Zach Herron
➵
Carpet scratched at her legs, made her skin itch, crawl. Or maybe that was her emotions attempted to claw their way out of her body, to escape.
The mirror she slumped in front of reflected a version of herself she ran from, hide from, loathed.
Mussed hair, unwashed, greasy. Barefaced. Runny nose. Chapped lips. Tear stained. Dull eyes.
She sat, motionless. And she stared.
Zach doesn't love you anymore.
Her eyes stung again and she laid on her side, away from the mirror. She shut her eyes but could still see what she kept trying to ignore.
Threadbare strands of the rug were an anchor to ground her, something to hold onto.
She should've had someone to hold onto. She should've been able to go to him, the boy she'd been dating for months upon months. She should've been able to look him in the eye and relay her thoughts and trust that he would hear her. Listen.
She should have. But they'd grown apart.
Affectionate touches were disregarded or pushed away, bad days were turned from without the empathetic blink of an eye. She tried, she fought so hard, to salvage their relationship. Zach simply wouldn't do his part.
He's with you for the title. Not for you.
A resounding knock on the wood of the bedroom door.
Often, it slipped her mind how many times a week her best friends would arrive at her house unannounced. Let themselves in, turn up the television, raid the fridge, crash on the couch in a pile of complaints and grunts of "Scoot over."
"(y/n)?" Daniel's gentle voice.
She didn't bother to pull herself upright. Waited.
Silence swelled and then was disrupted by another soft rap of knuckles. The boys were shouting in the living room down the hall.
"Yeah," she answered half-heartedly.
"Just wondering if you want pizza. We're thinking about ordering in. That okay?"
Her eyes were still closed and she didn't care. Didn't care, didn't care, didn't care.
"Yeah."
A weighted pause.
"You alright?"
She didn't care, didn't care, didn't care.
There were hot tears running down her face, clouding her vision, eyelids sticking together. She didn't care, and she didn't answer.
Her dearest friend called her name again, concern laced in his tone of voice. The door handle wouldn't budge, locked.
More silence. Shuffling. His footsteps retreating down the hall.
And she just didn't care. So she sobbed until the door knob was wiggling again, twisted open, as Daniel had gone to retrieve the master key for all the doors in her house.
There were hesitant, strong hands on her torso, her shoulders. Daniel muttered her name sadly, this having occurred before. Watching as his best friend was beaten down by lack of communication made his heart ache.
Her lifted her from the rug easily, pulled her into his arms, rested her head against his chest.
He's holding you. But he should be Zach.
Daniel didn't ask if he should call for the boy; he knew all too well that is was entirely concerning him.
Eventually, the buzzing subsided, peace left in its wake.
Then, "(y/n)?"
Zach's voice in the doorway. He moved around the bed, took in the scene.
"What...."
He trailed off.
She peeled herself away from Daniel's grip, met her best friend's unwavering gaze. Nodded. He left the room without a word.
She stood, limbs aching. Her heart didn't. Her shoulders squared back— nearly defiant.
And Zach stared, alone in a dark room with the girl he suddenly realised he knew less and less about. That gleam in her eye, the rigidness of her frame; he expected her to start yelling, for a fight to break out.
Instead, her tone was unwavering, calm. Deadly serious, demanding his undivided attention.
"What happened," she spat out, but there was no malice in it. Not a question, a statement. "What did I do? What am I to you?"
His face paled.
"Do you know how you've been treating me? Are you aware that you don't give me the time of day anymore? That we haven't spent time together— alone— in so long, that we haven't had a genuine conversation in even longer."
She shifted.
"I'm tired of this."
Panic flared like stoked fire in his eyes.
"I'm tired of putting work into this just to have it unreciprocated."
She finished, not intending to say anything else.
It took so long for words to fill the gaping space of his mouth. "Baby, I... I'm... so sorry. I don't even... I'm so sorry."
He didn't deserve a response, and he knew that.
"Are... are you breaking up with me?"
She hated how guilty he sounded. She hated how he said it like he dreaded the idea. She hated that she wasn't angry, just tired.
She hated that she didn't tell him yes.
When his feet drifted toward her she stepped back, shook her head slightly.
"You can't, Zach, you can't, keep doing this. You can't put nothing into this relationship and expect my utter dedication in return."
A distant memory of an afternoon surfaced in her mind. It had been warm where she was reading. One particular sentence had stuck with her for days, that melted into months that melted into years.
No rain, no flowers.
—
