𝙛𝙖𝙩𝙚 ⚣ 𝙘𝙩𝙝+𝙖𝙛𝙞 ✔

50

TW ➢ self harm, substance (drug) abuse. please don't read if it'll hurt you and remember that if you ever need to talk i'm here.

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Calum was not having a good day. He couldn't blame anyone but himself for that, and he didn't plan to. But he knew why he didn't feel well. He'd been taking care of Ashton a lot lately, despite the man telling him it wasn't necessary (though he knew it was and that Ashton loved it), and had been focusing much less on his own mental health.

He was very close to a breakdown. Seconds from it, probably. He didn't have work today; no distractions, nothing to do. He was bored out of his mind and left completely alone with his thoughts and he was about to go insane. He knew Ashton would be disappointed in him if he did what his mind was telling him to, but was disappointment from a loved one really worse than excruciating dread and sadness? 

He didn't know. 

He wanted to say that he knew for sure Ashton would still love him if he slipped up and relapsed like he had, but he couldn't. Because all his mind was doing was feeding him lies; making him believe that if he fucked up, Ashton wouldn't stay. Ashton wouldn't love him if he couldn't deal with his problems by himself.

He knew he was thinking irrationally. Some part of him knew that Ashton would never leave him because of his mental illness. But that logical, correct part of his brain was being drowned out by every other bleak, hopeless and disheartening thought he'd repressed for months. And there was a lot.

So, sitting cross-legged on his bed, he stared for what felt like hours at a razor and a bottle of pills. Daring himself to do it. Convincing himself that he didn't deserve the life he had, and no one in said life wanted him. That they'd be better off without him.

He didn't cry. Not at first. At first he'd felt numb; nothing at all. And then he pictured Ashton finding him. He imagined his beautiful features becoming distraught, and tears welling in his eyes. He imagined him crying and crying as he clung to his lifeless body, like if he held him tight enough, he'd come back.

And then he couldn't. He couldn't do that to Ashton. He couldn't leave him like that; he couldn't leave him just as he'd started to get better. He knew that as much as it hurt right now, having Ashton would help him get through it. Except Ashton wasn't there with him. He was at work and wouldn't be back for god knows how long.

He started to cry. He pulled his knees to his chest and tugged roughly on his hair. He thought that maybe if he called Ashton, everything would be okay. And the next thing he felt was something he hadn't in years and years. He felt his mind become more juvenile, felt himself becoming more scared (especially because he was alone) and felt a shrill sob build in his throat.

He needed someone to hold him and tell him everything was okay because he really didn't think it was. He just wanted a blanket and a hug and maybe for Ashton to sing to him. 

He hadn't felt like this for so long and he didn't know what to do. It only happened when he was extremely stressed or sad and he'd never been left alone; he'd always had someone there for him, even just as a friend. But Michael and Luke were busy, Ashton was at work and he had no one else.

Wiping his eyes roughly, he picked up his phone. He dialed Ashton's number as quickly as he could. Duke climbed into his lap. He let out a shaky sob and petted the small dog's head. He set his phone down and pulled Duke into his chest. "Puppy." He cried softly. Duke licked the salty tears from his face.

He felt so weak and alone. He needed to feel closer to Ashton; wearing his hoodie wasn't enough anymore. He didn't know what to do. There was no way for him to feel any closer to him; no way for him to feel any safer until Ashton got home.