Demi Lovato Imagines

Posthumous

TW - (mention of) drugs 

"So why now?"

"Huh?"

"Why's this all happening now? What changed?"

You turn around to face her, refusing to allow your eyes to land on the calendar behind her head. It's not like you've circled the day, mind you. Never have done. It's hardly something you're going to need a reminded about. But Eliza's got her head screwed on tight and would be able to piece things together quickly enough. And you're not in the mood to have that conversation. 

"I dunno. Probably just bored, I guess. Ready to screw over her other child, perhaps."

"Y/n."

Eliza's reprimanding tone burns a little and you turn around to pretend to look for your purse. You feel her watching, waiting for you to take it back and say you didn't mean it. And of course you didn't. Daniel was hardly a recipient of your mom's temper. Quite the opposite, actually. When you turn around again, she still has you pinned by an unrelenting stare. 

"Kidding. What are you doing today, anyways?"

"Just readings," she says, examining a hangnail. "Then I think I'm going for drinks with Tom. You're welcome to join us if things go awry."

You twist your face up. 

"God, no chance. M'not third-wheeling you two on another date."

She flings her hands out to the side, mouth dropping open in exaggerated shock. 

"When has that ever happened before? That time at 'Biggy's Bowls' was hardly a date, the whole football team was there!"

"You two were in the disabled bathroom for almost half an hour! You left me with, like, fifteen guys who had all forgone a post-workout shower!" 

"I said I was sorry," she mumbles moodily. You can't help but roll your eyes at her willingness to give up so easily. 

"It's fine," you shrug, wanting to draw the conversation to a close. "If I need an out, I'll just say I've got a society meeting tonight."

"Oooh, what society?" Eliza asks with a wink. "Will it be the Tea society? Or maybe the one where everyone runs about on broomsticks pretending their in Hogwarts or some shit?"

"Hm, yeah, maybe," you say, barely listening. It's no secret that you use this excuse every time you find yourself in a situation you want to wriggle out of. And, every time, you try your luck with a more unlikely society name, none of which you have ever been to nor plan on going to. Eliza thinks it's hilarious. You only think that's the case because her boyfriend Tom has reduced her sense of humour to that of a sixty-something-year-old librarian who takes her job way too seriously. "I'd better get going."

"Good luck!" she calls after you as you exit the dorm room, slinging your bag over your shoulder. The familiarity of your actions, the same as you would do were you simply leaving for class, aims to quieten your nerves. How you wish that, getting to the bottom of the stairwell, you could unlock your bike and pedal to campus. To get to the library, pick a random book off the shelves, and go on as you have done for the past three years. You don't want to open that wound again. It took long enough to staunch the bleeding the first time, the puckered scar still itchy, especially around this time of year. How you wish that, upon getting that text, you could have deleted it without even reading it. Or reading it and laughing out loud at the audacity instead of breaking down in tears in the basement of the lecture theatre, wiping your eyes with the sleeves of your shirt until the skin was fiery red.