#tw.self-loathing

Hello, you've reached my–

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You've reached our voicemail. Say your message after the beep, please.

Another person?

Beep.

They had moved on so fast, yet he can't seem to believe they had left.

"Another person," he repeatedly thought.

He slumped on the floor, choking on the air lodged in his throat. The closing up of his airway to refrain from sobbing didn't help his case at all. He wondered how they could love someone simply because the person they loved weren't him.

He gathered the strength to force a coherent word out of his mouth. Tears stung his eyes, waiting to tip over the brim of his lower lash line.

He inhaled sharply, almost being strangled by the wild thump of his heart.

"I-"

This was his chance to tell them how much he missed them. The room spun as his heart rate inclined even more. Thoughts of how he'd explain how much he'd do anything to have them back ran through his mind.

If you are satisfied with your message, please hang-

He leaned his head backwards to rest it upon the wall behind him. He missed them. He wanted to know what they were doing. He wanted to know where they were. He needed to hold them in his arms again, to make contact with them. He needed to feel it.

He needed to feel loved.

"I can't remember the last time I felt good about what we have."

"What do you mean? We love each other."

"We? You love me. It's not like I tried to stray away from loving you. It just seemed to happen that way."

He jolted, finding himself in the same spot he was in the night before. His spine still alined vertically against the cold, cracked wall. There was a static sensation in his legs due to the position he had been in all night. He saw the dimness of the sky's glow penetrating through his livingroom window. The sun was just starting to rise.

Placing his palms against the fuzzy carpet, he pushed downwards to lift himself from the floor. The stiff tiredness of his legs made his knees buckle and awkwardly stumble to his feet. He set his journey off to his bedroom.

The ebony door creaked, ajaring as he pushed it to reveal the room. Hesitantly, he made his way over to the neatly tidied resting place. He plopped on his bed and traced the stitching of the duvet with his fingers. It seemed that it had been centuries before he decided to touch it again. He didn't like to sleep in his bedroom now. It often reminded him of the love of his life.

The room made him lonely.

He still felt weak. He was definitely not up for going to the office today. He'd probably call into work with an excuse for him to stay home, again.

He slowly rolled over on his side to pick up the phone. He tapped the phone icon and dialed the number of his work place.

After explaining why he wouldn't be attending work once again this week, the assistant just sighed, gave him a sympathetic "it's fine," and hung up.

He hated that. He hated pity. He hated all the whispers and stares he attracted once he stepped into a room. Most of all, he hated himself.

"You're saying that... that you don't love me anymore?"

"Honestly, I never did. I tried. I really did, but you're so dull. I could never love such a dull person."

"I'm so sorry. Wh- what can I do to make you love me? Please, please tell me."

"Nothing. I will never love you the same way you love me."

9:30 PM

"Damn..."

He slowly sat up, looking around his room that felt unfamiliar. He came to an agreement with himself that it wasn't his fault that he had ended up alone. However, he could never forgive himself for letting a precious jewel slip out of his grasp so easily.

He'll never let that happen again.

After being in such deep thought, he decided to take a shower. Oh boy, did he need one. He rose up from the bed, made his way towards his closet, and grabbed the things he needed for the process of showering.

Once he stepped in the bathroom, he looked in the mirror. His eyes were puffy and swollen from crying, but also sunken in from the lack of sleep he had gotten. All of the sorrow, doubt, and hate was carved onto his face. He looked weak. He was drained.

Repulsed by his own face, he turned away and walked over to the shower. He turned the knob to the hottest setting. If he wasn't able to achieve his hopes of dying, this man is about to feel the second hottest thing to hell.

The steam from the water was visible, yet he stuck his arm in the water to test it. His nerves hadn't received the heat of the nearly boiling water until a few seconds afterwards. As soon as his receptors indicated pain, sense knocked the hell out of his brain.

He quickly retracted his arm.

"What the fuck am I doing?"

He turned the knob back a few notches and tested the water again. This time, it was just right. He hopped in and tried to put some liquid soap in his hand.

"You can't be serious," the liquid base didn't come out of its bottle.

Unscrewing the cap from its coil, he looked inside to see the soap gunked to the bottom of the bottle.

"How long has it been since I've taken a fucking shower?"

He sighed in defeat. He didn't have any other option than to pour a little water in the bottle to loosen the base's particles up. When the liquid finally dispensed from the plastic bottle into his palm, he rubbed it into his matted, untamed locks.

Still cleansing his body, he closed his eyes and relaxed under the soothing warmth of the water. The thought that it was not his fault reapproached his mind. He couldn't force someone love him for who he was. Dull. He hated the word and how well it described his personality.

As he stepped out of the shower, he grabbed one of the towels that hung on the hanging rack. He took the cloth and ruffled his hair briefly before tying it around his waist. Maybe he was just the problem.

"I don't mean that I hate you, though."

"What do you mean then?"

"What I meant to say was, you aren't fit to be in a loving relationship."

"Relationships suck anyway," he mumbled while he roamed through the various shows Netflix has to offer.

He heard a soft grumble emanate from his stomach. How long has it been since he'd eaten a proper meal? Ten days? With an exasperated sigh, he headed over to the refrigerator. The door of the refrigerator only revealed a half eaten container of peanut butter and a jar of mayonnaise.

"Un-fucking-believable," he scoffed, "I guess I'm going to have to go grocery shopping."

He shut the refrigerator. Walking to the sink and filling up a glass with water, he looked over at the clock on the stove.

11:23 PM

He shrugged, grabbing the remote to resume the hunt for something to watch on Netflix. Each recommendation being something he had already watched, he finally decided on a psychological thriller. His stomach complained once again, but he knew it was too late to go to the store or order takeout. Sipping on his water, he sat there contemplating what he was going to do. Suddenly, he remembered that he had a box of cereal in the cupboard.

"I assume that's dinner."