#soft angst

September 17th, 2021

The house had been quiet for the past four days. 

You move in absolute silence, whether Robby’s home or not. Before the anniversary of Adamson’s death, you had asked him what he needed, whether it was distraction, company, or to be alone. He told you he wanted to be alone for the day, and you had respected that, leaving early in the morning and not returning until later that evening. You made sure he knew that he could text or call at any time and you’d come home right away, but he hadn’t, unsurprisingly. 

He came home around midnight, intoxicated. He wasn’t drunk, but he certainly wasn’t sober. You were writing lyrics on the couch, and you watched as he walked right by you to go upstairs. It had hurt, but you couldn’t fault him for it—you knew how much anniversaries could suck. 

You did what you do best—taking care of him. You packed him food for his shift the next day, cleaned the main floor, and went up to bed without a single sound that could potentially wake him up. He slipped out for work before the sun rose, forgoing his usual goodbye kiss to your forehead, leaving you alone. 

You ignored it.

Kept taking care of him, stayed quiet, moving as though there were pressure plates underneath the floorboards that might be triggered if you step too hard. It was concerning, yes, but he wasn’t the type to talk about his feelings. 

On the sixteenth he tried to pick a fight, dying to feel something other than the sadness that pooled in his chest and limbs. You didn’t let him. He had snapped, asking you why you had been so quiet as you picked at the dinner you made. 

“I know the past few days have been alot,” You had said, giving him a reassuring smile. “I didn’t want to add to your stress. Does it bug you?”

It didn’t bug him, it was exactly what he needed, like always. 

You were avoiding the topic of your upcoming tour, which you were leaving for tonight, and you still didn’t have the courage to bring it up to Robby. He knew about it, of course, and had assured you that he would be perfectly fine with you leaving so soon after the anniversary. 

At seven-fifty he walks through the front door, and you can feel that this isn’t going to go well. His shoulders sag, steps are tired and shaky, and he drops his bag to the floor with more force than usual. You take a deep breath, closing your notebook and getting up, walking over to him. 

“Hi,” You say, gaining his attention. 

“Hey,” He says back, rubbing a hand down his face, a frown tugging at his mouth. 

“There’s some leftovers in the fridge, but if you don’t want them we could order something-”

“No, that’s fine,” He interrupts. “Thanks.”

You nod. “Yeah. Of course.”

His eyes sweep over your various belongings as he walks through the living room, clothes neatly organized into piles, toiletries in bags, miscellaneous objects filling the gaps. Your suitcase is open on the floor, a few things already in it. 

“When’s your flight?” He asks, stopping at the bottom of the staircase, one hand already on the railing. 

“Late,” You answer. “It’s a red-eye, I have to leave in a few hours.”

He nods, patting the railing with his hand once, then goes upstairs. You sigh, closing your eyes for a moment, hating how horrible you feel when you should be more than excited for your upcoming shows. At least he remembered that you’re leaving. 

By the time he comes back downstairs you’re mostly packed, kneeling on your bag as you zip it up, a triumphant smile forming on your face when it closes. You notice him out of the corner of your eye, making you turn, standing up. 

“Can I ask you something?” You ask, the question coming out meeker than intended. 

Robby sighs. “Sure.”

“Is this…” You trail off, trying to find the right words. “Are you gonna’ be okay while I’m gone?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

You shrug. “The timing sucks a little, does it not?”

“I don’t think so,” He counters. “I don’t need to be supervised, especially not by someone half my age.”

Oh!

“Right,” You say, shrinking in on yourself, blinking back tears. “No, I know, I just want to make sure you’ll be alright, I wasn’t suggesting that you need supervision.”

He hums, crossing his arms over his chest, eyes moving between you and your suitcase a few times before settling back on you, but he doesn’t say anything.

“It’ll go by fast,” You continue, pushing a smile onto your face. “We can call and text and I’ll be home for the holidays.”

He doesn’t know why that hurts so bad. Maybe because he feels like the entire world is ending, maybe because he has no idea what’s going to happen once you walk out that door and he wants you to acknowledge that. For you to say that it won’t be easy, it won’t ‘go by fast.’ But he has no right to ask those things of you when you just gave him the opening for him to tell you himself, and even though it seems like you are at times, you’re not a mindreader. 

“Yeah, well, we’ll both be pretty busy,” He says. What the fuck is wrong with him?

“Of course,” You say, nodding. “But we’ll make it work. You’re still okay to take me to the airport, right?”

You already know what the answer will be the second you ask, practically seeing the way he turns the idea over in his head. He exhales loudly, putting both hands on the back of his neck. 

“I don’t think so,” He says, shaking his head. 

Silence stretches between the two of you. 

“Okay,” You finally say. 

“Tori can pick you up, right?”

“Yep.”

Robby closes his eyes, fighting himself internally. He doesn’t have the energy to take you to the airport, but he can see how much it hurt for him to say that. Unfortunately for you, he also doesn’t have the energy to apologize. 

“Can you help me understand why you don’t want to drive me anymore?” You ask, tone so curious instead of judgemental. He’ll never understand how you’re so good at this. 

“I just don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“It’s…unecessary,” He answers. “You’ll be home before we know it, like you said.”

You nod, deciphering the meaning behind his words, trying to figure out what he really means—because you know him. You know what this is actually about. 

“This is really hard,” You say, dropping your arms to your side. “I don’t want to leave, Mike. I’m sorry that I have to.”

“This isn’t about you leaving.”

“Then what’s it about?”

He clears his throat, closing his eyes for a moment, gathering himself in whatever way he can. “I don’t want to come back from the airport and for you to not be here anymore.”

He wishes he could take those words back. To take the vulnerability back. Your chest tightens. 

“That’s fair,” You say, stepping towards him, trying to lessen the distance between you. “I know that no matter how hard this is on me, it’s a million times harder for you. I don’t need you to pretend like it’s not, I’d never for ask that.”

“I don’t need you to take care of me,” He counters. “Not when you have the entire world waiting for you.”

You pull your bottom lip between your teeth as you think. “I know. But I want to.”

“I don’t,” He argues, rubbing his eyes roughly. “There’s nothing that you could say or do tonight that will make this go away by the time you leave, so what’s the point?”

Confusion crosses your expression. “Make what go away?”

“Your concerns,” He says, but it’s not what he meant. “I’m not gonna’ take you to the airport and pretend that everything’s fine so that you can have fun on your tour.”

Your jaw tightens as tears form in your throat, making you press your tongue to the roof of your mouth, swallowing. 

“Don’t do this,” You say, shaking your head, moving closer again. “Don’t push me away because you’re scared that this is gonna’ hurt.”

“That’s not what I’m doing,” He says. “You think you know everything? Just because you don’t get angry like everyone else does?”

“No,” You say, still calm. “I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing most of the time, and I feel like I’m pretty honest about that.”

He doesn’t respond, so you continue. 

“I don’t want to leave things like this,” You add, your tone pleading. “Being upset with me won’t make you feel better once I’m gone, Mike.”

He turns around, walking up the stairs, leaving you alone in the living room. You’re frozen for a minute, not believing that he would just walk away from you like that. You pull your phone out, asking Tori if she’s able to pick you up on her way to the airport. You continue packing, as though nothing even happened. 

You're laying in the nest chair when he comes back downstairs, a blanket overtop of you and a book in your hands. You don't look up at the sound of his footsteps, you just focus on quelling the pain that bubbles in your chest. You wish so desperately that he'll just come lay beside you and fucking apologize without you having to start the conversation, just this once.

It genuinely feels like your ribs crack when he heads towards the kitchen instead, his feet not even hesitating before he makes the decision. You swallow any pride that you still have, closing your book and following him, your steps quiet.

"Baby," You say, barely above a whisper, and he turns immediately.

"Yeah?" He asks, taking you in, worried that something happened. "You okay?"

You shake your head, and he can tell that you're on the verge of tears. He hates himself for not being able to give you what you need in this moment.

"Please drive me," You say. "Please."

You just want him to make a sacrifice for you this time, after making so many for him.

"Honey," He exhales, hanging his head as he braces himself against the counter. "I can't."

"You can, though," You counter, voice a bit more stable now as you find your footing. "You won't. There's a difference."

He stiffens. "It's not that simple."

"It is," You say. "It's thirty minutes, Mike."

"That's not the point," He argues, pushing off his palms, fully facing you again.

"What is the point?" You ask.

He rubs his eyes, frustrated. "I already told you."

You nod. "You don't want to come back to an empty house."

"Exactly," He breathes, thinking that you'll let him off the hook now, letting him go back to wallowing for a little while longer.

"So, what?" You say, shrugging. "I get to go by myself? That's the compromise here?"

He frowns, anger starting to build again. "This isn't something I can compromise on."

You blink once, twice, pursing your lips before speaking. "I'm starting to worry we'll never find something you are willing to compromise on."

Silence.

You talk again before he fully processes what you said.

"I understand that you're grieving, Mike, I swear," You add. "But this sucks for me, too."

He still doesn't say anything.

You swallow. "It would really mean a lot to me."

Tori picks you up two hours later.

October 2nd, 2021

Your fingers curl around your phone the second it buzzes, hope settling over you for a second until you realize that it's not from Mike. The last response you received from him was almost twenty hours ago, saying goodnight the day before. It's been like this since you left—him taking at least ten hours to text you back on a good day. You're due to go on stage in five minutes, and all you want is for him to text you back before then. He's been home for two hours now, and you've already sent him four texts throughout the day, but you bite the bullet, texting him again.

Hey, show starting soon, can we call at some point? Want to hear your voice. I love you!

You wait until the very last second to pass your phone to Isabel, your entire demeanor changed. You hear the thirty-second warning in your in-ears, check your notifications one last time, then you hand it over. She gives you your microphone in exchange, rubbing your arm a few times.

"You're gonna' kill it," She promises. "See you after."

The music changes, and you raise the microphone to your lips. "Sacramento, let me hear you!"

The audience screams. Adrenaline rips through you as you walk onto the stage, trying to push Robby out of your mind for now.

You already know that he hasn't texted back when the show's over by the way Isabel looks at you, and you sigh, pursing your lips. She holds your phone out to you, but you don't take it, shaking your head.

"Keep it," You say. "Unless something urgent came up."

"Nope," She says, tucking it away again. "Let's go get some sleep."

She leaves it in your hotel room once she leaves, bidding you goodnight. You stare at where it sits on the edge of the desk, willing it to buzz, but it doesn't.

You turn on a movie, put on a face mask, and get ready for bed. You pick your phone up as you walk back towards the bed, still seeing no response when the screen illuminates.

"Fuck me," You say, tossing it onto your bed, putting your hands behind your head as you laugh, anger throbbing against your skull. You pick it up again, opening your text conversation.

Can you please respond to me more than once every two days?

Then, because you love him, you follow up.

Hope your shift was okay, i love you. Goodnight.

You wake up to a response, shockingly, but you decide you would've preferred radio silence once you read it.

Hey, sorry, busy week. Hope the show went okay, I'm sure you were amazing.

October 15th, 2021

You aren't sure why you're so freaked out tonight.

Soundcheck had been fine, the venue's amazing, and you had the previous night off, meaning you actually got a decent amount of sleep. Still, something's just off, and you didn't know how to fix it.

Your breathing's shallow, chest and throat tight. You can't get your hands to stop shaking, and a headache looms behind your eyes no matter how much water you drink.

Robby's been a touch better about texting you for the past few days, but it still isn't enough. You even told him that you felt like he was pulling away, pleading to set aside one night a week for the two of you to catch up, no matter what city you're in. He told you that he would have to make sure he'd have time, you know, with his schedule and all.

"Hey, is everything okay?" Olivia asks, her tone suggesting that she's worried she's crossing some kind of line, considering you just met a month ago. "You seem anxious."

You nod, still pacing back and forth in the greenroom, an action that is doing anything but helping your case.

"Yeah, no, I'm good," You insist. "A little more wound up than usual, I guess, I don't know."

"You want to punch something?" She asks, and you stop, a laugh escaping at the suggestion.

"What?" You question. She picks up a pillow, patting it a few times, then standing up and walking over to you. She holds it out in front of her.

"Try it," She says.

You raise an eyebrow, then give the pillow a weak punch.

"Do not piss me off right now," She says. "Punch it for real."

You roll your eyes, but you listen, pulling back and hitting it with as much force as you can muster.

"Better," She says. "Again."

You punch the pillow a few more times, a smile on your face the entire time as Olivia hypes you up, narrating your actions like you're in a boxing match. You have to admit that you do feel better once you stop, but your anxiety still sits inside of you, simmering just beneath the surface. You pull out your phone, sending Robby a text.

Can you talk?

He replies a few minutes later.

For a second, what's going on?

You exhale, pushing some hair out of your face before sending a response.

I'm feeling overwhelmed about tonight, not sure why.

All you want is a tiny amount of validation, a reminder that you're going to crush it, and for him to tell you that he loves you.

You get none of the above when he disappears, leaving you without a response for the night.

October 19th, 2021

Olivia can't help but notice the correlation between your constant phone checking and your mood.

It's nothing crazy—you're absolutely lovely all the time, but she can see how hard the days are when you're clearly waiting for a text that doesn't come. The way you jump each time it buzzes, and how each successive notification that isn't the one you want makes you quieter.

The first thing you do after a show is look at your phone. You barely participate in conversations when everyone grabs dinner or drinks, you just constantly look like you're deep in thought, wishing for someone to pull you out. Your thumbs twirl around on the keyboard often, but she's noticed that you frequently end up deleting whatever you wrote.

She doesn't ask questions at first, not to you or your team, who clearly have some kind of clue as to what it's about. But after the past week? She's worried that you won't make it to the end of tour like this, and performing seems to be the only thing that's keeping you alive right now, so she doesn't want that to fall apart.

You're eating breakfast at the hotel, sitting directly across from her, the rest of your crew surrounding you. Conversation is constant, switching from tour logistics to family updates to whatever shitty movie they watched the night before. You, however, have barely touched the food on your plate, and you have your phone sitting upright on your lap. She knows because you keep looking down, a frown on your face each time.

"Hey," She says, your name following the word. You glance up, smiling, but your eyes are dark. "Do you want me to hold onto it?"

Your first instinct is to act confused, but you don't. Your phone has done absolutely nothing for the past few weeks other than drive you insane—she's completely in the right to ask.

You hesitate, but then you nod, passing it over the table to her. She silences it before putting it in her bag, not letting it hurt your feelings any longer.

Shockingly, you don't ask for it back, not even once.

The two of you spend the rest of the day together—going to the gym, running soundcheck, getting costumes fitted. You're there when she's about to go onstage, nodding encouragingly as she readies herself.

"You're amazing, I'm obsessed with you, you're going to kill it," You say, smoothing down a few pieces of her hair. "They're going to love you. I'll see you when you're done."

Her performance is fucking amazing, and you greet her with a jumble of excited squeals and compliments, hugging her tightly as the two of you spin in circles. You feed off of her energy, she feeds off yours, and the difference when you finally go out is exponential from how it's been for the past week. You're jumping around, interacting with the audience more, interacting with your band more, and the crowd eats it up.

It's later that night when she actually starts the conversation, very carefully.

You're sharing a hotel room for the night, so you go back together after the show.

You start to get antsy, eyes occasionally flitting over to her bag that's sitting on the floor.

"Do you wanna' go for a walk?" She asks. "Just around the hotel, we don't have to go outside."

It catches you off guard, but you agree.

"You can totally tell me to fuck off and mind my business," She starts, shuffling her feet along the carpeted hallway floors. "But...the phone thing?"

You let out an insincere laugh, shoving a nervous hand into your hair for a moment. "Right, the phone thing."

She hums. "I know we haven't known each other very long, but I've been told that I'm a good listener. And advice giver, if you'd be interested."

You come to a stop when you round a corner, revealing a dead-end containing a noisy ice machine. You lean back against the wall, then you lower yourself to the floor, tucking your knees up. Olivia does the same on the opposite side of the space.

"I wish it wasn't so obvious," You say, playing with your necklace. "I don't mean to, like, ruin the vibes, or whatever. I'm sorry."

Olivia raises an eyebrow, shaking her head. "That's not why I'm bringing this up."

"It's not?"

"No!" She exclaims. "I can tell that you're barely hanging on, so I wanted to see if I could help in any way."

You sigh, leaning your head back. "That's...nice. But I don't think anyone can help me but me."

She shrugs. "Talking something through always helps."

Isn't that the truth.

You let out a tiny laugh. "I know someone who could really stand to hear that."

"Your partner?" She asks. You nod, looking up towards the ceiling.

"Yeah," You say. "He's...not the most in tune with his emotions."

"And you are," She adds. You give her a questioning look. "I've seen the way you handle conflict and emotions and everything, however minor. You're really good at it."

"I—I guess I try," You counter, half-accepting her praise. "I grew up in a house where no one ever fucking listened or told you how they really felt, and I do not want to spend the rest of my life walking on eggshells."

Olivia doesn't have to point out the irony in your statement—you come to the conclusion on your own.

"I guess that's exactly what I've been doing," You continue, dropping your necklace, the diamond hitting your sternum with a soft 'thud.'

"Did you guys fight or something?" She questions. "Is there a reason he's being so distant?"

"Sort of," You say. "He was upset that I was gonna' be gone for so long, and he didn't handle it very well. He still isn't, obviously."

"So he's punishing you?"

You click your tongue against your teeth, nodding. "I guess so, yeah. Even if he doesn't realize it."

Olivia reaches over, putting her hand on your knee. "That's not cool, dude."

You laugh, but tears are swelling in your throat and dripping down your cheeks. "It's really not."

She shuffles so she's beside you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders, still rubbing your knee. She lets you sit for a few minutes before talking again.

"Do you want my advice?" She asks, and you nod.

"Yes, please."

She inhales. "I'm sorry if this comes across as insensitive, because I can tell that you really love him, and I'm sure he loves you, even if he can't express it."

"Okay," You say, wearily.

"You should fucking dump his ass."

The suggestion makes you start to both laugh and cry even harder.

"I think you're right," You say, voice tight with tears. "I should fucking dump his ass."

You don't just say that in the moment—you absolutely mean it.

October 23rd, 2021

You have a night off for the first time in a few days, giving you the perfect opportunity to have a conversation with Robby.

Every time you see his name pop up on your screen it makes you dizzy. Not in the way it used to, when you were head over heels in love with the man of your dreams, but in an uneasy way, knowing that you'll almost certainly have to talk him down or that the conversation will end in clipped responses and silent tears. 

It's affecting your ability to perform, and your fans have noticed. Your comment sections are filled to the brim with speculations, concerns, criticisms. If you thought you couldn't do this before, you definitely can't any longer.

So you text him, hoping that he'll respond sometime within the next ten hours, before you go to bed. You hate that that might not be enough time.

Can you talk tonight?

It’s simple enough, doesn’t suggest that things are fine when they aren’t, but shouldn’t send him into a spiral while he’s finishing up his shift. He responds a few hours later, while you're out to lunch with your band and Olivia.

Sure, around eight?

You don't reach for your phone right away when it buzzes. You leave it in your pocket, waiting until you're on your way back to the hotel before replying.

Sounds good.

He calls at eight-oh-four, seven-oh-four for you.

“Hey,” You say, trying to picture him in your mind. He’s probably in a shirt and sweatpants, sitting on the couch or already laying in bed, wanting to forget about his day. 

“Hey,” He mirrors. “At the hotel for the night?”

“Yeah,” You say, thumbnail between your teeth as you pace back and forth in your room, Olivia slyly watching you through the window as she sits on the balcony. “I want to be upfront here, I didn’t call just to catch up. I wanted to talk about something.”

“Oh,” Robby says. “Okay. What’s going on?”

You inhale, then exhale through your mouth, trying to get your heart to slow down. “I don’t think this is working right now.”

You had planned on being a little more clear than that, but the silence that spans between you suggests that you got the point across. 

“What isn’t?” Robby asks, but you can hear the strain in his voice. He knows. 

“Us,” You answer, catching a glimpse of yourself in the bathroom mirror, making you quickly turn away, not wanting to see how you look in this moment. How you look when you feel like you’re being the most selfish you’ve ever been, even though you know that you're not. “We—I want to break up.”

The words taste bitter in your mouth. Your hands are shaking so badly you have to stop pacing, resting your phone on the countertop and putting the call on speaker, otherwise you might drop it. 

“What?” Robby questions. “I…why?”

“Mike,” You sigh, closing your eyes. “Because I respect you and I respect myself too much to let this keep going.”

Robby laughs, angrily. “Okay, because this is very respectful. Right.”

You don’t defend yourself. You don’t need to. This is for him just as much as it is for you. 

“I didn’t come to this decision lightly, trust me,” You say. “I’ve been trying for weeks now, and nothing is getting better. That’s not fair to either of us.”

“What do you mean?” He says. “Things have been fine.”

You feel your resolve crack, the desire to stoop to his level gnawing at your skin, begging to be released.

"Are you serious right now?" You ask, finding a middle ground between 'I'm so emotionally mature' and 'fuck you, you fucking asshole.'

He doesn't answer for a second. He knows that things haven't exactly been fine, but he definitely didn't think a breakup was coming his way.

"Have things not been fine for you?" He asks, and you do look up now, making eye contact with yourself in the mirror. You hate what he's doing to you.

"No, things have not been fine for me," You say, trying to keep your voice steady. "Most days I barely even feel like you like me, let alone love me."

"Of course I love you," He says.

You shake your head, swallowing back tears. "You haven't been showing me that recently."

He takes a beat before answering. “You didn’t give me a chance.”

You hum, squeezing your eyes shut. “I gave you a lot of chances.”

“Like when?”

Like when. The question is almost offensive.

“When I asked you to please drive me to the airport,” You start. 

“That’s not fair-”

“I’m not done,” You interrupt. “When I asked if you could try not to take days to respond to my texts. When I told you that I was feeling overwhelmed before my Dallas show. When I told you that I felt a disconnect between us, and I practically begged for one night a week where we could catch up, and you brushed me off. You have had many chances to try and fix this, Mike.”

He truly believed that there was no possible way for him to have known that you were this far gone until it's laid out like that. 

“I was grieving,” He says, desperate, not wanting to let you go. 

“I know that," You say, disturbingly calm. He has no idea that you're even crying. "And while I get that, and I'm so sorry for everything you've been through, I can't keep doing this."

Neither of you speak for awhile. 

“So this is it?” He asks, still angry, but softer. 

“I don’t know what the future holds for us,” You say, your elbows resting on the counter in front of you, your head in your hands. “But I know that for right now, yes, this is it.”

“I didn’t mean to push you away.”

A small gasp falls from you, a single tear dropping off your face. “Yeah, I know. I’m sorry it went like this.”

“Me too.”

“Take care of yourself.”

“Yeah, you too.”

He says your name at the end of the short sentence, then the call ends. You sob into your hands, shoulders shaking with tears and gasping breaths. 

October 30th, 2021 - Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania 

“Did you see her show last night?” Shen asks, the question directed towards Samira, but Frank is standing only a few feet away. 

“Oh my god, Abby wouldn’t stop watching it,” He groans, eyes looking up at the board, hands already fumbling with a pair of gloves as he decides on which patient to go see. 

“It was heartbreaking,” Samira says, emphasizing the word as she shoots Frank a tiny glare. “Its all anyone can talk about.”

“What is?” Robby asks, wondering if he’ll regret asking, but if it’s something to do with his ED then he’d rather know than be kept in the dark. 

“Oh, you wouldn’t be interested,” Collins says, joining the conversation from where she’s charting a few feet away. 

Robby huffs, smiling a bit. “Try me.”

“Remember Valentine? The singer that we’re always talking about?” Shen asks, swirling the iced coffee in his hand around as if it will magically make more of the drink appear. “She sang a new song at the end of her show last night. It was quite the piece.”

A buzzing hits Robby’s ears at the sound of your stagename, tuning out whatever Frank says in response, barely hearing the laughter from the group of young doctors at the comment. He drops the tablet that he’s holding, turning on his heel and racing off to the breakroom, yanking the door open. There’s no one in there, unsurprisingly, so he pulls out his phone. 

He types in ‘Valentine’ followed by ‘October 29th show.’ 

A million results hit the screen—articles, videos, social media posts. He clicks on the first video, not even reading the title, and turns his screen sideways. It’s from one of the front rows of your concert, you’re only a few feet away from whoever’s filming, sitting on a stool in the centre of the stage. 

“This last song is something new,” You say, microphone in your left hand, eyes casting out towards the crowd as they cheer. “I really hope you enjoy. Thank you.”

The music starts, your band kicking the song off as you nod along to the music. 

“Yeah, I was in the dark, I was falling hard, with an open heart

How did I read the stars so wrong?

And now it’s clear to me, that everything you see, ain’t always what it seems

Yeah, I was dreaming for so long”

You rise off the stool, pushing it off to the side, walking over to the main part of the stage. 

“I wish I knew then, what I know now

Wouldn’t dive in, wouldn’t bow down

Gravity hurts, you made it so sweet

‘Til I woke up on, on the concrete”

You click your microphone back onto it’s stand, taking a deep breath before continuing.

“Falling from cloud nine

Crashing from the high

I’m letting go tonight

Yeah, I’m falling from cloud nine”

Robby feels like he’s going to be sick, but he can’t stop watching. You’re so captivating, even when you’re singing a song that’s clearly about how much he’s hurt you. By the time you make it to the bridge your face is twisted, jaw muscles tight as you pull the microphone off the stand, staring out into the enthusiastic audience. 

You bend your knees slightly, eyes closed as you put yourself into the song, giving it your everything. 

“Thunder rumbling, castles crumbling

I am trying to hold on

God knows that I’ve tried, seeing the bright side

I’m not blind anymore” 

You straighten again, obvious tears in your eyes as you walk backwards during the instrumental. Your bassist catches your eyes, giving you a look. You just nod, wiping a few tears away before finishing the song, hitting the start of the final chorus. Your voice cracks, not in a bad way, but in a raw, emotional way. 

You finish the song, bringing a hand up to your mouth as the audience screams. You give a teary bow, smiling as you wave—then the video ends. 

His hands have gone numb, but he manages to open the comment section, scanning row after row. 

who the hell hurt her???

‘this is something new’ she had her heart broken so recently im gonna be sick!

the way i'd be calling her nonstop after this if i was her ex

He opens his messages, scrolling until he sees your name. The date beside it reads ‘2021-10-23’ with the last text being your ‘sounds good’ in response to him letting you know when he could call. He opens the conversation, hovering over the keyboard for a minute. 

Hey, I saw your show last night-

Delete.

It’s been a second, how are you-

No. Delete. 

Are you okay?

Absolutely not. Delete. 

He sighs, swiping out of the app and putting his phone back in his pocket. Dana pokes her head in the doorway, gaining his attention.

“Hey, we need you in trauma one, boss.”

November 27th, 2021

You reread the response he had sent you two weeks ago as you stand in front of his front door.

I'll be at work on the 27th, come by anytime.

You exhale, sliding your key into the lock, slowly pushing the door open as though he might be there, despite knowing that he won't be. It's just past three o'clock—you still have a few hours to pack up some of your stuff before he comes home. You had meant to arrive earlier, but you spent most of the morning trying to convince yourself that you were fine, so you showed up later than you wanted.

The house is exactly how you left it. Maybe a little messier, but there's pieces of you in every corner. Art on the walls, mugs in the cabinet, clothes in the closet. Your plants are still alive, shockingly, and your favourite throw blanket is folded neatly on the couch. There is one difference, though, and it's that every single picture of you has been removed or put facedown.

You reach for one of the frames on the dresser in the bedroom, flipping it back up, admiring it. It's you and him in New York, cooking breakfast in your kitchen, you over the stove and him with his arms around you, chin resting on your shoulder. You slide it into the duffel bag that's looped over your shoulder, hoping that he won't miss it too much, if at all.

You drag a few boxes deeper into the room, deciding to pack up your clothes first, since they're the things you really want. Anything else you don't get to can wait, or Robby can pack them up and ship them out to you if he gets the chance. You put your headphones in, pulling clothes off hangers and folding them, trying to keep things slightly organized.

Seeing your side of the closet so empty slows you for a second, fingers stilling on the piece of tape you're holding. You hadn't even packed everything, but it still hurts. You stick the tape haphazardly to the box, then you shove some of Robby's clothes over and close the door. Your heart thumps in your throat.

You move through the house, packing up a few of your products from the bathroom, sentimental dishes from the kitchen, a few random objects from the basement. You check the time, seeing that it's nearing five, and decide that you should have more than enough time to grab your songwriting stuff from the carriage house.

Two empty boxes sit in your arms as you step outside, shivering when the cold air hits your exposed arms. You speed-walk to the door, putting the boxes on the floor once you're inside, scanning the space. There's a thin coating of dust on the furniture, which doesn't surprise you. Robby never really spent much time out here.

You don't clean it up, despite how badly you want to. You just go upstairs and get back to work.

Robby doesn't think twice when he gets home an hour early, thankful that Jack had wanted some overtime, letting him go. He comes in through the garage, the door creaking from the cold. His eyes land on something as he's about to take his jacket off, coming to a stop on the zipper.

It's a box.

Still open, mostly filled with clothes, a few smaller knick knacks resting on top.

Oh, fuck.

He completely forgot that you were coming by today.

The date had seemed so far away when you initially asked.

"Hello?" He calls, not wanting to spook you, but he doesn't get a response. He raises an eyebrow, pulling his shoes off, going up the stairs as he calls out your name.

He swings into the bedroom, eyes raking over the space, but you're not in there. He frowns, walking to the opposite end of the house, looking through the back window just in time to see you step out of the carriage house, another box in your arms.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. He's tempted to hide himself in the guest room closet, but that won't work—you'll definitely notice his shoes and bag when you come in.

He takes careful steps down the stairs as you open the door, immediately seeing the evidence that he's home.

"Shit," You whisper, thinking you've lost track of time, but the clock on the wall reads six-oh-three. "Michael?"

He comes around the corner instantly. "Yeah, hey, sorry."

"It's okay," You insist, putting the box down beside the one that's already there. "I didn't think you'd be home yet."

"Jack came in early, let me go," He explains. "I forgot you might still be here, I'm sorry, sweet-"

He stops himself, but the syllable crests and washes over you like a wave of frigid water. You fold your arms over your chest, goosebumps pushing against your skin as a shiver runs down your spine.

"I can leave," He adds.

You shake your head. "No, that's ridiculous. I'm pretty much finished."

"You've packed everything?"

"Just what I need, for now," You counter. "Is that okay?"

More than.

He nods. "Of course."

You force yourself to smile, picking up the box again, gesturing to the doorway with your head. "Sorry."

He steps back as you squeeze by, then he grabs the second box off the floor, following behind you.

"I've got it," He says when you reach the front door, tugging it opening and holding it.

"Thanks," You say, walking to your car, where the trunk sits open. You set the box on top of the others, then reach for the one he's carrying. He ignores you, setting it inside himself.

"That everything?" He asks.

You nod. "Yeah, I just need to grab my jacket, then I'll get out of your hair."

The two of you walk back to the house once you close the trunk, the sound echoing on his quiet street. You're shivering by the time you get back inside, rubbing your biceps to try and generate some heat. Robby closes the door behind you, keeping the cold air at bay. He's also praying for some kind of miracle that results in your jacket going missing, forcing you to stay for a second, but the universe doesn't listen. Your jacket is sitting on the back of a chair, staring at him as you pick it up.

"Sorry again," You say, shifting on your feet. "I hope you have a good night."

He has to stop you from leaving.

"You're freezing," He protests. "Why don't you let your car warm up for a bit?"

He's pretty sure the look you give him will haunt him for the rest of his life.

"I should get going, goodnight, Michael."

You purposefully close the door as you leave, not wanting to see him for a second longer, otherwise you might shatter. You sigh once you're in your car, shoving your keys into the ignition and turning them. You wait for the engine to turn over, but it doesn't. You try again, but the outcome is the same. Your car won't fucking start.

"Amazing," You mumble, laying your forehead against the steering wheel.

You consider calling a cab to take you to the nearest hotel, since you were planning on driving back to New York once you were done packing, but you know that's ridiculous.

You swallow your pride as you walk to the door, raising a fist, knocking lightly a few times. It takes a bit for Robby to answer, and he's changed into a hoodie and jeans by the time he does. You want to make a joke, to lighten the mood somehow, but the threat of tears is suffocating you.

"Uhm, my car won't start," You say, pointing to it over your shoulder with your thumb, as if he'll be able to see that fact. "I-"

"I'll grab an extension cord, probably just needs to be plugged in for a bit," He interjects, already disappearing from your vision. He comes back holding one, his boots in the other hand. "Go sit, I've got it."

He's out the door a second later, not giving you a chance to protest. You close your eyes, taking a deep breath before taking your shoes off, setting them on the rack so they can dry. You're still standing in the entryway when he comes back, trying your hardest to hide the fact that you're shivering, even with your jacket on.

"Should only take half an hour or so," He says. You nod.

"Thanks."

He notices the shivering, of course.

"Can I get you something warm?" He asks. "Tea, coffee, hot chocolate?"

"Tea would be nice," You say, needing something to hold. "Thank you."

You follow him into the kitchen, stopping for a second before continuing into the living room, not wanting to hover. You sit in one of the armchairs, back straight and both feet on the floor like you're about to have a business meeting.

He sets one mug on the coffee table, then passes you the other, which you take with a small smile.

"Thank you," You say, again, not sure what else to say.

"Do you want something else?" He asks, referring to your puffer coat, which isn't exactly the most comfortable thing to sit in. You shake your head, not wanting to put him out any more than you already have.

"I'm okay," You insist. He cocks his head to the side, raising his eyebrows as he looks at you. "Seriously, I'm fine."

He pulls off the hoodie that he's wearing, holding it out. You put your mug down, taking it from him. He nods, then sits down on the couch. You unzip your jacket, tossing it onto the floor, pulling the hoodie over your head.

The sight of you in one of his hoodies affects him more than he anticipated.

"How's the tour?" He asks. "Still going okay?"

You nod. "Yeah, yeah, it's good."

Silence.

"How's work?" You question.

"Same old," He says.

You take a sip of your tea, trying to think of anything to say that isn't about the breakup.

"Your opener, Olivia, right?" He says.

"Yeah," You confirm.

"She good?"

"She's amazing," You say. "Super talented, really sweet. She's coming back to New York with me for the holidays."

Back to New York.

Not Pittsburgh.

"That's great," He says, nodding, sipping from his own mug. There's so much that he's been dying to say to you, but it doesn't feel like the right time.

"How have you been?" You ask, tone suggesting that you're really asking, not just trying to make small talk.

He thinks about his answer for long enough that you get the gist. Horrible, awful, devastated—same as you, basically.

"Fine," He finally says. "How are you?"

You shrug, not wanting to give away too much. "Been better, but alright, I guess."

He doesn't react, eyes falling to his lap. "Where are you off to after this weekend?"

The conversation stays surface level after that, neither of you wanting to dip into the sadness that hangs in the air around you. He asks what your favourite city has been so far, you ask about his coworkers. You tell easy anecdotes from your time away, he tells you about a patient he had a few weeks ago.

The alarm he set for your car goes off, scaring the shit out of you, making you drop your mug against your chest. What's left of your tea splatters onto his hoodie, and you gasp, putting the mug on the coffee table and assessing the damage.

"Shit, sorry," Robby says. "You alright?"

You don't respond, already pulling the hoodie over your head, not realizing that your shirt is stuck inside of it. Robby sucks in a breath, averting his eyes to the ceiling, avoiding you altogether.

You don't rush to put your shirt back on.

He watches out of the corner of his eye, seeing how you slowly you peel your shirt out from inside, shaking it out a few times, inspecting it for stains. Robby finally reaches over, taking the hoodie from your lap.

"I'll put it in the wash," He says, practically sprinting up the stairs. You pull your shirt on, sighing to yourself.

"What the fuck are you doing?" You mumble.

Robby doesn't come down for a bit. You walk up the stairs, quietly, poking your head around the corner once you reach the top floor. You take a step into the hallway just as he comes out of the laundry room, smashing into you.

His hands naturally fall to your upper arms, steadying you. Your hands are against his chest, fingers curled into his shirt.

"Sorry," He says, releasing you like you're on fire. You don't pull away.

"It's okay," You say. "My fault."

You're still pressed against him. Your shirt has shifted, revealing the top of your chest. You feel the way his breath stutters when he finally meets your gaze, giving you all the permission you need.

You press your lips to his, hungrily, hooking your fingers into the collar of his shirt. He pushes you back against the wall, hands roaming underneath your shirt, squeezing your breasts before moving to unclasp your bra. You're still kissing, mouths half open and eyes fluttered closed, neither of you pausing for long enough to think about your actions.

You disconnect for a second, just long enough for you to pull your shirt and bra off. You wrap your arms around his neck as he lifts you up, hands underneath your thighs, carrying you into the bedroom.

He tosses you onto the bed, bending down with you, hovering as he kisses you again. He's scrambling to unbutton his jeans with one hand. You take over, the action very familiar. You untie your sweatpants, shoving them and your underwear down your legs and kicking them off.

Neither of you say a word, worried that speaking might snap the other out of this. He pulls his cock out of his underwear, jeans around his thighs. You whimper against his lips, salty tears dripping into your mouth.

He doesn't give you warning before he pushes inside of you, bracing himself against the mattress, not daring to pull away from your lips. You cry out, pulling back a fraction of an inch, repositioning yourself before reattaching them. Your movements are almost frantic, hands grabbing at him, tears dripping down your face.

Your whines and moans fill the space when he buries his face into your neck. You feel his own tears on your skin, but you ignore them, threading your fingers through his hair.

He finishes inside you.

You try to kiss him again when he lifts his head up, but he stops you, kissing your forehead instead. You're both breathing heavily when he lays beside you, buttoning his pants back up.

You don't know what he's about to say when he opens his mouth, but you don't think you'll survive another rejection from him, so you climb off the bed before he can speak.

"Hey-"

You pull your sweatpants back on, shoving your underwear in your pocket, covering your chest with your arms as best you can.

"Can we-"

"I should get going, long drive," You say, already leaving the room, picking your shirt up off the hallway floor, slipping it over your head. "Thanks for your help."

You can hear Robby's rushed footsteps from upstairs as you move, grabbing your jacket and yanking it over your arms. He appears in the archway as you're shoving your shoes on, still shirtless.

"Can you hold on for a second?" He asks, breathless.

"I'll have Isabel come get the rest of my things," You say, breezing by his request. "Thanks again."

You pull the extension cord out of your car's hood, tossing it onto his front lawn. He debates running after you, but by the time he decides that he should you're already half-way down the street.

December 17th, 2021

The headline is nothing but painful.

VALENTINE spotted leaving sold-out New York City show with Actress Amandla Stenburg

But the pictures hurt worse.

It's definitely you, wearing a huge jacket overtop of whatever outfit you had on onstage, a toque and massive boots, trying to keep warm. Your arm is looped through her's, head down as you walk towards a black SUV. They open your door for you, hand landing on your fucking thigh at one point as you climb in.

He closes the app, opening your text conversation. There's five unanswered texts that he's sent you over the past three weeks, and only one response from you—from two days after he last saw you.

We can talk if you want, but I don't really have anything to say.

It's so out of character that he can almost convince himself that you weren't the one who sent it, but he knows you did.

He hovers over the keyboard, then turns his phone off, deciding against it. You've already given him a very clear answer, he doesn't need to hear it again.

At work, he can't escape you, like usual.

Dana drops by in the morning with Sophia and Ellie, having forgotten to wrap something up the night before. She parks them at the central hub, leaving them under Robby's supervision. He's reading a chart for one of the patients admitted overnight, flicking his eyes up occasionally to make sure they haven't run off somewhere.

"Oh, it's gone," Sophia says, frowning at her phone. Ellie's up on her knees on her stool, peering over her older sister's shoulder to see what she's talking about. Princess watches too, patients forgotten for a moment. "I swear, she had a picture of him in one of her September posts."

"You think she deleted it?" Princess asks. "People are speculating that they broke up."

Sophia gasps. "You didn't see?"

"See what?" Princess asks.

"She left her show last night with someone else—an actor," Sophia says, typing something in, then tilting her phone so Princess can see better.

"She looks pretty," Ellie pipes up, voice small. "You know Valentine, Dr. Robby?"

Robby's praying a monitor will go off and pull him away from the desk.

He hums. "Can't work in this ER without knowing Valentine."

"They look good together," Sophia decides, with the absolute confidence of a thirteen year old, zooming in on one of the pictures, giving a satisfied nod. "Plus, whoever she used to be dating made her cry onstage. Clearly he sucks."

Ouch.

Not wrong, though.

"Gotta' be tough for the ex," Shen adds, putting his elbows on the counter, leaning over the desk towards them.

"Yeah, imagine fumbling her, man," Donnie says, pushing off and shuffling closer to them on his wheeled chair. "How do you move on from that?"

You don't. Thanks for asking!

Meanwhile, you're warming up for your second New York show, stretching your arms out behind your head while Olivia sits in the front row. She's on her phone, singing softly, kicking her foot in time with whatever song's stuck in her head. Your phone is in her lap, face down and silenced.

You're doing an amazing job at hiding how badly your chest hurts, guilt crawling on your skin, every thought you have getting overshadowed with regret.

You keep reminding yourself that it made sense.

Amandla has a movie coming out in a few months, you have a European tour leg to sell, both of you could use a little bit of buzz.

That's what your managers had pitched to the two of you, anyway.

A part of you had been tempted to text Robby—to give him some kind of heads up, maybe even tell him that it's just PR—but you didn't. There is another part of you, however, that you're trying not to acknowledge. The part that wants him to see the pictures, believe everything the headlines are telling him, the part that wants him to hurt the way that you do.

"Doors in thirty, guys," Isabel calls, poking her head out of the wings, looking both of you up and down. Costume, hair, makeup—everything looks perfect. "Everything good?"

"Everything's perfect," Olivia says, still scrolling, flipping her phone around as if to emphasize a point. "She's officially broken the internet."

"Yeah, not a very hard task when it comes to Valentine," She counters. "You still okay with this?"

You nod, scraping at the floor with the tip of your heeled boot, leaving a small scuff mark behind. "Yeah, think so."

Isabel frowns. "Let me know if you change your mind, alright? We can call this off at any point."

"I know," You say, giving her a reassuring smile. "Thanks, Isabel."

You can feel the difference in the crowd tonight. They're running on the fuel of hot gossip, looking around to see if they can spot Amandla in the crowd, screaming your lyrics even louder than usual. You're sweating towards the end of the show, a grin on your face the entire time, playing into it.

The lights dim for a second as the opening notes to your next song play. You almost flinch at how loud everyone screams, recognizing it instantly.

It's older, from your third album, and one that you haven't played on stage before. You let the cheers from the crowd drown out the nausea pooling in your stomach, focusing on the choreography as the ad-libs play, mouthing along to them as you move.

The lights are practically off when you position yourself centre stage, bringing the microphone to your lips. They come back on in time with your first line, flashing like crazy.

"Uh-huh, I'm through, with all these hyper-mega-bummer boys like you

Oh yeah, I need, a super graphic ultra modern girl like me

We're hot, we're drunk

Well, look at her moving baby, she's the one"

You're a little shocked by how well everyone knows the words, screaming them back to you when you hold the microphone out for the last line of the chorus.

You strut across the stage during the second first, a slight skip in your step.

"Telling secrets, there on the mattress

Wearing nothing but glitter and lashes

At every party, we're the party, shaking our asses

Making out while the world collapses"

You look towards the VIP section, catching Amandla's eye, giving her a wink. The stadium explodes, heads whipping towards her, fingers pointing. They step into it, blowing you a kiss in return. You fan yourself, acting as though you might faint for a second before getting back into the song.

Anyone who said you might be 'just friends' is quiet after that.

December 31st, 2021 - New York City, New York

“Are you almost ready?”

You crane your head around towards your open bedroom door, mascara wand in hand as you sit on the floor in front of your full-length mirror. 

“Yeah, just a second!” You call back, focusing on your makeup again. Olivia manifests in the doorway behind you, leaning against the wall. 

“Our reservation is in fifteen minutes,” She says. 

“It’s a ten minute walk!” You exclaim, jokingly, closing the mascara after putting on the final layer. “I’m done, I just need shoes and a jacket.”

You move, opening your closet door, sifting through your jackets. Your fingers brush past one, the sensation of the material making you freeze, your eyes landing on it. It’s Robby’s, the one you took on tour with you and hadn’t had the opportunity to give back yet. You push the thought out of your mind, grabbing the jacket that you had in mind, pulling it on. 

Olivia hands you a pair of shoes, the exact ones you envisioned, making you grin as you step into them. 

You’re out the door and on the streets of New York City within two minutes, looping your arm with Olivia’s as you walk towards the restaurant you're meeting some more friends at. 

A gust of wind blows past, easily bypassing your jacket and hitting your skin. 

“I should’ve worn a scarf,” You groan, trying to tuck yourself into the front of your jacket. The two of you practically run the rest of the way, eagerly pulling the door to the restaurant open once you arrive. You hold it as Olivia steps inside, approaching the host as you trail in behind her, following as they start walking. 

You’re smoothing your hair down as you walk towards the massive table, eyes focused on Olivia’s back. Your group of friends start cheering once they notice the two of you, immediately standing up to envelope you with hugs and hellos. It’s a little chaotic at first, since you haven’t seen some of them in a long time, but after a few minutes you’re all sitting down, catching up and deciding on drinks. 

One of your friends says your name, making you look up from the menu. 

“I thought you’d be spending the holidays in Pittsburgh,” She says, a genuinely curious look on her face. “Or is that against the rules when you're fake dating someone else?”

Olivia is glaring at her across the table, desperately trying to get her to shut up. You force yourself to laugh, closing the menu, appetite completely gone. 

“Probably against the rules” You admit, toying with one of the rings you’re wearing. “But we broke up, actually, so it doesn't matter.”

“Oh my god,” She says, her face softening, hand reaching over to grab your arm. “I didn’t know, I’m sorry, babe. What happened?”

You shrug, wishing that the server would arrive with your drink to save you from answering. “Me being away for so long was just too much, our communication kinda’ fell apart.”

“Your communication fell apart?” She reiterates. “I find that hard to believe. You’re the most communicative person I know.”

“Yeah, well, I can only do so much,” You add, not wanting to throw Robby under the bus, but also not wanting to lie to your closest friends. “It’s fine, it was a couple months ago.”

Your friend gives you a reassuring smile. “I’m still sorry, I know you really liked him.”

You smile back, not wanting the night to become about you and your breakup. Luckily, your drink is placed in front of you a second later, and you down half of it. 

You hadn’t planned on getting drunk, but it happens anyway. A few drinks at the restaurant, two rounds of shots at the bar, and a handful of people recognizing you and insisting they buy you a drink lead to where you are now—trying to put your jacket on and keep up with your friends as you leave the bar, vision blurred. 

It’s almost eleven when you get to the club, shuffling into the very crowded space, checking your coat. Olivia drags you onto the dancefloor, and you don’t resist. Some of your other friends join you while the rest find vacant booths along the walls, wanting a minute to relax before jumping back into things. 

Olivia spins you around, laughing loudly when you stumble, a grin on your face. The music is loud, the DJ playing songs that everyone knows, and the floor shakes as everyone screams along with the lyrics. You’re only there for about thirty minutes when one of your songs comes on, making your friends scream. The ending of the previous song remixes into the pre-chorus of your song The Middle, and your heart thumps as people start singing it. 

“So pull me closer, why don’t you pull me close

Why don’t you come on over, I can’t just let you go

Oh, baby

Why don’t you just meet me in the middle?

I’m losing my mind, just a little

So, why don’t you just meet me in the middle?

In the middle”

Your friends are losing it, the people around you who have realized that you’re here are losing it, and eventually everyone knows that you’re there. You keep dancing, pushing the thought that you wrote this song about Robby out of your mind. An unknown hand shoves a microphone into your hand as the second chorus wraps up, making you stop. People are pointing at the raised platform, where the DJ stands, telling you to get on it. The DJ waves you over, nodding with approval. 

Olivia gives you a tiny push and you grin, racing over and jumping up onto the platform, bringing the microphone to your lips.

“Looking at you, I can’t lie

Just pouring out admission, regardless of my objection

And it’s not about my pride, I need you on my skin just,

Come over, pull me in just-”

You stop, pointing the microphone to the crowd, still singing the words as they yell them towards you. Your eyes scan the faces in front of you, their energy palpable. Then, like you're in a fucking movie, you see Amandla. 

And they look incredible.

She’s dancing with her friends, singing along, but their eyes are fixed on you, a smile forming when you look back. The way she’s looking at you suggests that she’s thinking the exact same things, and you feel a flash of heat rush over you. She’s watching your every move, eyes never leaving your figure, taking in your body. You shoot them a wink before jumping back into the song, giving it your all. 

“Baby, why don’t you just meet me in the middle, oh yeah

I’m losing my mind, just a little

So why don’t you just meet me in the middle?”

It feels wrong to sing this song to her, but you can’t stop. You haven’t felt the burn of desire like this on your skin in months. 

You jump off the platform, leaving the microphone behind as people start patting your shoulders and back, or even hugging you as you walk by. You’re still drunk, so you just grin, relishing in the wave of attention. The next song starts just as you make it to them, pressed against each other, nowhere to go with the number of people surrounding you. You don’t say anything as you spin around, your back against her front, her hands finding your hips as you move in tandem. 

There might be blurry pictures of this everywhere tomorrow, but you don’t care. 

You get another drink. You keep dancing. The clock moves closer and closer to midnight until there’s only a minute left. 

The next morning comes with an instant wave of nausea when you wake up in someone else’s bed. 

You sit up quickly, realizing that you don’t have a fucking shirt on, which makes you tug the duvet up to cover yourself as you look over your shoulder. Amandla is sleeping on the opposite side of the bed, blissfully unaware of the existential crisis that's about to hit you. 

Fuck me, you think, starting to look for your belongings. Your phone is sitting on the nightstand, thank god, and your clothes are relatively easy to locate once you stand up and actually take a look around the room. You’re dressed within two minutes, she doesn’t stir once, which you’re grateful for. You grab your phone, clicking the power button, then your face falls. 

Of course it’s dead, because it’s always dead.

You hope you managed to tell Olivia that you weren’t coming home at some point, otherwise a search party has definitely been sent out to try and find you. 

You grab your shoes on your way out, closing the door behind you before putting them on, wanting to decrease the odds of her seeing you. Then, you take off down the hallway at a run until you reach the elevator. 

One absurdly expensive cab ride later you’re back at your own apartment, sliding your key into the lock and pushing the door open. Olivia comes around the corner, a small smile on her face as she crosses her arms. 

“Good morning,” She says. “How was the rest of your night?”

You shake your head, leaning back against the door once it closes. “You need to tell me what happened.”

“You don’t remember?” She asks, concern flickering across her face as she takes a step towards you. 

You grimace. “Nothing after my song came on.”

“Okay, it’s okay,” Olivia reassures you. “Come on, come sit.”

She gets you settled on the couch with a bottle of electrolytes, a granola bar and an ibuprofen after you plug your phone in. 

“Tell me where you started your morning,” She says, and you give a small laugh. 

“In bed, naked, beside Amandla,” You answer. Olivia nods. 

“Solid start,” She says. “You hung out with her for a couple hours after kissing her at midnight.”

You wince, groaning, letting your face fall into your hands. “Fuck.”

“That’s not a bad thing,” She promises, putting a hand on your back, rubbing it. “You guys seem really into each other.”

You shake your head, trying to quell the panic that sits on your chest. “I can’t believe I did that to Mike.”

Olivia’s eyebrows furrow together. “What do you mean? You didn’t do anything to him. You’re single, babe.”

“I know, I know,” You say. “I just…”

You trail off, the words sitting unsaid on your tongue. I just wish it had been him. 

Because it should’ve been. 

You should’ve been spending New Years back in Pittsburgh, with him, getting dinner at a fancy restaurant before curling up on the couch with boozy hot chocolate and a shitty romcom. 

But he wasn’t yours anymore, and you weren’t his. 

The sight of your phone flashing to life on the coffee table pulls your attention away, fingers snatching it up and scrolling through the hundreds of notifications. Groupchats, tagged photos, a few voicemails from people that you’ll listen to when you can finally breathe again.

Then, you see the text that makes everything so much worse. 

I hope you’re having a great New Years. I don’t expect a reply, just wanted to say that I hope you’re doing well. Wishing you all the best in 2022. 

From Mike. 

“No,” You whisper, checking the time that it was sent—one minute after midnight. “No, no, no.”

“What?” Olivia asks, slightly panicked. You turn your phone around, showing her the text. “Oh.”

Your stomach lurches. “I’m gonna’ be sick.”

“Okay, no, you’re not, you’re okay,” Olivia promises. “It’s okay.”

Tears blur your vision. “He texted me happy new year while I was kissing someone else!”

“Hey, hey, look at me,” She says, making you turn your head. She pinches your cheek, a reassuring smile on her face. “You did nothing wrong. And he never has to know.”

January 1st, 2022

Robby hates working New Years day. 

It’s filled with people that drank too much last night who think an IV will somehow ‘cure’ their hangover, those with an injury that they got while drunk, and the occasional non-holiday emergency. But he knows that no one else wants to work it, and it’s not like he has anyone waiting for him at home, so he does. 

“Did you see those pap photos?” Shen asks, the question directed at Samira, who’s a few feet away. She raises an eyebrow. 

“Of Valentine?” She questions, and he nods. “Yeah, who didn’t?”

“Probably Dr. Grumpy over here,” Shen says, trying to get even a smile out of the older doctor, but he’s unsuccessful. Robby just keeps looking at his computer, acting as though the chart on the screen is the most interesting thing he’s ever seen, even if it’s just for a laceration that needed a few staples.

“I feel bad for her,” Samira says, moving past the attempt to rope Robby into the conversation. “She can’t even walk home from a holiday party without someone writing an article about it.”

“Well, to be fair, she wasn’t just walking home,” Shen says, putting quotes around the two words. 

“What do you mean?” Samira asks, raising an eyebrow as she looks at him. “It’s her and a friend walking, is it not?”

John gasps. “You didn’t see the leaked pictures.”

Samira shakes her head. “Clearly not, and I don’t want to. I’m sure it’s just another invasion of her privacy.”

“I wanna’ see,” Donnie says from where he’s leaning against the desk. John pulls his phone out, typing something in before passing him the phone. “Holy shit, is she really with-”

“Yeah,” John says, nodding. “Crazy, right? I thought it was a PR move, but this seems legit.”

“I thought she was in a serious relationship?” Samira asks, obviously not keeping up with the latest news regarding you.

“She was,” John says. “People think they broke up a few months ago, especially after that Boston show."

Robby feels like he’s going to explode. He fishes his phone out of his pocket, unlocking it and opening his conversation with you. There’s still no response, which he already knew, but he was hoping that maybe he had missed it somehow. Then, he hovers over Instagram, pressing on the icon and typing in ‘valentine new years eve.’

There’s a million results within half a second, and he doesn’t need to scroll far to find the photos that John and Donnie are talking about. 

You’re outside of a club, probably having just come from whatever party you were at. The photos are grainy, but it’s definitely you—and someone else. A person with dark skin and dark hair, the same one from the photos that he saw a couple weeks ago. They're pressing you against a wall, her hands gripping your hips. You’re holding her jacket, obviously pulling them closer to you. 

He knows he shouldn’t, but he swipes to the next photo anyway. 

It’s a picture of the two of you kissing. And you’re very obviously into it. 

His hands start to shake. Not from anger, from pain. 

Of course you were moving on, you were probably the entire world’s celebrity crush, meaning you could have anyone you wanted—and that wasn’t him anymore. He honestly isn’t sure why it ever was him to begin with. 

“Hey, you never know, maybe she’s like, a total diva or something,” John says, and Robby tenses. “She has been famous since she was fifteen, that’s gotta’ do something to the psyche, right?”

God, Robby wants to say something so badly. To tell him that it was so far from being your fault that it’s nauseating. But he can’t, and he won’t, and he really wants this topic of conversation to die and never be brought up again. 

“Vitals still good in room four?” He asks, gaining Donnie’s attention. 

He nods. “Yep, all good, boss.”

You don’t text him back that day. No, you text him back two days later, when you can't let it go unanswered for another second.

Hey, just getting around to answering this, so sorry!

Happy new year! I hope you had a good night :)

You spin your phone around before sending it, showing the text to Olivia. She nods.

"I think that's perfect," She says.

"It doesn't scream 'I miss you so much I feel like I'm going to die at all times?'" You ask.

"Not at all."

"Okay," You breathe. "Good."

Then you hit send.

February 25th, 2022

The next time you hear from him is at the end of February.

You're in São Paulo for the second of two back-to-back shows, then back home for two weeks before the Asia leg of your tour starts. This stretch has been far better than your North American dates before the holidays.

The lines between PR and real have blurred with Amandla, but things have been good—especially since you apologized for running out on her after New Years.

She respects your busy schedule, brushing off your apologies for delayed replies before asking you about whatever city you're in, never having to ask you where you are. They just remember when you tell them things.

Her texts come regularly and are never anxiety inducing.

They don't give you that 'this is the love of my life' high that you've had in the past, but she's good.

You both know that this almost certainly isn't going to be long-term, but you're both enjoying it for right now, so why not?

So when your phone buzzes against an empty seat during soundcheck you assume that it's her, checking in. Olivia picks it up, making sure it's nothing urgent while you're singing. Her eyes widen, juuust for a moment, but you catch it. You finish the last line of the song before walking over to the edge of the stage, crouching down.

"Who was it?" You ask.

She purses her lips. "If I say no one will you at least pretend you believe me?"

That's more than an answer.

"It was Mike, wasn't it?" You ask, tone not giving away a single thing.

"Maybe."

You nod, taking a deep breath, pushing yourself back up, returning to the middle of the stage. "Maybe a little less backing vocals this time?"

Olivia smiles, proud of how far you've come since October. Plus, you were already half-expecting him to text after you very publicly succumbed to minor heat exhaustion yesterday while signing a few autographs before the show. It wasn't bad, and you were quickly ushered back inside by your security team, but it still managed to make headlines.

You don't read the text until you're in bed, your adrenaline high completely worn off, ensuring you don't make any epinephrine-induced decisions.

Saw an article about what happened yesterday, are you okay?

Heat exhaustion can sneak up on you fast.

The second text makes you smile—because you can practically hear him saying it in your mind. You don't hesitate before replying.

Managed to make a full recovery. Also learned that I never want to live somewhere this humid.

He keeps the conversation going, and you find yourself giving in for the next fourty-eight hours. Then, you're checking your phone more often than before, waiting for his text, so you stop answering. You end things with Amandla, too.

Robby can't help but smile when he sees the first article about your rumoured breakup.

April 16th, 2022

“Cheers to finishing the Asia leg!” Your guitarist yells, holding her drink up in the air. Everyone in the booth cheers, slamming their own glasses against others. 

“You were fucking insane tonight,” Isabel says, giving you a grin. 

“The crowd was amazing,” You admit, taking a sip of water.

“Yeah, and somehow it being a million degrees made it better, not worse,” Olivia adds from beside you. “This was definitely the best show by far.”

“Absolutely,” You agree, cheersing your cocktail with her's, putting your lips on the straw. 

“So, a month off,” Your drummer starts. “What’s everyone doing?”

People start rattling off plans. Some are staying in the area for a bit longer to do some sightseeing, others are going home to their families. By the time they get to you you’re not paying attention, and Olivia nudges your shoulder with her own. 

“Oh, I don’t know,” You admit. “Just going back to New York, really. Working on the EP.”

“That’s it?” Your drummer asks. 

You laugh. “I’m fucking tired, man.”

Everyone laughs at this, some nodding in agreement. Sure, you’ve toured before, but not like this. If sleeping for thirty days straight was possible, that’s definitely what you’d be doing. 

“Are you going with her again?” Tori asks, the question directed towards Olivia, who shakes her head. 

“Nah, not this time,” She answers. “Which is devastating, honestly.”

You smile. “Yeah, a little.”

“We had a lot of fun over the holidays,” She continues. “But my mom’ll kill me if I don’t spend some time back home.”

That hurts.

Not because you don’t want her to go home to her family, but because you don’t want to be alone. 

You haven’t had a second to yourself for the past seven months, going from city to city, performing show after show, days blurring together in an adrenaline-riddled haze. Olivia had stayed with you for the majority of the winter holidays, and you spent the week that she wasn’t in New York back home with your own family. 

The impending flight back tomorrow no longer feels like a thing to celebrate, it feels like something to dread. There’ll be no crowd of loving fans to greet you, or someone to show around the city, and, worst of all, there’ll still be no Mike. 

You slam your hands on the table, interrupting the conversation as you stand up. 

“I’m getting shots, who’s in?”

You stumble into your hotel room much later that night, Olivia just behind, both of you giggling and shushing eachother like idiots. She flops onto her bed, groaning as she curls her legs up, closing her eyes. You check the time, making the very wise decision to just not sleep tonight, since you have to be up for your flight in four hours anyway. 

“I’m taking a shower,” You say. “Do you need anything in the bathroom?”

Olivia grumbles, shaking her head, already falling asleep. You snort, going into the bathroom and pulling out a makeup wipe, scrubbing your face clean. You tie your hair back, washing your face and brushing your teeth before turning the shower on, letting the water warm up while you finish your routine. 

Your phone taunts you from the countertop, fingers itching to just do it. 

You’ve already broken up, how much worse can it get?

You click on the contact before you can talk yourself out of it, bringing your phone up to your ear, hoping that Olivia won’t be able to hear you over the sound of the shower running—if she’s even still awake. 

It rings once, twice, three times. You frown, leaning back against the countertop. It rings a few more times before his voicemail starts playing, and your heart shatters. 

“It’s Robby, leave a message.”

The line beeps, and you find yourself fighting back tears, realizing you didn’t get as far as figuring out what the fuck you were actually gonna’ say before calling. So, you do the most rational thing and just hang up without saying a single word, dropping your phone like it’s on fire. 

“Fuck,” You whisper, pressing a hand to your forehead, closing your eyes as the room starts to spin. You just drunk called an ex for the first time in your entire life. 

Robby pulls his phone out of his pocket an hour later, when he finally gets a break between patients, eyes already tired and aching despite the fact that he’s only been at work for a few hours. He swears his heart stops beating for a second when he sees your name on the screen, and not just a text, which wouldn’t have been totally unprecedented, but it’s a missed call. With no voicemail. 

He frowns, quickly walking over to the bathroom, flicking the lock behind him so he can get a moment of privacy. He opens his texts, not seeing anything from you, which makes him start to worry. His thumbs fly across the keyboard. 

Hey, everything okay? Sorry I missed you, I’m at work. Can I call you when I get home?

Your response comes quickly. 

Everythings fine! Sorry to worry you, no need to call back. Hope your shift isn’t too crazy!

He sighs, hovering over the keys, wondering how to convey to you that he wants to call you after his shift. He wants to talk to you after every shift he ever has for the rest of eternity, but he has no idea how to tell you that, or if you’d even care. You could’ve butt-dialed him for all he knows, with absolutely no desire to talk to him. Sure, you’ve texted a few times since New Years, but it’s definitely not anything like it used to be. He starts to type. 

Can I please call you later?

Pathetic. Delete. 

Did you need something?

Too detached. Delete. 

You sure you’re okay?

Yeah. That’s good. He hits send. 

You don’t reply right away. He hears ‘trauma team to trauma one’ over the intercom, making a frustrated groan pass his lips, a fist coming up to slam against the wall beside him. 

“Fuck me,” He sighs, shoving his phone back into his pocket and opening the door. 

You’re sitting on the floor, headphones on and suitcase open as you pack your belongings into it. You stop, staring down at the text with a hand over your mouth to stop yourself from crying, not wanting to wake Olivia up. You twirl your thumb around in circles, slowly typing your response. 

All good. Sorry again. 

May 17th, 2022

Robby can hear the music playing from outside the front door.

Dana had invited him over for dinner after a particularly rough shift, and he had initially wanted to refuse, but he forced himself to come. He can practically hear you telling him not to isolate himself, and he's realized that he should've listened to you far more when you were together. Better late than never.

Dana mumbles something under her breath as she opens the door, turning to Robby for a second.

"Their favourite artist released some new songs last night," She says, holding it open for him as she kicks her shoes off. "They haven't stopped playing them."

They walk in as the song ends, silence encompassing the house for a second before the music starts up again. Dana moves onto the first step at the bottom of the stairs, calling up them.

"Eleanor and Sophia Evans!" She exclaims. They don't hear her, and the lyrics kick in a second later.

Oh, for the love of god.

Robby massages his temples, closing his eyes as though it'll block out the sound of your voice that echoes through the entire house. Ellie and Sophia are singing along very loudly, but it's not enough to hide the fact that this is obviously your song.

"Oh, for christ's sake," Dana says, walking up the stairs. Robby hears a door swing open, then the music stops. Robby only has a few seconds to get himself together before Sophia and Ellie come barrelling down the stairs, voices overlapping as they talk about you.

He listens to your EP when he gets home that night, each successive song making him feel worse than the one before. The last one is titled 'dear god', and the intro makes him think that this one won't somehow be about your breakup.

He's so wrong, but at least he knows that you still can't get him out of your head.

June 21st, 2022

You’re not really sure why you post the video, but something inside you feels like it’ll make you feel better, so you do. 

You and Robby haven’t spoken in a couple months, not really. You’re pretty sure that calling him two months ago was a smidge too far, and that you spooked him in some way, or maybe he’s already moved on. The idea of that makes your head hurt. 

It’s simple, just you in your hotel room, hints of the Amsterdam skyline visible through the window behind you. Morning sun scatters across the walls as you hold your guitar, fingers picking at the strings with ease. 

“Open two, double doors

Typical, pretty sure I could grow up

Probably chemical

I took up walking to turn it all off

Doesn’t feel bearable

Guess I thought when I left it would all stop

Hm, it would all stop”

You keep a steady pace with your guitar, eyes closing, throat going tight with tears threatening to spill.

“Did I fall out of line, when I called you?

When I told you I’m fine, you were lied to

How could I think that all that I gave you was enough?

‘Cause everytime I get too close I just go mess it up”

You go right into the bridge, not having written a second verse yet. 

“I keep thinking if you let me back in

We can make it better, breaking every habit

Pull myself together, you could watch it happen

Let it happen

Let it happen”

You play a few more chords, then you stop, reaching for your phone and ending the video. You trim the start and end, only posting the portion where you’re playing, not wanting anyone to see the way tears pool on your lashline. You put your guitar down beside you on the couch, uploading the video to your story with the caption ‘messing around :),’ as if it’s something casual instead of soul crushing. 

You silence notifications before climbing into bed, muffling sobs into your pillow until you exhaust yourself, thanking god that you have the rest of the day off. 

June 21st, 2022

Robby tries to avoid checking anything other than his texts in the morning before work, and he wouldn’t even look at those if he could get away with it, but someone has to make sure that no one burned the emergency department down overnight. Today is no different, a quick glance at his messages, a few responses, and then his phone is put in the front pocket of his backpack. 

In February, when the two of you texted back and forth for a few days, he was checking his phone constantly. Now, communication had since dwindled, leaving him with no good reason to look—because looking and not finding made everything worse than it already was. 

The sky is blue when he steps outside, the early summer sun already beating down with a vengeance. He has a few minutes to spare, so he decides to stop and grab a coffee before he goes in, slipping his sunglasses on as he starts the short walk. 

The coffee shop isn’t necessarily busy, it’s just the unfortunate bunch who work jobs that require them to be awake before six in the morning. The door chimes as he comes in, and the barista at the counter gives him a welcoming smile, looking awfully put together for this hour. He orders the same thing that he always does—an americano. She nods, punching it into the machine before grabbing a cup and writing ‘Robby’ on it, knowing his name by heart at this point. 

“Is that all?” She asks, and he nods. “We had to restart the machine, it got jammed, it’ll just be a little longer than usual.”

“No problem,” He says, actually grateful for the opportunity to just stand somewhere with no one waiting for him to come solve a life or death problem. He shuffles off to the side, leaning against one of the walls, hands shoved into his pockets. He even closes his eyes for a moment. 

A door leading into the back swings open, another worker stepping through it with his phone in his hand, quickly approaching the cashier. She’s picking at her nails, since no one’s come in after Robby, which gives him the perfect opening. 

“New Valentine song,” He says, excitement buzzing in his tone. 

“No shit, show me!” She exclaims, and any sense of peace Robby may have been feeling is gone. He barely has a second to fucking brace himself before your voice is in his ears, standing out against the drone of the coffee shop. He can’t exactly make out all the words, but he can still hear you, and that’s all it takes.

How had he not heard that you were releasing a new song?

The guy is already singing along under his breath, head moving in time with the guitar as the cashier watches in awe, jaw dropping when the video ends. 

“I know, right?” He says. “I hope she releases it for real.”

He wants to reach back into his bag, to grab his phone and pull up your discography, but he resists the urge. The barista calls his name, sliding his drink across the counter, and he’s out of there faster than she can say ‘have a great day.’

He expects everyone at work to be talking about it, since he’s lucky enough to work with his ex-girlfriend’s biggest fans and has never been afforded the luxury of going very long without someone saying your name or singing one of your songs. He does his best to not look at your social media or music on his own time, since he gets reminded of his worst heartbreak enough as it is. 

Today, though, no one says a thing about it. 

It’s unreasonably busy for the entire shift, but they get absolutely slammed in the last hour when a belated summer solstice party goes awry, leaving several of its attendees in dire need of medical attention. They managed to save all of them, but the dayshift wasn’t able to leave until close to nine-thirty, the sun starting to dip below the horizon as Robby starts his walk back home. 

He pivots towards the park, deciding to take the scenic route, and it’s there that he realizes he had been hoping that someone would bring up your new song all day. 

“Fuck,” He whispers, taking a hard turn and sitting on one of the benches, putting his headphones in. He goes straight to your Instagram, reading your bio, expecting it to have the title and a link to the song, but it doesn’t. 

better than the holiday xx

(IN)DEFINITE EP OUT NOW!!

The link goes to the EP that he already listened to—over a month ago.

He hesitates over your profile photo, the pink ring around it taunting him. He wants to see your face so badly, but he also worries that it’ll hurt too much. 

Why stop self-sabotaging now, right?

His phone takes a second to load the story, but then you appear on the screen. He exhales, hating how much it still stings. He closes his eyes, but he still listens to the song that you’re playing, trying to steady his breathing as he does. 

“Guess I thought when I left it would all stop, it would all stop

Did I fall out of line when I called you?

When I told you I’m fine, you were lied to

How could I think that all that I gave you was enough?”

He sits up, desperately pulling his headphones out, shaking his head as though he’s imagining things. That couldn’t be about him, could it?

Two months ago you called him, he didn’t pick, you told him it was fine.That you were fine. 

No, it had to be about him. 

He doesn’t talk himself out of it, he just calls you—right there, on that park bench. 

Your voicemail greets him, but he doesn’t let that slow him down. 

“Hey, uh, it’s Mike.”

You wake up to your alarm the next morning, set for ten o’clock on the dot, groaning as you swat your phone to turn it off. It takes you a few minutes to gather enough courage to sit up, rubbing your eyes and unplugging your phone, squinting as the screen comes to life. 

Michael Robinavitch

Missed Call (2)

Voicemail (2)

That’s one way to wake up. 

You tap on the notification right away, putting your phone on speaker as his voicemail starts to play. 

“Hey, uh, it’s Mike. I don’t…I hope this is okay, that I’m calling. You don’t have to call me back, not if you don’t want to. I guess I just wanted to tell you that…fuck, this is-”

It ends, but the next one starts right after. 

“Sorry, I just, I heard your song. I don’t know if it’s about me or not but if it is…I heard it. And you didn’t fall out of line, not ever. I…I’d really like to talk, if you’d want to.”

“Oh my god,” You whisper, moving to call him back so quickly you drop your phone. It bounces off the carpeted floor, and you practically dive after it, scooping it up and settling yourself against the wall, knees up to your chest when you press his contact. 

You remember that it’s four in the morning for him on the fifth ring, eyes going wide as your fingers work to end the call, hoping that you haven’t already woken him up. 

But then he answers. 

“...Hello?”

His voice is rough, plagued with sleep in a way that is so fucking familiar it makes your heart trip, pounding against your sternum. 

“Fuck, I am so sorry,” You say, guilt quickly overwhelming your senses. “I totally woke you up, didn’t I?”

There’s a pause. The quiet shifting of his sheets. 

“Hey,” He says, voice a bit more awake now. “Hi.”

“Hi,” You repeat, biting your lip, trying to hold back tears at how happy he sounds to be talking to you. “I totally forgot about timezones, I just…I got your message and wanted to call you back. I’m sorry.”

“Hey, it’s okay,” He promises, reassuring you from the opposite side of the world. “I had to be up pretty soon anyway.”

“You’re working today?” You ask. 

He hums. “Yep, another day in paradise.”

That gets a small laugh out of you, and the sound sends shockwaves through his brain. 

“You’re in Europe somewhere?” He continues. 

“Yeah, Amsterdam,” You answer. “I have a show here tonight, and then I’m off to Paris for a few days.”

“Do any sightseeing?” He asks, knowing that he’s dancing around the topic that you actually called to talk about, but you don’t mind. This is the most comfort that you’ve felt in months.

“Oh, yeah, you know Isabel was all over that,” You say, laughing a bit. “We did a canal tour yesterday, and she’s been trying to convince me to go to a museum today before I need to be at the venue.” 

Robby chuckles on the other end, and then silence overtakes the two of you. You’re the one who breaks it, beating him to the punch by half a second. 

“You heard my song,” You say. “I…kinda’ didn’t think you would, honestly.”

“Oh, I couldn’t avoid you if I tried, Valentine,” He says, saying your stagename with a hint of teasing. You smile. “Not that I ever wanted to avoid you, not really.”

“Well, good,” You say. “A popstar ex is probably one of the last people you want to be trying to avoid.”

The tension is slowly breaking down, both of you falling back into a pattern that you know, love, and miss. 

“It is about you,” You admit, leaning your head back, hitting the wall gently. “I was scared that I pushed you away when I called.”

“You didn’t,” He promises. “Not even a little. I was kicking myself for not being able to answer.”

“Maybe it’s better that you didn’t,” You suggest, your smile evident in your voice. “I was pretty fucking wasted.”

He doesn’t respond right away, and you instantly regret admitting that. 

“Not that that’s the only reason I called, not at all, no, I mean, I was basically already planning on calling before I even started drinking,” You backtrack. “You know, like when you don’t wanna’ work the next day, so you start acting like you’re coming down with something the day before? You plan the whole thing out?”

You keep going when he doesn’t instantly respond, face heating up with a strange combination of embarrassment and dread, worrying that he’ll hang up on you or something.

“Like the Sabrina Carpenter song, oh my god you’ve probably never even heard it, it’s like ‘I’m just drinking to call someone, ain’t nobody safe when I’m a little bit drunk-’” 

You cut yourself off, realizing how ridiculous you sound right now. You think that he still hasn’t reacted, but then you hear his soft laughter start to build, and your shoulders relax. 

“It was premeditated?” He asks, and you groan. 

“That’s a much simpler way of putting it,” You say. 

“I liked the analogy,” He says, but you shake your head. 

“No, it was so stupid, you don’t have to lie,” You counter, laughing at yourself. Silence spans between you again for a few moments. “I miss you.”

Robby exhales on the other end of the line. “God, I miss you so much.”

“I’m so fucking glad you called.”

“Me too,” He agrees. “I wasn’t sure you’d want to hear from me.”

“Of course I want to hear from you,” You say. “I’ve been going insane for the past eight months without you.”

Robby senses a ‘but’ coming. He’s right.

You sigh. “But that doesn’t change why we broke up, even if I really, really want it to.”

He doesn’t say anything at first, trying to find the right words in his head. Your tone isn’t accusatory, you’re just stating a truth, and he doesn’t want it to sound like he doesn’t know that. He doesn’t want to get defensive. 

“I know, you’re right,” He admits. You don’t respond, your breath caught in your throat as you wait, praying that he won’t give you a reason to walk away again. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot.”

You do answer this time. “Yeah, me too.”

“I had no idea what to do with myself once you were gone,” He continues. “I wish that I had done things completely different.”

“How so?”

“I shouldn’t have snapped at you before you left, for one,” He says. “I wasn’t angry at you, I was…sad. That you were leaving.”

You frown, exhaling sharply. “I was too.”

“I should’ve driven you to the airport,” He adds. “Should’ve been there for you, supported you instead of blaming you for how unhappy I was without you.”

You don’t deny that, because it’s true. 

He takes a deep breath, one you can hear through the phone. “I know that I need to let myself be vulnerable with you, even if—especially if it’s hard. I can’t keep hiding behind anger because I’m scared of admitting that I’m hurt.”

Oh, yeah, you’re absolutely done for. 

“I don’t even want to say that I’m sorry, even though I am so sorry,” He says. “I want to show you.” 

He pauses. “If you’ll let me.”

July 7th, 2022

“Barcelona!” You call, microphone to your lips, lights dimmed, nothing visible to the crowd except your silhouette. “Same time tomorrow, yeah?”

You grin as the screams and cheers reach your ears, pulling your in-ears out, resting them on your shoulders. 

“Get home safe, or go to a bar, maybe drunk call someone you miss,” You continue, glancing towards the wings even though you can’t see a thing. “I love you. Thank you so much. Goodnight!” 

The floor vibrates as you walk offstage, still grinning, a slight skip in your step that’s been missing for the past nine months. Robby’s arms are already open by the time you reach him, throwing yourself against his chest. 

“You were amazing,” He murmurs, squeezing you tight, rocking you back and forth. You lean back so you can kiss him, placing your hands on either side of his jaw, breathing in his cologne. Robby tunes out all the noise around him, focusing only on you. 

A/N - will he finally stop being a problem do we think or

you know when you read a word too many times and it starts to look wrong? that's what happened to me with this entire chapter 💀 so i apologize if there are any mistakes! I did proofread it but i've rewritten and reread this so many times by now i may have missed some things. also this series is officially long enough to be a literal novel (89k words) lmfao help me

i could honestly use some inspo for robby and val so if you have any thoughts please don’t hesitate to send me a dm or comment them below :)

time to go work on critical witness after seeing dr jack abbot!!!

happy thursday, i love you, you look incredible! see you soon :)

taglist:

You didn’t speak much. You rarely did. But that was one of the reasons Ivan liked you.

While others tried to reach past his cold exterior with forced warmth or words that wrapped around nothing, you sat with him in silence, eyes occasionally searching the sky like you were reading a language only you could understand.

“I had a weird dream,” Ivan murmured, glancing sideways, his black eyes glinting with the dying light. “You were gone. Just—gone. And I couldn’t find you, no matter where I looked.”

You turned to him slowly, your lips parting just slightly in surprise. He smiled, faint and fleeting, one fang just visible.

“Scared me more than anything I’ve faced in that stupid stage.”

You didn’t know how to respond in words, so you took his hand into yours, holding it tight. Ivan stilled, then let out a small laugh—a rare, quiet thing that only you ever got to hear.

“I know. I know you wouldn’t leave,” he said, his fingers curling around yours. “You don’t need to say it.”

You nodded, resting your head on his shoulder.

Despite the quiet, your presence anchored him. When the world felt fake—plastic smiles and glittering lies—your silence was real. Gentle. Reassuring.

In a world where he always felt too intense, too cold, too obsessive—you let him be soft.

And in turn, he loved you with a quiet devotion he showed no one else.

Till stood in the middle of his room, surrounded by crumpled sketches and fragmented thoughts. The night was quiet except for the rustling of paper and the occasional soft hum from a broken fan. You sat on the edge of the bed, knees pulled close to your chest, watching him with concerned eyes.

He hadn’t spoken in a while.

Then he finally turned to you, eyes rimmed with red, the teal dulled by doubt. “I messed up again,” he said. “They all saw it. I cracked. I…I wasn’t supposed to lose control.”

You got up slowly, stepping over discarded papers with careful feet, and reached out. Your hand brushed his wrist gently. He flinched at first—then relaxed.

You rarely spoke. That’s what calmed him most.

You didn’t ask him to explain or push him to open up. You simply stood there, your quiet presence wrapping around him like a soft blanket.

“I keep thinking,” he whispered, “you’ll get tired of me. That one day, you’ll wake up and realize I’m too much. Too broken.”

Your thumb brushed his hand, and you shook your head gently.

Till looked at you, almost breathless. “Even now…you still like me? Even like this?”

Your gaze didn’t waver. Slowly, you leaned up and pressed your forehead to his, the gesture tender, grounding.

He melted. Soft tears welled in his eyes, and he let himself fall into you—arms curling around your waist, holding tight like you were the only real thing in his world.

“You’re so quiet,” he murmured, a shaky laugh escaping him. “And yet somehow, you’re the loudest voice in my head. Telling me I’m still worth it.”

You didn’t say a word.

You didn’t need to.

Because for Till, your presence was louder than any declaration, stronger than any lyric.

And in that small, silent moment—he believed he could be loved.