Blinded by Limerence

62 | The Role of Grieving Almost-Girlfriend

Morgan

Standing in front of the foggy bathroom mirror, I sniffled one last time and blew my nose, tossing the used piece of tissue into the wastebasket, then stared back at my reflection.

My tired hazel eyes hastily scanned how I looked: My hair was tousled—more than usual, anyway—and mascara was running wildly down my eyes, which were puffy and red from all the crying, my nose almost the same shade from all the subsequent nose-blowing. 

I pulled another piece of tissue from the dispenser and splashed some water on it from the faucet then wiped my face clean with the damp tissue.

Unfortunately for me, that only works in movies; damp tissues aren't really an effective makeup remover. 

"Come on, Morgan," I told myself, eyeing the broken girl in the mirror, "you're strong... You'll get through this..."

Crossing the tiled floor to the exit, I suddenly stopped in my tracks as I felt another sob coming. Somehow, just the thought of rejoining the party across the hall broke my heart and seemed too much to handle.

I didn't want to chat with my friends about how much we collectively miss Trevor, about what our last moments with him were, and about what we would've done differently... because I don't think I can handle talking about the boy I love who's permanently gone. 

It doesn't feel right to do anything but be sad and grieve—and isn't that my role, after all? The grieving almost-girlfriend? 

Then, without warning, the memory came as sharp as a shard of broken glass.

"I just thought it was important to you, okay? No malice."

That was what Trevor had said to me when he gave me Archer's half of the heart keychain. It was a simple gesture, but it spoke multitudes of underlying messages, all woven into the silver trinket. I felt as if him giving the keychain to me was like him saying it's okay for me to follow my heart and be with Archer—only, I didn't know it then, but my heart points to Trevor.

My heart began to pound against my chest, and my clammy hands began to shake uncontrollably. My nerves were all bundled up into a ball of tangled strings, and my mouth suddenly felt dry as though longing for a drink.

Amidst the panic attack, the thought hit me then: I'll never feel it again, never feel him again—never feel the way his lips grazed my own, never relive the way our bodies intertwined and moved together, never bask in the way he held me and I him—all of those fleeting moments, reminiscent of our one night together, are gone. Forever. 

Everything was slipping away from my fingers, and there was nothing I could do about it.

I knew it was basically self torture to continue to think of these things, but I was. Just the thought of never being able to speak to him again, to hear his voice... to never see the way his eyes would crinkle when he flashed me that signature playful grin of his—it's all too much.

It's easy to read about the pain of losing someone, to comfort someone who's going through it, but it's completely different to experience the pain firsthand. The poverty of language cannot ever fully express the agony of losing someone dear to you, whether you knew it or not.

Back hitting the cold wall of the bathroom, I slid down the surface, my knees pushed against my chest and tears streaming down my face. 

I thrust my hand into my purse hoping to fish my phone out to call somebody, but instead, it landed on a cold, metal surface. I wrapped my fingers around it, and it felt like a flat water bottle. In that instant, I knew I must've grabbed Addie's bag by mistake because this was undoubtedly a flask.

Pushing all opposing thoughts away in my head, I pulled the flask out and took a long swig out of the container. I swallowed hard as the bitter liquid went down and burned my throat.

"This isn't so bad," I choked as I stretched out my lean, bare legs on the tiled floor. I downed the bitter-tasting liquid again and let out a relieved sigh, feeling my thoughts start to cloud already, vision beginning to blacken. 

"Yeah, this isn't bad at all..."

|

I jolted awake as my eyelids popped open by a violent vibration in my dress pocket.

"Fuck," I cussed under my breath as I fumbled to take my phone out from my pocket. Checking the caller's ID, I saw that it was Killian who was calling.

"W-what's up?" I greeted in a shaky voice.

"Where have you been?" he asked, his voice laced with concern. "I've been texting you nonstop, but you haven't been replying. Are you alright? Today must be difficult for you."

I blinked twice, trying to control the headache that pounded at my head. "Er—" I muttered, my brain barely able to comprehend his worried words.

"You better not be passed out in a dumpster somewhere, Morgan."

That seemed to do it. His presumption snapped me out of my daze, and I hastily got to my feet, picking myself off the dirty bathroom floor. As though a crocodile had chomped its massive snout onto my head, my headache intensified at the sudden swift motion, and I had to grip the wall to steady myself.

Groaning, I glanced at my reflection, surveying myself in the wall mirror with an appalled look on my face. The disheveled hair and bloodshot eyes were all I could see. 

"Am I dead?" I asked into the phone before I could stop myself, clutching my head.

"No, you're not, Morgan," laughed Killian. "I take it silence means I just helped you regain consciousness or something?"

"Yeah but not in a dumpster, geez," I commented, my voice feigning hurt. "I've got class, you know."

"Some class," he chuckled. "Where are you? I'm outside the church."

I leaned against the sink, my hands gripping the surface tightly. "Oh? So you decided to come after all?"

"Thought you needed support, is all," said Killian nonchalantly. 

My shaky fingers combed through the tangles in my hair as a soft smile spread across my face. "Could've used that hours ago but thanks. I'll be right out."

||

A few minutes after I ended the call, I stuck true to my word and met Killian outside the church.

He was in a white dress shirt and a black blazer, but he decided to pair it with a casual pair of ripped jeans. His brown hair was slicked back, and his emerald green eyes twinkled in the moonlight.

It suddenly occurred to me how similar Killian's and Trevor's features were—but at the same time, they couldn't be any more different. 

"You look... dressed up," I laughed, covering my face in case a blush would appear to reaffirm how good he looked standing there.

"And you look like shit," he remarked, narrowing his eyes at me.

"Gee, thanks," I replied, sarcasm dripping from my voice. "Am I blushing? I think I'm blushing."

Suddenly, I felt conscious under his watchful stare, so I quickly smoothed out my dress and coughed awkwardly. "Yeah, today was hard, okay?" I muttered, looking away to hide the tears pooling in the corner of my eyes.

Killian chuckled softly. "It was a joke, calm down," he said before pulling me into a comforting hug. "A partially true joke but a joke nonetheless," he added, earning a small laugh from me.

I buried my head into the croak of his neck and inhaled his familiar scent; he smelled of aftershave. "Thank you," I uttered, my voice muffled against his chest, "for showing up, I mean. Means a lot."

"Sure thing, doll," he grinned as he pulled away. "Let's head inside?"

After blacking out, drunk, in the public restroom of a church, somehow, I've finally composed myself enough—enough to face all those stories and parting words about the boy I love—and I finally think that I've mustered up the courage to talk about him in front of his family and all my friends and their hopefully not judgmental gazes.

"Y-yeah. Let's go join the party."