#hsmtmts

It comes to you in flashes, the moments that had made you realise he settled under your ribs as easily as oxygen. Feeding you lines on tech runs. The way the lights caught the edge of his jaw. The way, no matter how many times you told yourself it was fake, he hesitated before he would kiss you. When you’d have to pretend you weren’t searching for his name on the rehearsal sheet. How every run, every setback, felt bearable when he’d gently squeeze your hand backstage.

You’d promised yourself you’d never let the fold of curtains and too many hours and bitter coffee deceive you again. And yet, here you are. Eyes, dangerously close to welling up. The image of him, giving you a shy wave, backpack slung off one shoulder. No matter what, you would’ve lost. If you’d ran up to him, told him the truth, and then watched him go anyway. Still, staying silent had been a different kind of betrayal, a different type of knife in the gut. Maybe you were being dramatic. That was the only way you knew how to be. And it was logical. You’d both been doing theatre for so many years, and he had never once crossed a line. So, the odds weren’t favourable. Still, you can’t help but wonder. What if, when you’d first noticed you breathed easier with him around, you’d said something? And what if, in between meticulous blocking and memorised lines, there was some truth in his confession? If you’d been braver, maybe it would be different. On the other side of having him and losing him, which is maybe better than never having him at all.

You pick up your phone. It’s a personal attack when a photo of the two of you from closing night flashes. You forgot that it was in your rotation of lockscreens. Cruel.

Still, when you admire the way you’re both subtly trying to glance at each other, the way his knuckles are nearly white as he grips your hand, you hesitate. You do not reach for your headphones, do not try to find a playlist nearly as miserable as you. Instead, you call him.

“Hey, Oscar.”

There’s the sound of steady static, and for a moment, it’s your only reply.

“Hey? Please don’t tell me I forgot something.” he mumbles, and you exhale a little at the sound of his voice. You’re slightly confused by the clear nerves, but his shallow breathing matches your own.

“Are you- are you okay to talk right now? Or just listen? I have something I’d like to say.” you begin, fiddling with the edge of your sleeve. You can imagine him raising an eyebrow in curiosity, the slight confusion on his face.

“Um, yeah. ‘Course.”

You smile a little, even though your wall is the recipient.

“Okay. Look, maybe I should’ve done this before you left, but I wasn’t brave enough. And now you’re gone, so I figured it’s okay? You can just, I don’t know, block me. After this. If you want.”

He chuckles now, and the sound makes your stomach flip shamelessly.

“I’m not going to do that. You know I get withdrawal symptoms if I can’t bother you at least once a day.”

The memory hits like a punch. When you’d been disappointed to see his name beside yours on the cast list, and you still weren’t over it two weeks later. When he’d messaged you twice in the span of thirty minutes, and you’d got so irritated you’d snapped.

‘Do you have to bother me every day? It’s like you’re fuckin’ addicted to annoying me.’

‘You got me. Hands get shaky if I don’t ask you politely what scene we’re running in the morning.’

That was the first time he’d made you laugh, and the last time any message from him had aggravated you.

“I think I like you. In that pathetic, ‘we did a show together and I think about our stage kisses a little too often’ kind of way. And I’d really appreciate some type of script right now, because I have no idea what to say. I mean, was it just a part that we were playing? ‘Cause it didn’t feel like we were faking. I barely even, fuck, I mean. I had to force myself to stop loving you when the curtains closed.” you confess, all in one ridiculously desperate breath.

The silence on the other end hurts, and the butterflies in your stomach decide to substitute their wings for blades.

“Oscar?”

There’s the sound of a crack, and some rustling, and then some unintelligible cursing. Then the line, with one last fizzle of hope, goes dead.

You hadn’t expected such a blunt reaction. It’s actually so shocking, at first, that you don’t quite react. You blink, and you breathe, because that’s pretty easy to manage. But you don’t stop tugging at your sleeve, and your knees stay tucked into your chest. You bite back the type of tears that only fall because of rejection, and you let yourself mourn and recover simultaneously. At least now, there is no what-if.

Your phone blares dramatically loud about a minute later. You almost don’t pick up. But you realise you’re far too hopeless to not secretly want to hear his voice again.

“Shit, sorry about that. Dropped my phone. Anyway, where were we?” he asks, and you want to laugh, but you’re still fragile.

“Oscar, don’t be mean.”

You can hear the thudding of feet, and then the angry honk of a car, and the beeping of a crossing.

“Sorry, just almost got ran over. And I’m not trying to be mean, that’s unfair. Just asking about where we left off.”

“God, you are infuriating.”

“Pretty sure that’s not what you were just saying-”

You cut him off with a confused question.

“-Are you not, like, on a bus right now?”

He clicks his tongue.

“Yeah, not really. I got off, after you called. Dropped my phone as I was going down the steps, which was embarrassing. I heard the driver snicker at me.”

He laughs at himself now, but it sounds a bit strangled.

“Oscar, what the fuck?”

“Look out of your window. That’s your window, right?”

You get up, opening the blinds. And there, standing directly under a streetlight, stands a boy. He’s waving both arms frantically, and you raise an astounded palm back.

“I’m going to hang up now. I hope that’s okay.”

With that, the line goes dead again. 

There’s nothing graceful in the way you tumble down the stairs, flinging yourself out of the front door, forgetting to care about your white socks quickly staining.

You hear a yell of your name from the kitchen, and some flurry of movement, but you do not hesitate.

You continue to lack grace as you tumble into Oscar, giggling at his noise of surprise at your borderline attack.

“Hello. You’re insane.” you accuse, but it’s hard to get the words out because of how he’s looking at you. 

“Hello. You might be right.”

There’s that all too familiar hesitation, in the way he brings a hand to the side of your cheek, and the gentle lean-

“-Oh! Oscar, do come in. I’ve just put some pizza on. I thought you were meant to be heading back home today?”