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it would been easier—to WALK AWAY; and leave the past where it belonged. but it wasn’t julian who dug up what’d been buried, it was her. by coming back, by seeking him out… by offering sentiments which she had no right offering. it was stacie’s fault that he was there :     atop messy sheets, back against the wall, and with a stare that couldn’t quite believe what he saw before him. after two years. maybe more.

           ❛     neither did i.     ❜

it’s honest. even when he decides it’s more than she deserves. being there was more than she deserved. nevertheless, he finds himself falling for it. the i’m sorry’s, the i missed you’s—all while acknowledging that it shouldn’t matter. a torturous cycle of knowing but not enough. HOW ARE YOU? it seems that’s where the line is drawn. because he shifts, discomfort evident all around. good. until now. it’d be truthful. but more than that, it’d be a low blow. one she does deserve yet one he fails to deliver.

          ❛     look, stacie… you wanted to talk—so, talk.     ❜

“right…” she nods her head and chews her lower lip as she thinks of where she wants to start. she’s silent for a moment then lets out a deep breath.

“so the day i left..i refer to that as..” her voice trails off and she shakes her head; it’s not important. literally nothing about to leave her mouth is going to be important. she begins pacing (of all the things about her to change in 2 years, that’s the nervous habit to remain the same).

she doesnt mean to allow the tears stream down her cheeks, and they’re because she realizes her stupidity and although she’s apologized, and probably made it clear that she realizes her mistake hurt him, it doesnt make her feel any better. “i remember it. i was wanting to knit you a blanket and looking back, that’s probably the most pathetic thing in the world,” she lets out a laugh, wiping the tears from her eyes. “and my mom came into the kitchen and asked what i was doing and when i told her, she told me it was stupid and i was wasting my time, once again making it obvious that she was upset that i didnt want to be a doctor or an attorney and she asks how we’re doing and i told her that it’s like you were pushing me away but i think i got it and it was ok, because we would be ok and she told me that you’d get tired of having me around if you havent already and it’s like that part stuck with me and then…” she looks down for a second, before looking back up.

send me a ✧ and i’ll bold all that apply to your muse.

she thought about this long after she said ok. would going over be the best idea? pulling up in front of his house, she had to take a moment to talk herself into actually ringing the doorbell. at one time, the apolskis home felt like home to her for so long but now its foreign

being inside she cant help but to look around. arms crossed over her chest, she’s unsure what to do. does she sit? does she stand? she chooses to stand.

send me a ✧ and i’ll bold all that apply to your muse.

they’re way past this—the i’m sorry’s, the i missed you’s, and all that falls in - between. it’s something that stacie doesn’t realise that julian knows for certain. yet when she offers just that, he falters. the anger and hurt which motivates remain but overlapping is a softness once lost. at least in the context of anastasia ceglarek. he thinks he’s OVER IT—until she stands before him, looking the same as she did all those years ago. a little older, but a whole lot prettier, too. and he thinks he’s OVER HER—until those very thoughts manage to penetrate the wall built.

         ❛     i gotta get back to work.     ❜

truthful, although above all EVASIVE. because he hesitates :     the pleads hard - hitting, and julian thinks it’s unfair. a conviction that forces further frustration into equation. only this time around, it fails to reach the way of stacie, instead finding himself. after all this time… and still—it was pathetic. he was pathetic. and it’s with this realisation that he turns around, a vinyl dropped onto the register as he passes. a stream of FUCK YOU’S, FUCK THIS’, and FUCK ME’s echoing in his mind, and julian’s escape should be a sure - thing. because he doesn’t want to be there. not with her. not now. not ever… except that maybe he does. a pause, and then—    

          ❛     tonight, my place.     ❜     the shop bell rings. 

it shouldn’t be this way :     her, there, and him—bursting at the seams with every word he’d put on paper, and all those even he couldn’t. emotional isn’t a word used to describe him either. public scenes and tantrums weren’t on his resumé, and up until now, julian didn’t believe himself capable. too many eyes on him. and her, too. HOW MANY PEOPLE KNEW? a small town after all, with even smaller people. and like his cancer once had, gossip spread fast.

          ❛     no, you don’t get to do this. you don’t get to come back and be sorry. alright? not after two fucking years.     ❜

swung back around now, his voice is raised. he never thought he’d shout. in fact, in every scenario imagined :    composure was kept, words were harsh, and julian untouchable. well, not in all… but those that deviated from something akin to a revenge fantasy carried more humiliation than the situation at hand. often shaken off when entering his mind, replaced with a more hard - hitting reality—it doesn’t matter. she won’t come back. ever.

          ❛     WHY—why are you doing this? why are you here?     ❜

she understands and if this was anyone else, she’d have something god awful to say. but she doesn’t. wouldnt most people appreciate an apology? she gets his anger and she wishes she could tell her feelings off and go cold. but standing here right now, its visible that she hurt him and she hates it. hurting him was never something she intended to do; she intended to spend each day with him; whether that meant they grew old together (she would speak that into existence) or he grew tired of her and she would always really hope for the former. 

“i’m sorry. i know i’ve said this 600 times now but i am so sorry. i want to say some bullshit like i missed home but that’s a lie. i missed you and i needed to see how you were. i know that’s some twisty shit but i think….” she shrugs her shoulders, pulling her hair over her shoulder. It’s something she realized she did in an attempt to close people out, and she’s never had to do it with juli before. “can we talk? please? just give me a chance to like...put it into better words?”

maybe it’s not a lack of words but rather an ABUNDANCE of them. like a wave oncoming only to crash against the floodgates closed. because julian always knew what to say—and with years of practice for today, he knew with more certainty than ever before what he meant and what he felt. yet the order necessary escapes him, silence overtaking. himself, at least. stacie keeps on talking :     each sentence more provoking than the last, urging him out of the shell escaped into. the pet name doesn’t go without notice, either. instead it acts fuel to a situation in desperate need of diffusion. he doesn’t stop. his trek towards the counter consistent and the glances he grants are fleeting :     for his own health more than anything. because it feels as if his heart is about to burst out of his chest, all whilst occupying his airways too.

           ❛     oh, you’re sorry? yeah, alright. what are you more sorry about—the leaving, or the note… a fucking note, stacie!     ❜

his mind is elsewhere :     in a land far, far away—made up of dead kennedys vinyls, playing out through drug induced haze. descendents make an appearance, too. NOFX, circle jerks, black flag, the occasional visit from the clash, and the list goes on. too preoccupied with the latest of the punk scene to pay any mind to the latest of his own life. because breaks were short—this one in particular gifting him only another four minutes of acquaint himself with laminated records. or, alternatively, reacquaint himself with old ghosts. HE DOESN’T MEAN TO FREEZE. but then, he doesn’t mean to be here either. at the store, in this aisle (s for sex pistols, s for scumbags), in a world where this is his reality. 

like a deer in headlights :     julian apolskis is spooked by the past reemerging, and he malfunctions in response. a jaw tight, tight enough that he fears his teeth might crack, and his body cold. THIS ISN’T HAPPENING. except that it is. it is, and he’s prepared for it. years having passed—one, two… he thinks it’s closing in on three. and julian knows what to say. it’d been imagined in great detail. hell, it’d been written about. there were enough songs about what he’d say to anastasia ceglarek that he could fill a whole album if he had to. deluxe, and then some. yet all that he can muster is a tight - lipped— 

         ❛     no. actually—this… is bullshit.     ❜     and with the vinyl held at the moment of impact ( sex pistol’s spunk. shit. ) julian makes way for the register. as if exiting the store altogether was admitting defeat. and that was something he wouldn’t do. fuck that. no, fuck her.

she’s not expecting him to be happy to see her. she’s expecting the anger. she lets out a chuckle, “oh, come on babe,” she pouts. that’s probably going to make him angrier and she’s fully aware. perhaps living with her dad has made her just a bit twisted.

“maybe i wanted to work up an apology letter before we had a conversation but here we are.” she raises an eyebrow then chews her lower lip, “i’m sorry. i shouldnt have left you and i’m sorry.” she’s not one for apologies anymore so the fact that she’s standing here, apologizing, has her wondering if he’s really as unimportant to her as she talked herself into believing.

she had no real intention of coming back and now that she’s here, she’s not entirely sure she made the best choice; coming back to right her wrongs. she knows it isnt going to be easy but things that were worth it, weren’t easy, although she wouldnt exactly say that its worth it anymore. perhaps she’s going with the ideology that she’s changed, that she isn’t the same person she was then. but how much can anyone change in two years?