𝐬𝐚𝐮𝐝𝐚𝐝𝐞 → 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐰𝐧 𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐬 (𝐢𝐢)

seventeen [s]

a/n; THE most precious pic^
***
thursday,
may 16th, 2020

SHAWN MENDES

The last two weeks have been rough. I spent my time wondering if she'd show, or maybe even message me on Instagram. I need something. It's fucking difficult, venturing into New York each day and going to interviews, doing promotions and small secret gigs without knowing if she feels the same, but knowing she's a mere cab ride away. I know I can't just show up at her apartment again, I probably ambushed her a little by reading her my letter.

She cried, I cried. It was more emotional than I thought. But like I wanted, it was intimate. I never planned to read her the letter I wrote. But as I reached for my wallet in the back seat of the cab to get out the money for the ride back to the Upper East Side, I felt the letter in my pocket. So, spontaneously, my hopeless romantic side emerged and without thinking, I did that.

Although my hotel is a five minute drive from where I initially got into the cab, I was selfish in the fact that I wanted more time with Trinity. That's why I told the driver to go to 192nd Street first. I then had to catch a separate cab around the corner from Trinity's place and endure another twenty minute drive, which was actually thirty due to traffic. I didn't mind, I dried my tears and felt a little elevated that I finally confessed my feelings. Even if she doesn't take me back, I know now that there's not much more I can do. I've done my part, and it's her turn now if she wants to work with me.

Last week, I asked Andrew to fly Brian out because I wanted a friend my age to talk this through with. Andrew agreed and Brian was in New York the following day. He's staying in the room opposite mine. It was good to get my thoughts out in words to one of my best friends. He listened and comforted me as we drank whiskey in my hotel room late one night.

Earlier today I had two interviews and then Brian, Andrew and I went to a diner for lunch. Josiah flew home after the Gala, quick in uploading and sending me photos. I posted a couple on my Instagram, receiving over a million likes each. I'm still getting used to this insane lifestyle.

Now though, I'm in my hotel room, sitting on an armchair by the window. I scroll through Twitter, chuckling at a few dramatic tweets about how good I looked at the Met. It's crazy really, people claiming to love and adore me when they've never met me. I find it odd, but I'm not complaining. These people basically fund my life.

It's late, almost 11pm, but I decide to shower. I toss my phone on the freshly made bed, strolling into the huge bathroom and stripping off my restricting clothes. I sigh tiredly, turning on the water and twisting the dial anti-clockwise, heating up the stream of steady water. As it warms, I brush my teeth. I then hop under the waterfall head, my tense muscles suddenly relaxing at the steaming droplets of water that encase my naked body.

I tip my head back, humming a tune that's been stuck in my head lately. I take my time in washing my body and hair with the hotel's shower supplies. I grab a packaged razor, using soap rather than shaving foam to swipe off the rough bristles poking from my jaw. I condition my soaked hair, washing it out and finding some sort of solace in watching the suds dissipate with the water.

After another ten minutes of tranquil relaxation, I step out of the shower and towel dry my body and hair. I wrap the towel around my hips, knotting it to keep it from falling. I retreat back to the main room, reaching for my phone before a knock at the door startles me.