Mackenzie Ziegler. Brown haired, Brown eyed. Short, smart, and curvy.
Johnny Orlando. Tall, dark, handsome. A green eyed, brown haired hunk.
Fights. Makeouts. Deep, meaningful songs. Failed dates. Romantic kisses. Confessions; any of them. Giggles...
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The door to my house finally opens with a click, and I sigh a sigh that is filled with gratitude and relief. Shoes tapping on the hardwood floor, I walk through the kitchen, set my keys down on the bench and dumb my bag below it. With another lengthy sigh I slip my shoes off and walk to fill myself a glass of water so I can swallow back the lump in my throat. Today? Today was bad.
I started off the day fine, although a little tired. Midway through my college lecture, a killer migrane hammered through my brain like someone was using me as a fucking chopping block. This was a class I had by myself; I didn't know anyone, and no one knew of my condition. So because I was too embarrased to talk to anyone, I didn't. I kept it to myself. This turned out to be a very bad idea.
Halfway through the class, I had to rush out without a hallway pass because I felt like I was going to be sick. In the bathrooms, I threw up violently, but my bad day didn't end there. After taking a shit ton of medication at my university's sick bay, I had to perform at a compulsory performance for my band, and had a panic attack mid-song, because my girlfriend wasn't in the audience. Truth be told, I didn't even care that much about her not being there. She'd already said she might not make it. But I was tired and sick and felt like shit as it was, so her not being there made me a little insecure.
Thinking about all that happened today makes me feel uterly ashamed. I'm an adult now, I should be able to deal with life rationally- but these chronic problems like migranes and panic attacks still get to me sometimes. Public humiliation sucks.
I gulp back the rest of my water, heading to the couch after placing my cup in the dishwasher. My hands shake. Not a good sign. I throw a blanket around my shoulders and hug a pillow to my chest as tight as I can. I try so hard not to cry, but I hear Mackenzies voice in my mind; Don't hold in tears John. It'll only come back to beat you in the ass. And then I do. Cry I mean.
My shoulders shake and my nose runs. Tears leak out of my eyes and down my cheeks, but oddly, after sitting and sobbing and wiping my eyes and running my hands through my hair for a bit, I do feel a little better.
After I've tried to calm myself, I look for a distraction; the TV remote. Before I can get there though, my phone vibrates with an incoming call and I pull it out of my back pocket. I slide to answer without looking at the caller ID and hold it to my ear.
