PTX One-Shots and Unplanned Shorts

Letters

Mitch:

I love the way your baby-fine hair falls as you scribble lyrics to a song or a note to Kirstie or a phone number in a napkin to be handed to someone.

I love your eyes, warm and chocolate and full of life, staring at me from the other couch or across the room or, best of all, right next to me.

I love those moments when we're wrapped in each other's warmth, heads together, leaning in to each other, our legs and hands almost-touching.

I love you talking to me, gracing me with your melodic, high, clear voice.

I love your laugh, high and sharp and loud.

I love your skin, olive-colored and smooth, even if you think you're too pale.

I love your jokes.

I love your collarbones.

I love your clothes.

I love you.

If only you returned the favor.

If only you weren't dating Travis.

If only I could stop writing song after song after song about you.

If only you'd see me as I really am.

I am see through for you, Mitch. But you aren't even opaque.

You only ever laugh when you're drunk now, bringing home another poor boy. Do you think I don't notice them? You're dating Travis! At least make me your next mistake, not some random guy.

You only ever cry in the night now.
I can hear you from my room, crying and moaning names in your sleep. I used to comfort you, waking you up gently and holding you, but you would never stay in my arms. Once you'd stopped crying, you'd roll over and fall back asleep, yelling at me if I stayed. "What if Travis had walked in this morning?" You would yell later.

What if I had stopped caring this morning?

I know you don't love Travis. I know you don't love the boys you bring home at 3 AM. Why not love me? I certainly love you. God, I love you. You make me want to laugh and cry and scream and talk and hug and kiss and hold you all at the same time. I love you so much it hurts.

I stopped comforting you a while ago. I stopped leaving my room a while ago. I stopped eating enough a while ago. I stopped talking a while ago. I stopped singing a while ago. Did you even notice? Do you even care? Or are you too busy getting busy with some asshole you'll never talk to again? Are you too busy arguing with Travis? I can hear you guys argue from my room, Travis shouting slurred names at you as you apologize for whatever he did, him sucking at your neck as you ask him to please, stop, not again, you have rehearsal tomorrow, him growling something awful at you, you whimpering a surrender back. And the sounds that ensue. I turn up my headphones.

You don't really care about me. That's the conclusion I've drawn, that's the result of my experiment. You couldn't care less about me. All you want is to get drunk and have sex with anything that moves. But at rehearsals, on tour...

You're perfect.

I told you this back when I cared, back on tour, back when you listened to me, back when you were the more injured one. I told you that you were absolutely flawless, that I would break down the gates of heaven for you, that I will hold you close, that I am yours, but you're not mine. I love you, Mitch. I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you. I SUPERLOVE you. I love you so much that love isn't even a word for it. And it hurts, Mitch.

It hurts so much to see you hurt. It hurts so much to not have you. It hurts to not talk to you every second of every day, even if it's about clouds or shoes or just each other. What we say doesn't matter. What matters is having you in my arms. What matters is knowing you really would endure endless torture for me, like I do every day when I can't eat for fear of you talking to me, when I can't sleep for fear of you needing me, when I can't wear short sleeves for fear of you seeing me.