Beatles Imagines

41. Ringo

My eyes darted across the crowded room, trying to find a moment of serenity in all of the calamity and chaos. I sighed to myself, scanning through unfamiliar faces, until my gaze fell upon him. A tailored suit clung on to his lanky body, making him look perfectly immaculate.

He stood in the corner of the room trying to occupy himself with superficial talk of things I knew he didn't care about. A smile lingered on his face but it didn't meet his eyes, which kept moving across the room every so often trying to find a way out. I watched him as he strategically moved his way out of the group of people he called his friends-which really were just a couple of acquaintances his own age that distracted him from his eternal boredom-and across the crowd.

He stopped as he reached a blonde girl who wore a red cocktail dress and lipstick that was more crimson than the Manhattan in my hand; she was gorgeous. And that's how he liked his girls, young and beautiful. He enjoyed the game of pursuing and wooing a woman; he was well versed in the power of flirtation. But, after he was awarded with such a trophy, he put it on shelf never to be picked up again, and when a sense of melancholy filled his head, he went on the prowl yet again in search of a trophy that will temporarily fill the void in his heart. The new trophy gave a toothy grin and put her dainty, manicured hand in his arm and he gave his million dollar grin.

I swallowed my jealousy and diverted my gaze to my feet, forcing my lips to remain neutral although they wanted to form a scowl. He wasn't mine anyways; there was no reason for me to be jealous, especially since he used and discarded women without a second thought. But whenever I saw him I couldn't control the rush of energy that spread throughout my body like a wildfire, igniting a feeling in me that I didn't know existed. I couldn't control my pounding heart or the rush of adrenaline that made it hard to concentrate in his presence. I especially couldn't control the tugging in my chest whenever I knew that he'd go home with another woman and never even notice my presence.

The pain of unreciprocated love is a pain that is indescribable, and it makes me wonder as to why the human race allows themselves to immerse all of their time and energy into someone who will walk through life destined for somebody else who isn't you. He'd move along with life and I'd be tethered to him, dragging in the dirt behind him. Maybe it was self-sabotage or self-loathing that made me cling on to him with such a tight grasp, maybe it was a combination of both.

I had tried letting go time and time again, but my heart always found it's way back home, back in the arms of someone who didn't know how to handle fragile things.

I looked up, and he traipsed toward me with a false sense of confidence that the liquor had given him. I ignored my racing heartbeat and I gave him a smile that didn't quite reach my eyes. He returned the favor and told me, "Hey, I didn't know you came tonight! Are you having fun?"

I replied with a nod, refusing to tell him that tears threatened to prick my eyes. I didn't know why I came to that party anyway; I didn't know anybody except for him. I showed up anyways, with a false sense of hope that maybe he would reciprocate my unspoken emotion, but instead I was three drinks too deep and three minutes away from calling a cab and crying all the way home.

I was too naïve, too blinded out of love for him to realize that there was no chance between us. Now, it was simple, almost most too simple: he didn't love me. And he never would.

"Are you okay?" He questioned, interrupting my self-loathing.

His eyes gleamed with a certain brightness, and his heart-shaped lips pouted at me, a hint of sympathy swam around in the dark pools of his eyes. I couldn't deny that he looked impeccable, with his dress shirt and pants, and his hair which had been tousled from partying all night.

I wish I was good enough for him.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just tired is all," I replied with a convincing smile although a waver in my voice was detectable.

But he didn't notice.

"Well, you should go get some sleep then. I'm about to leave too." He looked back over his shoulder to his trophy and looked back to me. His leg bounced up and down out of impatience, and I wondered why he bothered to talk to me if all he wanted to do in that moment was shag another girl. "I'm going to see you tomorrow right?"

"Yeah, I'll see you tomorrow."

I waved him off, even though my mind berated me for not telling him how I felt right then and there. I love you, I love you, I love you.

How could I act so nonchalant when I cared so much?

"Alright, okay, well I should get going now. Bye love."

He leaned down to hug me, and for a split moment I forgot all of my troubles and worries. I forgot all the pain he had caused me and how unhealthy my love for him was, and just focused on that moment. His warmth was one I wanted to bask in forever, and I wondered if that's what it would feel like to wake up by his side every morning. I could imagine his limbs perfectly entangled with my own, his soft warm breaths in my hair as he slept soundly.

It was so delightful and I felt the void in my own heart fade. In that moment, I felt that maybe he could indeed love me. Maybe if I held on a little tighter, he wouldn't let go.

But the moment was gone as soon as it came, and before I knew it he was walking out of the doors of the club with his hand on the small of the pretty girl's back as I still felt the warmth of his arms wrapped around me. All I could do was stand and watch, a bystander in my own life. I watched and I watched until my eyes were blurry with tears and my hands shook.

He didn't love me,
he never would.

-

"Who was that?" The pretty girl would ask.

"Nobody important, baby."

~
A.B: not going to lie this one is kind of based off my life rn