Ghost of You || L.H.

2.

I was not so lucky as to have a dreamless sleep. I knew I wouldn't be, not without the aid of bourbon in my system. After waking up three separate times drenched head to toe in sweat, each roughly an hour apart from the last, I gave up.

Now I sit in the hallway, my back against the wall and my eyes burning holes into our front door. I don't know how long I've been sitting here, it feels like days but I know it hasn't been that long. It feels like it's been days since she left, but I know it hasn't. I don't want to know what it feels like to have days, months, years without her.

I've had so many years with her, but it's not enough. The memories seem to never end, every time my eyes land on something seemingly random, another one floods my senses. I can still smell her lavender body wash as if it were on my own skin. I can still hear her laugh ring through my ears and all I can do is press my hands over them like a five year old and pray it ends soon.

I'm miserable without her.

I should have told her, I should have told her every second of every day how much I fucking cherish her—cherished her. But I didn't. No I picked fights between our perfect moments because I felt myself getting too comfortable and didn't know how to handle it. Instead of telling her how she's my whole fucking world, I went on another tour, released another album, scheduled another interview.

Mangled sobs slip from my lips and my head falls into my hands, my body shaking with each torturous breath I take. Fifteen hours, I don't know if I can handle another minute, let alone the rest of my fucking life.

I should have told her...

"Where are you going?" Her voice shook as she followed me out of our bedroom and into the kitchen. Her voice, the sound that I usually could not get enough of, sounded like nails on a fucking chalkboard.

"Out," I simply stated, searching the counters for my keys. We usually keep them in a stupid little basket on the table by the door, but I vaguely remember throwing them on the counter in the midst of our fight.

It seemed like we fought more and more with each passing day, and never over anything important. But this one was important, I wasn't sure if we'd be able to move past this one.

That was a lie. Of course we would, we were Luke and Emily. Even my fans "shipped" us or whatever. I think they called us Lukily or Lemily or something.

"Where are my keys?" I asked, no, demanded. I just knew she fucking hid them. She always hid my keys when she dropped fucking bombs on me like she did tonight.

"You're not going anywhere," she snapped, crossing her arms over her full chest. There was the pushy Emily I knew and loved, no matter how much I hated her in that moment.

I should have told her that I loved her even though I was angry. I didn't, though, no instead spit hateful words at her. The way I was good at.

"You can't just drop a fucking bomb on me like 'I'm moving to New York in a few weeks' and expect me not to get fucking angry," I seethed, making my voice higher to mock hers. She hated when I did that, so I made sure to do it at least once every time we fought. "Where the fuck are my keys, Em?"

"I'm not telling you. Calm down," she said, her hard eyes softening, fading from jade back into their natural soft olive. She never stayed mad at me for long. This time, though, she had no reason to be mad.

New York. Was she fucking serious? She was just going to move from fucking Sydney to God damned New York? Could she even afford to move back across the world?

I bet this was her fucking mother's idea, it had Barb written all over it.

"Don't tell me to clam down, you're leaving me," I seethed. I tried telling myself she wasn't leaving me, that we would just travel often to see each other but I didn't believe it one bit. "Just fucking go."