Demi Lovato Imagines

Enough

TW - (mentions of) self-harm

"Where's Demi?"

"Down at the gym."

"Again?"

Kelsey gives you a sad smile as if to say Yeah. I know. I'm worried too.

"How long has she been down there?"

"I don't know. Couple hours I think. She said she wanted to work out alone today."

"She always says that," you mumble, looking at the clock. 8:30 am. This is more than just an early morning gym session.

"I think I should go down and check on her," you think out loud, gaining a couple of reassuring looks from the rest of Demi's team. No one has wanted to say it but everyone is thinking the same: that the singer has been wearing herself out too much, working herself to the bone. She's already been performing with a broken foot and black eye. It's not like she would hesitate to push herself even more if she knows she can get away with it. You remember Ceasar mentioning to her how worried she's making her fans with her constant injuries. And you remember how she dismissed him, telling him she was fine.

He didn't think she was fine.

Neither did you.

"She's probably going to use the excuse that she doesn't have a show tonight. That's what she said last Friday," Jill commented from the other end of the hotel room, squeezing water out of the make-up brushes she had just washed.

"Hm...okay, I'll prepare myself for that then. Don't think she's going to be too happy with me going down and badgering her," you reply, "So she'll most likely be in a terrible mood anyway."

This time, no one replies. They all just keep their encouraging expressions plastered on their faces hoping you won't back out at the last minute. Because it's gotten to a point where no one can ignore the obvious. And if it's not you who confronts it...then it'll have to be one of them, sooner or later.

Exiting the room with the key card tucked securely in your back pocket, you head along to the lift, press the button, and step inside. Your finger pushes on the shiny circle with a black 'B' printed on it. Basement. The lift descends. All too soon, a little chime lets you know you've arrived at your desired floor. And the doors slide open.

The hallway is dark as you step out, the motion sensor lights flashing on after a couple of seconds telling you that no one has come down here for a while. Up ahead, you see the door to the gym. Closed and uninviting. You approach.

With no lock on the door, you are easily able to open it to reveal the deluxe gym facilities inside. All of it unused. All of it, that is, except the equipment in the corner.

Rows of dumbells line the mirrored walls, making the already spacious basement double in size. Barbells lean against the sides, ready to get loaded with rubber weights. A huge punching bag hangs from the ceiling, swinging towards you in a consistent rhythm, an exhausted grunting coming from behind it.

"Demi?" you call, getting closer and stepping to the side so you can see her properly. You feel like you are walking on some sort of tightrope considering she is your boss. And the tightrope is up on flames. And the threads are beginning to burst. This could all go horribly wrong.

"Demi?" you try again, now in full view of the woman hitting out at the heavy punching bag. Her face is gleaming in sweat and her short, natural hair is tied back in a ponytail. She only waits seconds after striking forward before she does it again, harder, faster. Her eyes are red from tiredness and her skin drained of colour.