Photograph- Demi Lovato

1

Demi

I stared at the piece of paper in my hand, the first picture Wilmer and I'd taken together as a couple when I was eighteen. Our foreheads were touching, and we were staring into each other's eyes with huge smiles. i sighed, tracing my fingertips over his face, distorted slightly by the many times I'd folded, unfolded, crumpled, and uncrumpled, it. It was back in a simpler, happier time when all we cared about was the love we had for each other. In this picture there's a light that will never rekindle in my eyes. A light that he put there, and quite easily snatched back when he walked out of the door, both of us in tears. Both of our hearts were breaking then, but I would take that pain a thousand times over if it could somehow replace the hurt I feel now. the feeling of his lips was etched into my brain, his touch was like a drug I was addicted to and forced to quit cold turkey. Every fiber of my being longed to be touched or held by him just one more time.

I haven't seen him in months, but I knew he was happy with his new girlfriend. I found myself lying alone at night wondering if he loves her like he loved me. If he kisses her with the same passion, at every second of the day without caring who's watching. I wondered if he too wondered, about me and how I was doing or if I was happy. If people asked I'd give them the smile I perfected, and say good. Whenever they brought up his name I acted like it wasn't stabbing a thousand knives into my chest and twisting them slowly when I was forced to talk about it. He'd hurt me before, but I still love him. I still crave his touch, his lips, his everything. It's often depressing to see that he will never feel the same.

~*~

I made dinner, his mom's recipe of a spicy pasta, and sat down at the kitchen table, a single light illuminating the empty apartment that I refused to move out of just in case someday, he'd come home to me again. I wondered if he cooked for her, because she just wanted to watch him and sit on the counter while they talked for hours. Or, if she helped him, because she didn't fuck up every piece of food she touched. These thoughts would torment my mind endlessly as I tried desperately to fall asleep. I wish there was a way to turn it all off that wouldn't be considered by other people to be detrimental to my health.

~*~

For what seemed like the hundredth time, I found myself typing in his name in my phone and scrolling through the thousands of text messages and conversations we'd shared. Even the fights, the petty, stupid, childish fights made me miss him beyond belief. I asked myself if when he spoke to her he did it in the same way he did to me, full of love and strength, probably. He was like that, when he loved someone he made sure that person knew it in every thing he does. He probably kissed her neck, and called her beautiful, and moaned out her name in his sex voice I knew all too well. I wondered if his arms around her made her feel safe, but it was a stupid question. How could they not? I wonder if she listened to him when he needed to vent, and was there for him on those extremely rare occasions when he cried. Even though we'd been apart for a while now I still feel the urges to protect him from her. I wonder if he feels the same for me. We promised each other we'd never loose sight of the other in the crazy fucked-up world we'd been blessed enough to be a part of, but I knew I was the only one keeping up my side of the deal. Everywhere I looked in this apartment I see images of him, holding me while I slept, or comforting me while I cried in the bed after the passing of my father. Cuddling on the couch when I forced him to watch horror movies with me, or laughing until it hurt and we couldn't even remember what was so funny.

Things like this kept me up until ungodly hours of the night, just staring at the ceiling. When I did eventually pass out from exhaustion, I woke with the same insecurities.

~*~

"Demi, get up!" I sighed and opened my eyes to see my mom standing at the foot of the bed wearing a disapproving expression. After the breakup she'd forced me to make her a key to the apartment in case she needed to check on me in my severely depressed state.

"Did you stay up again last night?" I nodded lamely and her expression softened, "Demi... You need to stop this. You have a studio appointment in an hour."

I nodded, and she sat next to me on the bed, rubbing my back.

"You need to stop thinking about him, you need to get out there, have fun. Be happy. It's what he would want for you."

"I am happy." My voice was slow, robotic, and she saw right through it, raising an eyebrow in disbelief. "Mom I am happy. I'll go to the studio, but I don't want anything else but him. I'll never want anyone else, but clearly he doens't feel the same."

She smoothed back the hair on my forehead, "I know babygirl, I know it hurts now and that's how you think you'll feel forever, but you don't have to lie. At least... not to me. Someday you'll be happy."

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Twitter: @Lovatic_Chica

-Rachel