The moment his eyes find hers, he knows that he fucked up. He had known all along, perhaps, but only now admits it, as her gaze lands on his and he is robbed of every ounce of breath that was left in his chest. It's always been like that. One glance and she could turn him into sweet nothing. He doesn't remember a single time her eyes didn't weaken him. When he first uttered those three magical words to her, so many years ago now, she had looked at him with a passion that could make the stars fall. When he first made love to her, sweet and passionate and pure love, she had given him a look of wonder and lust, as if she knew no one else would ever make her feel the same. And when they broke each other's hearts – again and again, her eyes were filled with blazing fire and he would've let her burn him, again and again, until nothing remained but his heart which would still yearn for her.
But those eyes haven't met his in so long. Just a few months, actually, but an eternity had passed in his mind and heart. He has to follow her as she tries to escape, she knows that he has. He pushes past the bodies in the room, ignoring his name being called by friends and dashes after her. Desperate. But for what?
He doesn't even remember whose house this is—some new singer, perhaps, or is it a band? Truthfully, he had heard she would be here, and that was the sole reason he came. One last time, his heart screeched, just one last fucking time.
Justin doesn't stop, not even when she increases her pace, sensing him behind her. It's fruitless, a part of him knows, to hold onto a love that has caused them more hurt than good like some would argue but it's addicting all the same. He's always been a man of the heart. It's not now that he'll stop following it.
"Selena," he yells, exasperated, when they are in a lonely corridor, the music from downstairs only a faint backdrop to the tension that reasons in the air.
She stops, clenches her fists at her sides, and turns to look at him. She looks beautiful. Beautiful and angry and tired. Of him, perhaps. Of them.
"You shouldn't—" Her voice cracks and she takes in a shallow breath. "You should not be here."
"I should," he insists and approaches her, as she takes a shuddering step to equalise the distance he's walked. "You know I should. I should have told you—"
"You should have told me?" She lets out a dry chuckle. "The nerve," she mutters, shaking her head angrily. He probably should not find this as adorable as he once did. "The nerve you have."
"It felt like the right thing to do and the right time to do it," he tries.
Pain flashes in her brown irises. "You don't owe me an explanation."
"I understand that you're upset—"
"Don't. Don't do this, not now. You've made your choice so don't try to act like the victim or give me those—" she waves her hands aimlessly, "—sad looks."
"My choice?" he echoes, frustrated. "My choice was you. Always you."
She sniffs. "Liar," she weakly accuses, but deep down she knows that he's only told her the truth.
"I've asked you. How many times before, huh? You always needed time."
"And you didn't wait—"
"Because I loved you and I knew it, for fuck's sake. Why would I want to wait? You've never really forgiven me, you've never trusted me again. I gave you everything. There was nothing left. If you didn't have an answer back then you sure as fuck wouldn't have it now. You would've left us waiting forever."
She smiles sourly. "Well," she gruffly says, "You don't have to wait now."
He exhales. "I did not come here for us to fight again."
