Dating a Tortured Artist│18+ ⚠️

2. feeling used, but i'm still missing you.

I swaddle the blanket around my shoulders and gape at the picture as desolation seems to overtake my chest. I turn the photo over on its front in false hopes that it may chase out the despair. Staring at his face hurt far too much right now, therefore every picture I had framed of us around my house was sitting face down.

This one was a favorite too. He was genuinely grinning, his lips on my cheek and I was beaming at the camera, wide-eyed, mellow off of the alcohol, one of his arms around me, and the other taking the photo.

I lay my head back, looking up at the ceiling as the other terrible images petrified into my mind embark on a journey to harass me, making me feel nauseated just knowing there wasn't a damn thing I could do to erase them.

His hands in her hair.

The proximity at which she was standing near him.

More like against him...

I couldn't stop picturing his face as she was bouncing, bent at the waist, against his—

"Fuck," I cry out, letting my face fall into my hands.

I was repeatedly hurting myself by continuing to be distraught over it, by letting what I had seen eat away at me, but I think at this point, I didn't care. A part of me wanted to linger, to push myself to accept the fact that he lied to me. A part me thought that if I grieved it all out now that eventually everything I had ever felt for him would somehow vanish— The emotions, the feelings, my thoughts. Maybe with some sort of miracle, my mind would rewrite his existence in my life. That part of me wanted to push myself to accept the fact that he'd lied to me.

And I was getting there fast.

Because I couldn't come up with a reasonable enough explanation as to why he'd fuck that girl right there in the middle of their tour bus, knowing full well that him and I had made plans to see each other. Knowing that we were supposed to meet up after his show. My mind could conjure up no rationalization for his actions other than surmising that he'd meant for me to stumble in on them. That this was a deliberate attack. Maybe even retribution for not saying those 3 words back to him when he'd confessed.

The thought alone incenses me.

"Fuck him..." I mutter. "Fuck him, fuck his fucking phone calls, and fuck his apologies." I glare at my buzzing phone, his face greeting me, and it only makes me madder until I'm throwing it across the room. It hits the wall, leaving its mark before falling to the hardwood floor.

I tilt my head to the side as a solitary tear runs down my cheek, the memories in my mind whirling at an impressive speed, entirely dominating my mind.

"Hey, where are you?"

"In the kitchen, you twat!"

"Don't call me a twat, you twat!" I miserably yell, as I sprint over towards the voice, peeking in behind the wall and then sliding my whole body into the kitchen, unhappily smiling.