empty moonlight casts a dim glow, illuminating her bland bedroom and shining light on her fragile form. My skin pales when I see the state she's in. Her back is slumped against a bare wall, her hair half in a bun and half askew, as if she tried to look nice but got frustrated and pulled a few strands out. But it's her eyes that pull me in. Still sable orbs framed in streaks of black, like pretty pictures that someone spilled ink on.

She stares down, "I'm sorry."

I take a step forward, "For what?"

"For-" a pause and a hiccup, "being."

"Being?"

"Being." Melinda states simply. "I'm sorry for being." Something tightens in my chest, and I feel something in my eyes as I listen and watch her. Her stillness and the quietness of her voice has some sort of heartbreaking element, as if she's trying as hard as she can to disappear, despite the impossibility. And those damn sad eyes keep gazing at the hardwood floor.

It's one of those moments where speech won't communicate as well as actions. It's one of those moments where the world is motionless and the spotlight of the moon only shines on this sad, quiet scene. It's one of those moments where all I can think about is why I care so much, and why I sense myself crying.

Without a word, I walk over to her huddled up body and seat myself next to her, on the floor. I wrap my arms around the trembling girl. I close my eyes and let her head lean on my shoulder as she rests on me.

"Shh, it's okay," I whisper, our arms around each other, her head now buried in my chest. "You're okay." She gives me a shaky nod and I loosen my grip around her.

"T-thanks," she stutters, wiping the last tear off her shiny cheeks. Melinda glances up at me. Tranquil silence envelopes the room as we gaze into each others eyes. Our faces are almost touching, her soft breath tickling my skin. "You should go home. It's late."

"But you," I reply breathlessly, "you're here."

She whispers, "Yes. I am here," When I don't respond, she says even quieter, "Yes, I am here; I am breathing, I am alive." a eerily silent pause, "I'm alive."

"You seem surprised."

"I am." A draft flows in, and I shiver at the cold and at Melinda's words.

"I'm not leaving you here," I whisper, "I'm worried for you."

I stare into her eyes, which are covered in jittering tears that imitate shaking glass; such a fragility. She blinks and clears her throat through a hiccup.

Melinda says, "It's like three A.M. or something," a failure of hiding a sniffle, "you need to go home."

"If you're sure you'll be okay..." I reply. She nods in response. I slowly rise to my knees. Melinda doesn't protest. I stand up and skeptically inch to the door.

"Wait..." An unintelligible mumble.

"What was that?" I ask and turn around.

A hiccup and a few moments of silence.

"Stay?"