#evermore ts

When you first got the email from Kendall, you were tempted to delete it straight away without even bothering to read it. There was a reason he couldn’t contact you any other way. There was a very good fucking reason he couldn’t call or text or find you on your socials. The reason being that you had blocked him across everything. 

Finding out that your boyfriend had been so crossfaded that he made out with someone else thinking it was you was never something a girl wanted to hear. Yet one night that’s exactly the message you got from a mutual friend who had been with Kendall at the party he had chosen to attend. 

You had been calmly sitting at home in the penthouse apartment you had been sharing at the time. It had all been at his expense despite your discomfort. He had insisted that your entire relationship be at his expense, from every date to every milestone, and eventually you had simply begun to go along with it. 

It was late, somewhere around 2am if you remembered correctly (which you definitely did because it had become like some kind of flashbulb memory for you now). You had been on the couch, snuggled under this huge grey fleece blanket Kendall had bought for you when you had eyed it in the store. The tv was on in the background, playing some episode from a show you had watched one too many times already, and you were doom scrolling on Instagram when the message had come in. 

Your friend had tried to say it in a way that explained what had happened, as if they were already trying to defend Kendall and soften any blow that might have occurred. But you had read the words “kissed some other girl thinking it was you then went and leaned over the toilet to throw up for like ten minutes” and you sort of checked out. 

You had looked up and out of the array of floor-to-ceiling windows to the glinting lights of New York City, as if asking them if this was real. You had looked around at the apartment, at the blanket and the couch and even your hands, asking something in the universe to tell you that it wasn’t real. Then you read the message again, and again, and again, and you went through a million different reactions at the same time. 

You began to cry, feeling a deep stabbing pain inside you, at your very core. You threw stuff around, tossing the pillows off the couch, lobbing books off the dining table, launching the expensive tv remote down the room and listening to it shatter against the tile. You sat down and cried again, heaving sobs that bordered on screams. Then you got up and took every picture frame off the wall, piling them all up on the coffee table. 

You had eventually walked to your bedroom, staring at it like you had never seen it before. You lay down in bed, flat on your back and staring into the darkness. Eventually exhaustion took you to sleep despite the discomfort of your clogged nose and swollen eyes. 

In the morning you had woken up to an empty apartment. Kendall had surely crashed somewhere, on a friend’s couch or a hotel, or even in the street for all you cared now. You had done your morning routine like nothing had changed, gotten yourself breakfast like nothing had changed, then you began to make calls. Your best friend had a spare room you could crash in until you could find your own place to move into. A car would arrive within the hour so you could take everything you owned to your friend’s place (and the stuff you actually owned yourself could, frankly, fit easily in two suitcases). 

You packed everything up, left all your keys and cards on the counter, bade goodbye to the sweetheart of a doorman that you would miss more than anything else, and spent the entire car ride blocking Kendall on everything. And it was literally everything. All his numerous phone numbers, Instagram, Twitter, even TikTok and Snapchat. You never wanted to hear from him again. 

As you drove, you thought about everything that had led you to that point. You remembered meeting Kendall at a bar. He had been in his suit, just out of the office, and he was sitting there staring at a tumbler of vodka on ice. He had dark circles under his eyes and his face seemed to droop with a kind of sadness you had never felt before. 

You had sat down near him, not directly next to him, but close enough that he would have noticed the movement. You had shown up too early for a girl’s meet-up and had decided to have a drink at the bar as you waited for them. Once you had ordered, something fruity that didn’t taste like alcohol, he had signalled to the bartender and said “put it on my tab” before gesturing in your direction. You swivelled in your seat and smiled at him, all head tilt and sugar sweetness. He had smiled too then, small but happy, as if he was comforted by your reaction. 

“Thank you,” you said, before reaching your hand out. “I’m Y/n.” He seemed a little surprised (though elated) that you had continued the conversation, and leaned closer to shake your hand. 

“Kendall,” he responded, and you nodded, bringing your drink closer and taking a sip after it was deposited in front of you. “What are you up to on this fine evening?” He asked, though his smile was almost a little sarcastic as he said it. 

“Waiting for my gals,” you told him, teasing and jokingly dragging out your words. “We’re supposed to be meeting in an hour here but I am way too early as per usual,” you sighed. 

“It’s good to be punctual,” he nodded, pursing his lips before taking a sip from his glass. You offered him a little ‘mhm’ before moving to sit on the stool directly beside him. 

“What are you doing here tonight then?” You asked in return, turning so you could rest your elbow on the bar. 

“Waiting for a pretty girl so I can buy her a drink, guess I won on my first shot,” he responded, and you just burst out laughing, pressing your hands to your face as you curled in on yourself. 

“That… was horrendous, Kendall,” you breathed out between laughs, shaking your head at him. 

“Ugh, I know, I’m sorry,” he huffed, chuckling as he dropped his head and shook it as well. Your cheeks hurt from laughing but as it ebbed away you looked right into his eyes. 

“So, for real, why are you here?” You asked, taking a sip from your drink. 

“Had kind of a shit day at work, needed a drink to take the edge off,” he shrugged, and you nodded, a little ‘ah’ of understanding leaving your lips. 

“That’s fair,” you sighed, glancing down at the glass he rolled between his hands. 

“It is better now though,” he smiled, “cheesy as that might sound.” 

And there you stayed, talking to him for another hour and a half. When you had realised that it was past the time you were supposed to meet the girls, you checked your phone and found out that not only had they already arrived, they were at a table in the corner watching you and Kendall interact eagerly. You had given him your number and bid him goodbye and the rest was history. How could you have known that ‘taking the edge off’ with a drink was a regular occurrence? That it was a serious problem that he refused to acknowledge… 

Things had been good for a long time. You couldn’t deny that either, things had been good. He always took you out on fun dates, did everything you wanted, bought you anything you could even think to want. He loved you, that was clear, but at what point was love not enough? Was it when he didn’t call or text for entire evenings while you worried and worried and considered calling the cops? Was it when he showed up with a black eye because he had been so drunk he had fallen down the stairs and hadn’t even realised it? You suppose it was when he was so drunk he thought he was kissing you even though you barely ever attended parties with him anymore… 

Since then you had gone through all the motions of a breakup, but this one was particularly rough. There was something about this situation that made the anger particularly harsh, particularly reluctant to leave you despite your best efforts at empathy. Perhaps it was because he had always promised to take care of you, of your heart, and by not taking care of himself, he had broken the promise all along. There were levels to this betrayal that you discovered day by day within yourself, hurts you hadn’t known you carried. 

He had only gotten in contact with you once before this email. A week after you had evicted him from your life, you received a call from an unknown number. You usually didn’t answer them, you didn’t know why you did that day. 

“Hello?”

“Y/n? Thank god!”

“Oh for fuck’s sake…” 

“Baby, please don’t hang up! Please.” 

“What? What could you possibly need to say to me?” 

“Baby, I’m so sorry. Please, just come back. Or let me meet you somewhere. Please.”

“Are you kidding me? You seriously think I wanna see you?” “Y/n, please, I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. I thought it was you. I promise I thought it was you. Just let me see you, like-like for two fucking seconds, please.”

“I always knew you were kind of a dickhead, but this call just shows that I didn’t know how much of a dickhead you actually are.”

“Y/n-” 

“No. You do not get to talk. You do not get to say a word to me anymore. You do not get to see me, hear from me, anything. You do not get to have my presence in your life. You seriously think that ‘I thought it was you’ is a fucking excuse for making out with someone? You think that’s my only problem with the situation you piece of shit? Why the fuck would you let yourself get so drunk, get to a place where you are so out of your mind, that you would mistake another fucking human being as your girlfriend? Are you joking? You’re fucking forty, Kendall. You’re a forty year-old man, grow the fuck up.”

Then you hung up the phone, chest heaving and a fire coursing through your veins and skin cells. Your eyes burned with tears and you had to stop yourself from hurling the phone across the room. He just made you so fucking angry. There was something about him that just made you burn with rage. Most likely the fact that you had loved him more than you had ever loved anyone else… 

So you spent the next year forcing yourself to move on. You found a new apartment, focused all your time and energy between work and your friends, and allowed yourself to begin healing on the inside. A year was a long time, but it also wasn’t. A lot of things could happen, a lot of change. But also… none. Because as soon as you saw the email sitting in your inbox, you felt that surging anger once more. 

From: [email protected] 

Hi Y/n, 

I’m sure you’re surprised to hear from me considering it’s been a year since we’ve last been in contact. I just got out of rehab last week and during my recovery I’ve been thinking a lot about my life and the places I’ve gone wrong. And I keep coming back to one thing, which is us. Or what was us. 

I don’t know if you’ll ever open this, or if you’ll respond, but I wanted to tell you how sorry I am. I don’t think I ever expressed that to you clearly, how truly awful I felt about what I did. I know it’s no excuse, but I was drunk out of my mind, and high on a million things I don’t even know about anymore. I barely remember anything from that night, but I thought I saw you there, and I was so happy, so excited to see my girlfriend that I just walked up and kissed the person I thought was you. And I know that’s no excuse, I know that doesn’t mean anything, but I guess I just wanted to tell you. 

That last conversation we had was a real wake-up for me. I checked myself into rehab the day after because you were right, I should never have put myself in a position where that could even become a possibility. You were right about everything. 

I’ve been sober for a little while now, and I guess I just wanted to make amends or something. I don’t wanna impose on your life, and you obviously don’t have to let me into your life ever again, but if you did feel like talking at some point, here’s my new number: 

xxx-xxx-xxx

Anyway, I hope you’re doing well, and that you’re happy wherever you are. 

Love, 

Kendall Roy 

You laughed rather hysterically upon reading the email. You couldn’t quite believe his audacity in sending this. The pathetic business-minded quality of it made you feel a renewed sense of rage, perhaps even more fiery than the original wave you had felt a year ago. You instantly clicked reply and began typing furiously. 

To: [email protected] 

Hey, 

I got your email. I am doing better, thanks for asking. But I do not need this pathetic attempt at closure from you. Good for you that you went to rehab, and good for you that you’re feeling like shit about what happened between us. I’m really glad that it’s hitting you at its full scale. 

Don’t treat me like I’m something that needs to be handled, like the things that happened between you and me need to be wiped clean so you can feel good in your new life and let go of your guilt. You fucking cheated on me. YOU. I didn’t do anything to deserve it. 

I was doing completely fine when you sent this god forsaken email. I don’t need this from you. I don’t need your closure. I am completely fine being spiteful. It’s mine to hold and point at you. So you can fuck right off. 

Y/n 

You had every right not to forgive him. You had every right to be angry with him, to hold onto that anger as much as you wished. Because at the end of the day, he had hurt you, not the other way around. So you could hold all that anger as much as you wanted, keep it close to your chest for however long you wished. And that was ok. And it was funny, because just thinking that, made the anger ease a little anyway. Just knowing within yourself that you had every right to have it, made it slip a little from your grasp.