Welcome To The Media (Dylmas AU)

40. Healing and Forgiveness

Dylan's pov

The thing about love is that it doesn't just fade away. My pain doesn't just dissipate. My heart doesn't suddenly heal. And although I spend the next few weeks feeling the aftershocks of our relationship pierce at the crevices of my heart, I don't stop loving him.

For a long time, Thomas's journal sat tauntingly on my desk. There were times when I could pick it up, could brush the leather and even contemplate opening it. Those were the courageous times. There were also the times when all I could do was sit in my desk chair and stare at it as if it was the offender, as if it was responsible for everything that went wrong.

And then there were the times like today. The times where I was sitting on my bed and I was crying, and I was clutching it to my chest like that would somehow bring Thomas back to me. Despite my attempts to be quiet, my sobs rang out just as loudly as they had over the past few weeks. With each tear my heart tore, and suddenly I was hating everyone--and everything--and Thomas--and mostly, myself. Because it was my own dumb fault for having fallen. My own dumb fault for trusting him. My own dumb fault for being me. My own dumb fault for giving my heart to the Hollywood bad boy and expecting him to hold it carefully.

It was my own dumb fault that I hated him so much it burned ferociously inside of me, and my own dumb fault that in light of it all, I still loved him.

My bedroom door opened and the journal fell into my lap as I tried to quickly wipe away my tears. It was pathetic of me, really, because when I looked up to meet my mom's gaze, there was still sympathy lacing her aged eyes.

She sighed and I looked away. Without a word she stepped into my room, perching softly on the bed next to me. For a moment, she was quiet, and so was I.

"Hey," my mom said after a moment. She hesitated then, wrapping a soft arm around my shoulder. I willingly leaned into the comfort of her hold. "How are you doing?"

"I'm--" I wanted to say fine, but my family wouldn't let me say that anymore. Instead, I finished, "--tired."

She nodded like she expected that. Looking down at the journal in my lap, her brow furrowed, then cleared with recognition. Whether she knew what was in the journal or not, she seemed to sense the stigma surrounding the leather book. Her eyes rose to meet mine in a careful, yet unsure inquisition. Fingers stretching out, her nimble hands wrapped my own up in a reassuring squeeze.

"I know this isn't what you want to hear," she said, breaking the silence again, "but sweetie, have you thought--well, maybe the reason it's still hurting--it's because you're still letting it hurt you."

I tensed. Her arm fell from my shoulder, and I turned to her with a well-aimed glare.

"Oh, we're victim-shaming now?" I sneered, and it was horrible of me to take all of confused and frustrated and hurt emotions out on her. Still, I continued, "This is my fault that I'm hurting?"

"That's not what I said," she said simply, all the patience in the world.

"No, that's exactly what you said!" I stood. Waved my arms in a dramatic, wild motion. Voice pinched and raised to vaguely impersonate her, I continued, "If Dylan hadn't fallen for that bastard, we wouldn't be here! If Dylan could suck it up and be a man, we could move on with our lives! If Dylan stopped acting like such a fucking pussy--"

"Dylan," my mother interrupted, now far more strict, far more unforgiving. "That is not what I said and that is not what I suggested. Please, let me finish."

And just as quickly as my anger came, it dissipated. Deflating, I sat back down beside her. I blinked, unsurprised by the warmth behind my eyes, and looked anywhere but at my mother. I was going fucking crazy and that made all of this so much worse.