Experimental

Chapter 2: Wrong is Right

Warning: Good bit of self harm mentions but it's not that bad! Message me for questions concerning it though!

Dan's P.O.V.

Two weeks. It had been two weeks since I had met Phil in the coffee shop and we had exchanged phone numbers. What might feel like a short period of time to any normal human being felt like an eternity to me. I couldn't even begin to count the amount of times I had zoned out or fallen asleep while staring at the brightness emitting from my phone screen. I never used my phone for texting or calling others, which was the entire purpose of owning it. I mainly used it to scroll mindlessly through social media. It was a way to delve deep into another reality and escape from my disorder even for just a little bit. I had returned from the coffee shop that night purely ecstatic and even more obsessed with Phil Lester. Now, I was withering away into my sofa, the last bit of hope of actually receiving a text from him fading into the abyss. I had stopped taking my medication since I knew I wouldn't be leaving my flat any time soon, which only made my anxiety worse. I was the culprit for making everything worse, but here I was blaming Phil for my stupidity.

The ambitious decision I made to leave the comfortable safety of my own apartment had been torn to bits. I regretted it but at the same time, it was the best damn day of my entire pathetic life. Seeing your idol in person seems like a delightful unrealistic dream, but it happened to me. I wouldn't exactly call it delightful either, especially after I had created a boiling hot coffee rainstorm. I'm sure my extreme awkward state had terrified Phil and that I had appalled him.

Why would someone so perfect and of his social status want to befriend the likes of me?

I groaned out in frustration as anger built up inside of me. I clenched both of my fists tightly by my sides and made sure to jam my sharp nails into the palms of my hands. The pain was oddly satisfying and calmed me slightly. My bottom lip got caught in between my two front teeth as I glanced over at the object that had started to drive me wild. My black iPhone laid on the arm of the sofa, the screen hadn't lit up once by itself. I was too much of a failure to have the courage to text him first. I resisted the sudden urge to chuck it across the room and picked it up instead. I pressed down on the button at the top of the device and squinted my eyes closed anxiously. The unfamiliar feeling of wanting to see a text notification made me feel nervous. Usually, I would've avoided all social situations with no expectations. I had only met the raven-haired boy from the internet that I admired so much once, yet here I was desperate as ever. This wasn't like me at all and I didn't know how to handle it. I reluctantly opened one eye to glance at the glass phone screen staring back at me. I gripped onto my phone tighter when all I was met with was my home screen, a portrait I had drawn of Phil during my freshmen year of high school.

Since nobody had known who he was back then, including my art teacher, I lead them to believe I had created a fictional person inside of my head. My art teacher, Mrs. Meadows, had influenced me to start drawing and writing. She was a very creative and extrovert type of person, she reminded me of Phil in a way. Mrs. Meadows had gone on and on about how beautiful my portrait of Phil was and begged me to present it to the class. She was aware of my social anxiety disorder and was mostly somewhat accepting. I had refused on multiple occasions. She didn't give up though and I eventually gave in. Her frown each time was enough to make me feel guilty and cave. I had to give the piece a title and I had to stand in front of the class filled with teenage boys. I had stuttered over my words and kept my eyes glued to the filthy tiled floor. When I told the class I had named the painting 'Sunshine,' they had all snickered. I couldn't tell who, but one kid even had the nerve to yell out gay. The class erupted into hysterical laughter and the painting had slipped from my fingertips in embarrassment. I had felt tears begin to prick at the edge of my eyes as my nails dug so hard into the delicate flesh of my palm. I could feel small bits of blood trailing down my fingers. I had blushed and hurriedly reached down to grab the portrait. As soon as my fingers had barely wrapped around the painting, I darted out of the quaint room, Mrs. Meadows calling after me while trying to silence the rest of the children. I didn't even like the painting all that well, I would never be able to capture the true beauty of Phil's complex facial features.