Demi Lovato Imagines

Over

"You don't mean that."

Your voice is small, timid. It slips at the end, a tiny inflexion that makes it sound like a question. But you're sure. You're sure she didn't mean that. 

"Don't I?" she shouts back, nostrils flared, hands spread out in front of her like this is some long, bitter fight between an old married couple deciding how their fortune is going to be split after their divorce is finalised. She walks away then immediately doubles back. 

"You can't be serious, Y/n?! You really think this was going well?"

She moves her arms to indicate 'this'. The two of you. This relationship. All you can do is blink dumbly back at her. Because...yeah. You thought it was. Nothing, that you had discerned, had made you think otherwise. Last month, the two of you took a weekend break to Rhode Island. The month before, she had laughed when her mom, round for dinner, had mentioned how the two of you might give her a grandchild eventually. 

"I don't understand," is all you can say, tangling your fingers together in your lap, pressing your tongue to the roof of your mouth to stop your nose from stinging. She scoffs, shaking her head. 

"No. You wouldn't, would you? It's all 'me, me, me' with you, isn't that right, Y/n? As if I don't have feelings of my own!"

She's shouting now, spittle flying from her mouth like tiny shooting stars under the ceiling lamp. It's getting darker earlier now that winter is approaching. The cold has made your bones feel ten times heavier than they were before and, now, you can barely lift yourself higher on the sofa you're slumped upon. 

"Please, Demi," you say, "Tell me what's bothering you. We can talk about it."

But she refuses to sit down. Not next to you, not even in the smaller love seat across the room. She stays standing, rooted to the spot.

"No. There's no 'talking' needed. I'm done."

"Done with what?" you ask, pleading internally that what was said a minute and a half ago was some sort of miscommunication. Some sort of error. 

"You. I'm done with you. With us."

"Dem--"

"I don't love you anymore, Y/n."

It's like she's come over, pinned you to the ground and jumped up and down on your chest. Your lungs feel bruised, ravaged with holes, unable to intake another breath. An ache, at the base of your skull, starts to creep upwards until it swirls around your temples. 

"You don't?"

"No."

"But...but I do...," you mumble, "I love you."

She looks down to the carpet, arms crossed over her chest. 

"Yeah, well..." she shrugs. Her mouth stays open a few more seconds as if she's just trying to figure out what the rest of that sentence will be. Eventually, she closes it and you can almost hear it slam. The sound of the TV in the other room fills the silence stretched between you. You had put it on earlier as you like the company of voices as you prepare dinner, the house otherwise empty until Demi gets back from work. It was some radio station today. You'd gone out and sat in the car while her interview was airing, curled up in the driver's seat and smiling at her voice. You weren't going to mention that to her, though. You know she doesn't really like it when you pawn at her like a lapdog. 

"When?" you ask, looking just past her. 

"Huh?"

"When?" you repeat. "When did you...stop loving me?"