Like To Be You ✓

five

I run down the hallways and skid to a stop in front of the men's bathroom. When I open it and see a gang of guys smoking joints and chatting amongst themselves, I back away before they can see me.

My backpack flaps against my back with each step I take. Behind me, I can hear lighter footsteps. I don't want it to be Tyler, and I let myself glance behind out of curiosity.

It's Tyler.

I sprint to the locker room and slam it shut behind me. The stupid thing doesn't even have a lock.

I'm pushing my back against the door, praying that he doesn't try to enter. I'm breathing fast, taking in big gulps of air. My head is aching. The pressure behind my eyes and throat is increasing with the want to cry.

I'm thinking of Dad now. My mind tends to remind me of sadder things when I get sad, and images of my father's smiling face in my head aren't helping my cause right now.

"Neil!" Tyler is banging his hand against the door, pushing against it. My left foot slips as I jerk forward with the sudden force. I catch myself just in time and ease back up against the door, battling it.

"Open the goddamn door!" He sounds frustrated.

"Go away!" I say harshly.

"Neil." he growls. Then he's gone, because my back thumps against the door, which bangs shut.

Of course he would know there's another entrance from the coach's office. He knows this locker room inch by inch with all the time he spends here before and after soccer practice.

When he enters, I note that the tips of his ears are red, and he looks angry and flustered and concerned, all in one.

"What's wrong?" his tone is softer than before. He's inching forward, slowly, deliberately, like a lion towards its prey.

"None of your business. You can leave now." My voice is thick with the tears crawling up my throat. I throw my bag on a bench and go towards the end of the lockers in an attempt to hide my face.

"Graham." He sounds formal now, like when he addresses his opponents during a match(I don't know why I noticed this). I wonder if he's playing a game with me too.

His fingers curl around my arm. I'm caught in the little space between his body and the row of lockers behind me. A bench to my left blocks another escape route.

"What do you want?" My migraine feels like hot pokers prodding and piercing through my brain and eyes. I just want to go home.

"I want you to talk to me. Tell me what's wrong."

I laugh in pure disbelief. "Tell you what's wrong? Tell you, Tyler Beckett, 100% guaranteed ditcher and a complete asshole, what's wrong with me?"

The pulse in his thumb, which is still pressed to my skin, is rapid. He remains silent, conflicted. I take it as my cue to continue. "You left, Tyler. I wasted a thousand and sixty seven days and nights on you, and then you just left."

"I didn't want to." His voice is small. The tremble towards the end only twists the impalpable knife deeper into my chest.

"Then why did you?" My voice is getting louder with each word. I don't like it. "Why did you have to be such a jerk and leave? I thought this shit happened in movies, Tyler! But no, I had to be friends, best friends, with a douche like you." My fingers are digging into his shoulder and arm as I hold onto him. I think I'm crying. I'm not sure, but I think I am.

These past three years, all I've ever fantasised about is spitting these words, hurting him, crushing his feelings. But now when I look at the slightly wide eyes with tears welling at the corners, parted lips, flushed cheeks and paled skin, I only feel worse.

I don't know who's holding on to whom, but then we're closer, and my face is pressed to his shirt and he's the only apricity I have in this dim void surrounding my ribcage.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

I've forgiven him before he even asks for it, which I know he won't because he's the type of person who would consider themselves unworthy of the other's forgiveness. He's too good for his own being, I'd learnt. That's why it's so hard for me to come to terms with how abruptly our friendship had ended. I'd decided that Tyler Beckett had changed with the times, but now, as his hand cradles my head and smoothes through my hair, my previous theory seems impossible. He's still soft and too-warm and lovely.

My chest is cracking under the weight of my words and his, and my grudge-holding and easily-forgiving self is melting into his warmth.

Sometimes I hate how big of a walking contradiction I am.

o-o-o

a/n

Shit got intense lmao.

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