Imagine: Tom Daley

PART ONE: A Haribo Promise

Imagine: Tom Daley

You're sat there on your bed, your phone in your hand. Your thumbs dance around the screen, thinking about whether to text your boyfriend first or not. You don't want to seem desperate, but you haven't seen him in weeks, so maybe he might free..

“Do you wanna come out?:)xx” You finally type, hesitating, before pressing the send button.

You let out a long breath, the tension rising as the minutes pass before his reply. You're already dressed up ready to go out, make-up put on perfectly and your handbag packed. You just need the confirmation. Then, your text message tone goes off, sending your heart racing. Opening the lockscreen, you read:

“Nah sorry, seeing James today.” No kisses, nothing.

James is his best friend, who he sees all the time. This just isn't fair. You always cancel plans with your friends if there's ever a chance to see Harry, but he wouldn't do the same for you. Your lip wobbles but you force yourself not to cry, your make-up would be ruined anyway. A billion thoughts rush through your head before you come to the conclusion to take it out on the only thing you can: Twitter. It felt like a diary to you, the one place where you can just let go and not care about what anyone else thinks. Well, that is until you-know-who is told about your tweets. His little minions used to tell on you whenever you put something up that could be related to him, but now your account is locked so no-one can see what you've put but your friends.

“I can't deal with this any-more.” You type furiously.

“You know what? Fuck you.”

You stare blankly at your screen until it goes blurry. Fuck. That's the make-up ruined then. The eyeliner took ages aswell.

After a few minutes of feeling sorry for yourself, you lie back on your bed, closing your eyes. Maybe sleep will soften the lump in your throat for a while...

You awaken to the sound of what seems to be tiny stones being thrown at your window. Frowning, you lean over off the bed and walk to the window, opening it slightly. Grinning back at you is the one person you're relieved to see: Thomas Daley.

“Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your long hair!” He shouts up to you, giving you a childish smirk.

You hold onto your long brown hair, laughing. “You're such a knob, Tom.”

“Well either you're coming down or I'm climbing up there!”

“Fine.”

You close the window again, smiling to yourself. He must've seen the messages. You always tell him the problems between you and Harry. He's such a good listener, always telling you the right thing to do. But you never do it, in fear of losing him. If Harry left, you would have no-one. And having no-one seemed worse than having a dick like Harry, so you stayed.

Your mum gives you a knowing wink as you open the front door to see Tom there, holding his bike loosely in his hands.