𝐬𝐚𝐮𝐝𝐚𝐝𝐞 → 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐰𝐧 𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐬 (𝐢𝐢)

one [s]

friday,
march 7th, 2020

SHAWN MENDES

Trinity asks me multiple questions and I watch as she elegantly glides the black inked pen along her page. She's a quick writer, she has beautiful legible cursive handwriting. From what it seems, she already has the questions written and planned, so she fills my answers in the blank space below each question. She also records our voices on her phone so that she can write up my answers word for word later. I appreciate that because I know that she'd never write something to negatively impact my career. Even though I hurt her so badly.

"Your first album dropped in January, correct?" Trinity asks me, staring straight at me like she doesn't know a single personal thing about me. Like we haven't made love multiple times in the past, like we weren't crazy in love two years ago.

I must admit, she's doing a wonderful job at acting like we don't have a past. Her stare is hard but she still looks beautiful.

"That's right," I reply gently.

"Now, among the rock records and the R&B tracks, there's quite a few romantic, yet heartbreaking, ballads," she continues professionally, "Care to explain? I mean, have you had a particular inspiration for these songs?"

I shift in my seat uncomfortably, thinking about my answer carefully. I can sense she's a little uncomfortable as well, the way she clears her throat and flicks her eyes towards her notebook. I watch her take a silent deep breath before she glances back up at me, awaiting my response. I struggle to find the right words, but eventually let them pour from my heart uncontrollably.

"When you've had your heart broken by your own stupid mistakes, lyrics tend to flow out of you like a river breaking the dam. You write about the nostalgia, you write about the love you felt so intensely that your heart pounded out of your chest, and you write about the life changing heartache. The pain. Part of you wonders if you deserve it, if you deserve the ache in your chest that just doesn't let up. I still haven't gotten my answer for that. I messed up horribly, but does that really mean I have to suffer day in and day out? Who knows, maybe I do deserve it. A heartbreaker deserves heartbreak, right?"

My voice is calm and I can't take my eyes off her as I talk. Her full lips are slightly parted now, her cheekbones flushed with a familiar blush. I watch intently as she fixes her glasses that have always suited her pretty face. I lean forward mindlessly, leaning my elbows on my knees.

Trinity clears her throat again, "I suppose that's your opinion, Mr. Mendes. Heartbreak is painful, but it's life. Sometimes we can't prevent heartbreak, or maybe we're too immature to do so. I wouldn't wish heartbreak upon anybody, but that's just me. Then again, it's a huge aspect of love and life, and to experience life to its fullest, your heart needs to break and ache before it can mend. Don't you think? Healing is a tough process, but it's a cycle. You heal, you love, you break. And you repeat. That's just how relationships go. Wouldn't you agree?"

I'm taken aback by her strong, mature answer to my rhetorical question. Wow, she has grown and matured in the best way possible. My heart wells at her clever words and I slowly nod my head, her speech replaying over in my mind like a broken record.

"I guess you're right, Ms. Hayson," I respond calmly, examining her chocolate coloured irises.

They display some sort of emotion, but I can't really tell what it is.

"Well, that concludes this interview," Trinity breathes. She stands up and tucks her notes under her arm. "I'd like to thank you for taking time out of your day to chat with me. I appreciate it."

She taps a button on her phone which stops the recording. She emotionlessly sticks out a hand as I slowly stand from my seat. I take the opportunity and grab her hand in both of mine mine, giving her a firm, yet soft and caring, handshake.

"My pleasure, Trinity," I whisper, unable to break our eye contact.

She looks up at me and shakes her head, slipping her small hand from mine and pushing her hair back with her glasses. She hurries out of the glass-walled room and down the hall. I frustratedly sigh, pulling at my hair.

She was right here in front of my face. And she's not my girl. We're not in love anymore. And it really fucking hurts that that's the case, and how it's entirely my fault.

I exit the room with a sudden burst of confidence, passing Andrew who sits with a complexed expression, "Mendes, don't think about it. I saw her and I know it's Trinity. We need to go, you have a talk show in forty minutes."

"Wait for me downstairs. If I take longer than five minutes you have permission to yell," I exhale, "I need to talk to her."

Andrew shakes his head defeatedly, knowing I won't give up, "Five minutes!" He taps his watch to enforce his point and strolls towards the elevator.

I try to remain cool and collected as I make my way down the corridor in her direction quite quickly. I half jog when I see that nobody is around and eventually I arrive at open double doors. I timidly step inside to see a vast floor filled with sectional desks, people typing or writing away, working. I scan the room, not finding Trinity.

I set a kind hand on the shoulder of a nearby woman, "Excuse me, do you know where Trinity Hayson might be?"

She looks up at me, slightly shocked, "Oh you're Shawn Mendes!"

"I am," I chuckle, hoping she won't ask for a picture and just tell me where the girl I need to see is.

"Nice to meet you," the woman says politely, "She works in the office at the end of the hall."

She points towards the direction of Trinity's office and I thank her profusely before walking off to find my ex lover.

I approach an enclosed office. The windows are yet again glass but the shutters are pulled closed. The darkwood door has a silver plaque on it.

'Head Editor:
Trinity Hayson'

Damn, she's head editor? Impressive.

I knock on the door after a second of contemplation.

"Come in!" her angelic voice calls out.

I exhale deeply and push open the door. Trinity sits at her modern desk, typing on her laptop. When she looks at me, her eyes nearly pop out of her head. I wordlessly turn around and shut the door. We're both completely silent as I take my time in walking over. I sit in the chair that faces her at the opposite side of her desk. The intense eye contact doesn't falter for a second. That is, until she seems to snap out of a daydream and start typing again.

"What're you doing here, sir?" she hums, reading something on her laptop screen and acting as if my presence is nothing to her, "Was there something wrong with the interview...?"

"Trinity," I sigh, begging her with my eyes and tone to drop the professional act, "Can we please talk?"

"I have nothing to say to you. The interview is over and there won't be a repeat of today's events. You can go now," she says affirmatively, still not tearing her gaze from the screen in front of her.

"Trinity!" I say impatiently, "Please let me talk to you. Not as Ms. Hayson, not as my interviewer, not as head editor. As Trinity and Shawn. Please."

I watch her slam her laptop shut and turn slightly to face me directly. She stands up, leaning her hands on the glass table top. My eyes fall to her small hands. Still adorned with rings, a grey leather strap watch replacing the blue and white one I used to see all the time.

"No!" she protests and I raise my eyebrows in shock, "I don't want to talk to you. I don't even want to listen to your charming voice for another second. One interview was one too many. I don't want to chit chat with you about how I've been, or how you've been, or am I seeing anybody. I don't want to know how you are. I don't want you to tell me you're doing fantastic or you feel depressed and heartbroken. Because guess what? I was heartbroken too! In fact, I'm convinced there's still a trace of that in me. So no, I won't let you talk to me. Not as Ms. Hayson, not as your interviewer, not as head editor, and most definitely not as Trinity and Shawn."