This Is My Version; A Conor Maynard Fanfiction

Chapter 13

Conor's POV

"So that's going up on Monday if you could maybe help me film it tonight or tomorrow"

I press the gas pedal as the light turn from red to green, the car accelerating down the busy street of central London.

"Huh?"

Jack sighs as I turn my head to look at him, not really sure of what he'd just been saying.

My head is all over the place, like usual you may say, but I'm pretty certain it's worse than it's ever been. I'm torn on what to do and all I can do is hope that everything is going to miraculously figure itself out. Just like I'd been doing for the past year now.

"Filming for YouTube, the video I told you about"

He sounds as if he's given up by this point and I really don't blame him. He's got all rights reserved to be annoyed at me because literally everyone else in this world currently is.

"Yeah"

I force a smile, grabbing my phone from my lap to text Alex back about not being able to come over to see him any time soon. The fact that he's still here, claiming to be my best friend is a miracle, seeing all the times I'd rejected him over the past like four years.

"You shouldn't be doing that"

My brother nods towards my phone just as I press send on the message and I just wink at him, stopping for yet another red light.

"Conor I'm being serious"

I know it's bad but I really don't care anymore, I stopped doing that a long time ago.

Because what is the life I'm currently living, a life filled with pain that never goes away. With empty promises and fake people. Fake fans, fake "I love yous", fake everything.

The only real thing in my life right now is Olivia and she's nothing more than a stranger, yet another bitch I matched with on tinder. Yet another girl that I'd fucked for a simple distraction, for my own fucking pleasure.

But somehow she is the only stability I currently have. She, the girl that I know nothing about had somehow become my rock, my safety.

She'd stayed even though she didn't have to and that meant more to me than no-one ever will understand.

"Hey bro, yeah we're in the car on our way back now. Alright, yeah I'll ask him. No, I get it. Yeah yeah, Conor? Yep, he's fine-"

I stop listening after that because I don't know how he can just assume such a thing.

I'm as far from fine as I've ever been at the moment. I'm fucked up and it terrifies me. I'm scared of myself, scared of my own mind. Scared of the fact that I can't separate the reality from my imagination.

"Healing has no timeline, it's okay to fall apart even though you thought you had it all under control"

Had I ever had it under control?

I'd certainly pretended to be okay, fucking hell, I still do that on a daily basis. But I have no recollection of actually having this mess of myself under control. Not since the day, the day that she left.

How do you handle the love of your life giving up on you? How do you move on from that?

The breakup changed me, and I know that the majority of people around me know that. But I've been putting on a brave face, avoiding speaking about it and always shutting down conversations that has to do with it. Telling people I'm over it, that I'm fine.

When in all honesty I've been getting worse. The pain from having my heart broken had slowly but surely started to grow into so much more.

It'd started with small things, small insecurities and this darkness that came and went. Then the pressure, the pressure of succeeding I'd put on myself.

I wanted to do well, to make people proud. But I'd failed, not only had I lost the love of my life but I'd also lost who I used to be. I'd fallen off and didn't have the strength to climb back up.

So managers got involved, adding to the pressure and I crumbled, broke into a million pieces.

Everywhere I went people seemed to turn their backs on me. Fans, producers even friends. Suddenly I felt all alone despite always having people around.

The darkness became more persistent and the days where I felt genuine happiness became almost none existent.

I started drinking, first as a way of distracting myself, later to numb the pain. But the more I drink the more I hurt and that's when anxiety rolled around.

The insomnia and anxiety attacks. The constant worry that had taken so much away from me. The feeling of drowning.

I'm slowly killing myself. I know I am. One day all of this is going to be the death of me. Whether that's in a week's time or in two years, I don't know. But I do know that as much as I want to say I'm gonna be fine, that I'll be able to cope, to come back, am I not going to be able to do that. I'm too broken, too fucked up.