A Twist of Fate SERIES (Pentatonix)

(37) Can't Sleep Love

( SCOTT )

It's probably just my imagination, but I can almost hear my footsteps echo throughout the house as I gingerly cross the threshold that evening. And, even though I know I'm completely alone, I don't really feel that way until I hear Kevin's car drive off. Now it's like it's just me against the world, and my heart starts to beat wildly as I step inside enough to close and lock the front door. I flip on the light, which illuminates a layer of dust covering the hall table, and I almost crack a small smile at the image of Mitch's scrunched-up face, completely disgusted, as he runs to go find a duster before we've even taken our shoes off.

I have the sudden urge to call out to him, to tell him I'm home even though he probably can't hear me over his too loud dance music blasting through his ear buds. And it's weird, because I should be somewhat used to this by now, his not being here. Even before he died, there were plenty of times that I'd come home and he'd be God knows where. And it's also not like he just left—it's been almost six months now.

But the thought just makes my stomach twist into knots so tight I'm nearly debilitated.

I haven't been home much since May. If I'm being honest, I've either been at Kirstie's or a hotel, too scared to come back here and face the solitude, face everything that Mitch left over.

I can't tell if it's solemn or bittersweet as I slip out of my shoes and slowly go over to the closed bedroom door. My hand rests on the doorknob and, deep down, I know I shouldn't twist it and walk inside. But, then again, I've never been too good at listening.

A wall of hot air hits me square in the face as soon as the door opens, and I half expect Mitch to be leaning up against the headboard, on his phone, wearing some expensive Balenciaga ensemble he purchased, unnecessarily, the other day.

But he's not. And his bed is just like I remember it—unmade, as if he had been tossing and turning all night, and then just finally gave up trying to get to sleep.

Sometimes I wonder if he had planned to do it that first night, or if his overexhaustion had just triggered his paranoia even more. I had promised I wouldn't tell anybody, but maybe he had wanted me to break that promise—to seek help in a professional, help calm his paranoia, and maybe up his dosage of anxiety meds. I reckon he wanted me to do fucking something, instead of just cry with him, beg him not to, and then play with his hair as we fell asleep on the tourbus floor after getting kicked out of the venue at three in the morning.

I should've done something. If I had, he would still be here—I know he would be. I don't fucking know what I was even thinking to let him go like that. Maybe he did it that first night because it meant he wouldn't have to talk to me again and that he wouldn't have to deal with my apparent ignorance anymore. Maybe he did it that first night because he thought I didn't love him anymore. Or maybe he did it because he knows I've never stopped loving him.

I let him go. Was that a good thing or a bad thing?

I can't ever get my mind to shut up. On the rare occasions I actually talk nowadays, it's because all of my thoughts are consuming me and I'm terrified they're going to swallow me whole and I'll just end up forgetting what my vocal cords even are. Otherwise, I just think and think and think and curse myself and beat myself up day in and day out because I let the fucking love of my life leave forever without even putting up much of a fight.

Why? That's the question, isn't it? Why did he do it? Why did he tell me beforehand? Why didn't I stop him? Why didn't I break my promise and get professional help?