WHEN IT ENDS || Jason McCann Fictional Story||

11.~|Fine!|~

Songs For this chapter:

Begin Again
by Taylor Swift

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How do you sleep at night when you spend the most of it, trying to get the boy— you had feelings for and the boy you moved on from and the boy who came back and kidnapped you and now has you living with him and makes your whole brain go haywire whenever he's near you but you keep telling yourself that you don't feel a thing for him, that you're over him, while you're clearly not over him— to sleep after he crashed outside your door, drunk and passed out, while you have no energy in you, regardless of the continuous supply of food from him— because you so brilliantly flushed them down the toilet due to your stubbornness?

That's right, you don't.

I know that I need to conserve as much energy as possible and recharge myself as and whenever I can, but it's a little hard to do when he's sleeping right next door, possibly dreaming about another girl who he spent most of his night with— and probably even did things which should not be spoken of. Just barely two hours before the idiot ruined my sleep, I was convincing myself that I would not care about whatever the hell he does and whoever the hell he hangs out with. And three hours later, I find my useless conscience bombarding my brain with questions after questions about where he could've been, who he could've been with and what he could've been doing that he ended up in that condition.

So, yeah. I couldn't sleep. A bit. Sue me.

Every time, I closed my lids and tried to think about rainbows, and fairies and unicorns and ponies to fall asleep, the rainbows turned into dark clouds, the fairies turned into greedy and hungry whores who could've eye-raped him the whole time he was out of the house, and the unicorns turned into mad dogs who could've chased him down the block while he was still drunk and the ponies turned into monstrous creatures who descended on earth just to abduct him to space and never let me see him again. Oh, and don't even get me started on the drug-dealing ones, or the ones with smoking pots or the ones with him getting laid because I have frustrated him too much.

Told you, I have a vivid imagination.

Moral of the night, I ended up tossing around the bed the whole night, until the surrounding outside the window started to become cleaner and less foggy. I kept waiting for the chirping of the birds and then for the streaks of sunlight to enter the room through the tiny gaps in the curtains, just so I could check up on him at a reasonable hour and not at half-past four in the morning.

To say that I am nervous to face him, would be a huge understatement. I am trembling to even see his sober face and then talk with him. It's been only sixteen days now— and it had been about six years since the last time I saw him after a long span of time— but for some absurd reason, I feel myself sweating even more than the first time I spoke with him in years. Though I was able to handle myself— alright, fine, somewhat handle myself— that time when we met, I'm not sure if I'm going to be able to do the same this time.

The factors mattering this time are still kind of the same, however. Last time, I urged myself to move on because I thought he couldn't ever care and this time, I've forced myself to be confined inside four walls. He pretended to care about me and I fell deeper for him— this time, he lied about not caring about Ashley, or the fact that they are together, and spoke to me in a persuasive manner to make me believe that same old sh!t again, that I mattered to him. Last time, we stopped speaking suddenly, because I was too afraid to face him as a mere friend with the feelings that grew inside of me. This time, I'm afraid to face him as something else but not a friend, when I don't even have any clue where he wants me to stand in his life.