Catfish and the Bottlemen || Imagines

Falling In - Bondy

The echo of the front door rang throughout the empty house bringing home the harsh reality of his isolation. His suitcases dropped inside the door with a defeated thump, his shoes kicked off and left to find their place where they'd no doubtedly lie for the next week. Bypassing the barren walls and scarce furniture the physical emptiness of his home became just as apparent as the metaphorical, collapsing into his chair he let out a sigh producing his trusty pack of cigarettes and placing the very last one between his teeth searching for his lighter only to discover the fluid had ran out, defeated at the last hurdle he let the cigarette fall from his lips, a humourless laugh laced with bitterness voiced his disappointment.

The only noise within the house was his own sluggish movements as he sprawled out, the deafening silence luring him into the bittersweet realisation of his actions. Touring made it easy to pretend like everything was fine; it was a mindless routine of playing songs he could perform in his sleep, smoking cigarettes and sipping pints, spending every waking minute with his closest friends but the second he had time to himself the perfect life he was pretending to live crumbled into a sad pile of loneliness. It was only now that he truly felt the full brunt of what he had done, his own foolishness mixed with naivety and arrogance was the only valid cause of his current predicament.

In another life he'd have returned home to a warm house, his bags would've been put away properly, his shoes would have found their way to the shoe rack, he'd be laid on the couch going twos on the last cigarette with her. Thinking about it was painful, his conscience finally catching up to him reminding him that every harrowing memory of that night was cemented and unshakable. Stuck between not caring at all and caring too much he had been reckless letting her go without a fight, he had stood by and watched her angrily pack pretending like it wasn't destroying him. 

When she had hesitated - holding a shirt that was once his that she had stolen many moons ago, debating with herself whether to take it or not - he had stood watching frozen and cowardly, believing that this wasn't the end that she would give him another chance. How wrong he had been. If he could go back to that moment now he would have done anything to make her stay, he would have dropped to his knees and begged, pleaded with her till his mouth was dry and cracked. But he hadn't done that when it mattered, and deep down he knew he deserved this, the omnipresent feeling of guilt and heartache which weighed down on him unavoidably was exactly what he deserved.

His hand searched his pockets for his phone opening it up and hesitating over her contact. Tour had acted as a suitable routine to keep him distracted, for the first week at least,
Shortly after the initial shock to the system he had slipped back into his previous habit of restless nights where he'd sit and think everything he had done wrong over and over. The pain he had caused her was unimaginable, he couldn't liken it to anything he had ever felt, he would never fully understand and he knew that. Bottling it completely he exited the call screen and dropped the phone to the floor hearing it land with an unsettling thud, he had been toying with himself on what to do for some time. He hadn't even texted her after she left. Not once. Not even to check that she had made it safely to her parents house where she had told him she was going, his own stupid pride and ego had stopped him from it. 'She'd be back' he thought the first day she had gone, pretending like the fight had never happened, that he hadn't done the things he did. By the end of his two week break he realised that he was wrong.

She wouldn't be back and it was all his fault. A short month long tour followed that two weeks, and he pretended not to think about it at all. For over a month he pretended that his mind didn't wander to the jumper she had left behind, which he had packed and slept with at night because it smelled like her, he pretended not to care although he spent hours at a time staring at old photos of them, smiling and happy. It was only now, a dreary night in the first week of January that he would admit it out loud. She was his rock, through everything she had supported him and encouraged his dreams, accommodated every late night at the studio, looked after him when he was half cut and struggling to stand up straight, lay with him late into the day watching movies and holding each other, laughed with him and danced on tables, done anything and everything for him because she had loved him.