"A hundred days..."
"And you can't take it back".
♤
When Y/N decides it's time for a change of scenery, she/he/they head/s to the luminescent London to chase her/his/their dreams.
However, without a plan, how can anything go to one?
And while Y/N...
How long had you been dating, you and Michael? A month or two? It was hard to remember; it was all such a blur.
But he'd flirted with her, then he was touching her and kissing her, and drunk, he was telling you that you were worthless, a past-time and nothing more. He'd used you. And you'd let him. Because at the back of your mind, you'd known. You'd known he wasn't the one, as such, you'd known you weren't in love with him. But you'd stuck around him because he'd made you feel wanted and loved. All that attention. The attention you'd hated had been suddenly priceless, as opposed to your own 'worthless'ness.
And you'd overreacted, with all that alcohol in your system. You'd dumped the punch over him, like some jealous ex from a drama film, as you'd reveled in it. The shock-horror on his face had been enough to make you smile coyly and turn on your heel, tossing the red plastic cup on his expensive leather shoes. It had all been such a cliché, almost so much that it seemed staged, now that your head was clear— or wasn't. You were staggering with the liquid that had burned down your throat at first, then dulled into sugary sweetness, and you'd had more and more of the addictive drink, a wasp to brown syrup.
The tears streamed down your face as you ran now. Not for the loo, but for another drink.
This would be a bad habit to obtain, a voice trilled in the back of your mind, but you flapped your hands as if to physically wave away the thought.
Seated on the vinyl red and shiny silver barstools, you sipped the water you'd been given from the employee on hand when he'd refused you anything else, seeing all too clearly what state you were in, and so all too clearly pitying you, knowingness in his eyes. But you didn't talk to him. How could you, after such a betrayal. Because now that the tears were beginning to dry, anger was all that was left. You promised yourself not to take it out on the nice man.
"Excuse me, excuse me, excuse me, sorry, get out of the way you little shit, sorry, no I wasn't touching your butt, you were just in my way as I shoved you, excuse me". You almost laughed with joy at the voice moving nearer to you. Then you found you couldn't, a choking noise shrivelling your throat up instead.
