Demi Lovato Imagines

Don't let go pt.2

TW - ED

You peel the magazine off the table, rubbing your finger over the places where the black text has transferred onto the wooden laminate. It fades slowly, your skin becoming hot and tacky and adopting a shade of grey. You don't need to look at your watch again, you know it's time to go. 

The whole morning you've been trying to clear your mind of the last time. Not that anything bad happened per se, more that nothing happened at all. You felt like a right lemon sitting in the visitor's lounge for the best part of two hours as the nurses kept offering you tea and you kept waving them away with a weak smile. They knew you knew. You know they knew you knew. But no one was wanting to be the one to say it and break the illusion. Everyone wanted to keep the act up, like a balloon trying not to hit the floor, that eventually she would come through and actually see you. By the time it hit four o'clock, you think everyone was relieved that hospital procedure mandated your exit rather than someone too realistic for their own good. 

When you got back to the house that afternoon, the red dot on the phone flashed at you from down the hall. Listening to the voicemail, you couldn't tell if it made things better or worse. You were glad to hear things were going well, glad to hear she was working her programme albeit with some resistance. But none of that explained why she refused to see you. Nothing the nurse said illuminated to you the reason why you haven't seen your girlfriend in the two months since she's been admitted. You didn't delete the message. You played it over and over again, over breakfast, while you ironed, when you brushed your teeth. Sometimes, on days you're really missing her, you close your eyes, press your hands together, and pray you'll hear something different. But, like clockwork, the same words bleed out of the machine as you score another day off the calendar, leaning forward on your toes as if to reach Saturday quicker. 

Mary texted you last night, telling you to go straight to hers after visitation if things don't go well again. She worries about you being in the house alone. You tell her you're fine, every single time, but you're not sure you believe it. When you lie at night, arms outstretched across the empty bed, you fight hard to stay in control of your breathing. You fight hard not to let the tears start again. You fight hard to remember that you did the right thing, even if the most important person in your life appears to hate you for it and can no longer stand the sight of you. 

You don't know, if the same thing happens this week, whether you'll be able to fight for much longer. 

The drive to the treatment centre is short and you get there within half an hour, even with LA traffic. Walking in through the sliding glass doors, you recognise the same staff from last week and the week before. The woman at the desk smiles at you as you approach, already typing your details into the computer and printing out the sticker. 

"Here you go, Miss Y/l/n.  You know where to go."

Pressing the label on your shirt as you're beeped through the coded door, you slow down your steps, not wanting to prolong the time you end up sitting in that damn corner chair, eyes glued to the door. If nothing else, it makes your back so stiff you can barely lift yourself out of it come end of visiting hours. Mary asked why you still bother. The look you gave her told her not to ask again. 

"Hi, Y/n," one of the nurses, Jane, chirps from the end of the hall, foot holding the door to the lounge open. You smile widely. Jane always makes sure to top up your coffee and spark conversation with you while you're waiting every week. It's about the only thing that keeps you from thinking its a complete waste of time. 

"Hey," you say back. She keeps the smile on her face, the apples of her cheeks growing red and shiny. Her eyes widen gleefully. "You okay?"

She nods with too much teeth, cocking her head in towards the room. By the time you reach it, you see why. Right there, at the end of the room tucked away in the corner, is Demi. She's sitting on your chair, hands clasped between her knees, shoulders hunched up to her ears as if attached with velcro.