Demi Lovato Imagines

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It caught your eye when you woke up that morning. You picked it up, still lying on your side, rolling the hard ball between your thumb and forefinger. It almost glowed although there was hardly any light in the room. You'd got into the habit of that. No matter what time of day it was, your curtains are always closed. Your bedroom is a place of perpetual dimness where you've begun to retreat to as soon as you get back to the apartment. You thought you'd cleared every trace of her from it, even her notes she used to leave you on the bedside table when she got up early for the studio and you had a day off work. You crumpled them all up in your fist before throwing them in the trash, telling yourself she was not worth the effort of something more dramatic like incineration or shredding. Not that you even have a shredder. Or a fireplace. It's only now she's gone that you remember how small your apartment really is. It used to feel perfect, perhaps because she was in it. Definitely because she was in it. Now you feel closed in, suffocating from your own breath that lingers inside because you refuse to open a window. The arm you were lying on began to feel fuzzy and when you twisted your body, the pearl slipped out from your fingertips, getting lost in the bedsheets. You patted around for it for a while. And then. Stopped. You dropped your arms by your sides. Breathing heavily. You closed your eyes again. Heart trudging. You remembered what Joan said last time you were late for work. You opened your eyes again, sat up, and threw on your clothes, bypassing the kitchenette and heading straight for the door. You haven't felt hungry for days. 

"Cuttin' it fine, Y/l/n."

"Sorry," you mutter, dropping your bag on the floor of the staff room, reaching for one of the aprons on the pegs along the back wall. 

"What's rattled your cage this morning?" she laughs. You roll your eyes. Usually, Joan doesn't even look up from her computer when the staff clock in. 

"Nothing."

You snap the magnetic name-tag on the apron, turning towards the door again. 

"Hey," she says, shooting arm out and catching you by the wrist. Her hand is hot and clammy and you chew the inside of your cheek instead of flinching away. 

"I hope you're gonna drop the attitude before customers arrive. I don't need any more complaints just 'cause you broke up with your girlfriend."

You hold her gaze silently. Her eyes wait for you to say something. You just wait for her to let go. 

"Hey," she speaks again after an uncomfortably long pause, "What's happening is really shit. I get that. I--"

She cuts herself off with a shake of her head, exhaling through her nose in disbelief.

"...I don't know what I'd do if it were me..."

Your eyes wander to where her roots have grown in creating a grey triangle on the top of her head, an almost ruler-straight perimeter surrounded by deep chocolate brown. The silver plating of her teardrop earrings has worn away to reveal rusty metal. 

"...But, you know, it's not. And it's not for the customers to deal with either so,"

She tightens her grip, her long nails pressing into the soft skin of your forearm. 

"Let's put on a smile,"

She holds you there, waiting. Finally, you pull the corners of your mouth upwards into what you imagine can only be some sort of unattractive grimace. She smiles back. A real one that shows off the burgundy lipstick smeared on her teeth. 

"And let's serve some coffee. On you go."

She drops her grip, turning back to her computer without another word. Holding every curse word that you know inside your head, you exit the staff room and walk towards the counter. Two people are already standing there, speaking to Jason. When he sees you approach, he gives them one of his showtime grins and tells them their flat whites will be ready in a sec. You take the lead, reaching towards the coffee grinder and rinsing the portafilter under the sink.