My New Muse (XXX) (Completed)

Chapter 13

Since the big cry fest over four weeks ago, my life has pretty much gone back to its usual state. I hardly even remember it anymore. I continue to work, eat, sleep, and shut the world out as I usually would.

There's only one minute problem; I've been avoiding David, and I'm sure as hell that he's noticed. How could he not notice that I haven't been available in over a month?

I let his calls ring out, and I don't call him back. I don't reply to his texts, or his WhatsApp messages.

It's pathetic, really, but who can blame me? That night, I realised that I was beginning to feel something very strong for him, and I also realised that he had already begun to feel that way a long time ago.

as long as you stay here with me

That's what he said after the wedding. He meant more than what was happening in that moment. I could feel it, and that night at Poetic Justice, I could see the way he looked at me, as if I meant the world to him.

This has to stop.

I sit on the edge of my bed and stretch, feeling that sharp pain in my pelvis again, and I yelp. It's been happening more frequently now, and it's getting worse. I really need to eat more.

I get up, not knowing what I'm going to do today — I have no work — so I go to make some coffee. I'm just about to pick up the jar that is now placed safely on my kitchen counter, rather than high up in a cupboard, when I hear knocking on the door. Somehow, I know that it's him; it's as if I can feel his energy through the door. Still, as I pull the door open, I didn't expect his expression to be so... worried. My first guess would've been that he was angry, but here stands before me, a man who looks like he is on the verge of shitting himself.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah," I say letting out a heavy sigh. It seems as if every time I think of him, he appears. "We need to talk."

I step aside to let him pass, and follow him to sit on one of the couches.

What the hell am I supposed to say? I don't love you? You're better of without me? It's not you, it's me?

Instead of going with any of those options, I choose the best thing that I can think of.

"I don't want to do this anymore," I say to him, sounding like Rihanna.

I don't want to hurt you anymore. I can't give you what you need.

His eyebrows knot together in confusion. "Do what?"

"Us," I say, but he still looks confused, so I decide to elaborate. "I can't give you what you want."

He puts his hand on his forehead and rubs it, letting out a sigh.

"Yes, you can."

"David—" I interrupt, because to be honest, I'm tired of people telling me what I can and can't do; but then he throws something at me that I didn't see coming.

"You can, but you don't want to. You're holding on to the past. There's a difference."

All of this is said with a look of sympathy on his face.

To be honest, I can't tell him that he's lying, because he isn't. That's exactly what I'm doing; holding on to the past, to my dead lover who's ashes are kept in an urn under my bed, who I will never see again; but there's more to it.

I'm afraid to love again. I'm afraid to lose again. If felt enough pain to last me an infinite amount of lifetimes and then some.

"You're holding on to the past," he says, repeating himself. "I get it. You love him, probably infinitely more than you could ever love me; but do you really want to spend the rest of your life alone? Would he have wanted that?"