Honestly, I do not know if this piece relates to Charlie Puth's song (who is a bae btw js) but when I wrote it, it wasn't my intention at all. All I wanted was to write a piece about my friend and probably about an ex of his idk and you know, probably piss him off haha. And quite frankly I inserted Taron here (because c'mon, who doesn't love Taron and who wouldn't want to be his wife?) but removed it for the sake of my life. I will not be able to handle a piece about someone becoming Taron's wife. And I didn't want this to be a piece about being married to Taron but more on the fact that Taron's wife has an ex that still kinda likes her and-- you know what, I'm not spoiling it :)).
I’ve never received this type of call, never thought I would ever pick up the phone to hear his mother’s voice frantic and asking me to come home. Even if it’s only for a day. We’ll pay for everything. But I can’t do that to her. She says he’s gone. Not physically gone. Mentally gone. Emotionally gone. They can’t bring him back. Nothing could bring him back. But he keeps saying my name. She said he kept saying my name.
They thought we were still in contact. We weren’t. I was happily married. And my books doing very well, flying off the shelves under a pseudonym. I had a steady source of income and my life in London was stable. I only ever travelled back to visit my grandparents and I went back to America to visit my mother. Then that call. That one call.
With all the new movies he was starring in, I didn’t want him to waste time and money doing nothing back home. I wasn’t staying that long anyway.
So I flew alone. And when I landed, the first thing I did was visit him. A little tired and jet-lagged, I came to do what I had to.
People flocked their house, anxious to see the famous author back home. Some wanted pictures. Some wanted autographs. I didn’t have time for either.
His father came out of their house to help, shooing away newly emerged fans who probably never read a thing I’ve written. And I slip in their house, glass windows shining against my eyes, memories flashing at every turn.
His mother comes out and pulls me to his room, not wasting any time. Then I see it. The door. His door. Behind this piece of flattened wood is him, apparently letting himself waste away. It’s locked.
His mother knocks. No answer. I knock. No answer either. Then I speak.
And the soft click of the door unlocking met my ears.
His mother made a move to storm into the room. I stop her.
“I know you don’t like me. But if you walk in there when he expects me, he’s going to fall deeper and I don’t know if I would be able to bring him back.” She understands. She steps back.
I cross the line that separates his room from the rest of the world.
Then I see him, sitting on a chair facing the computer, playing video games.
The air is hot, and musty. Signs of someone who didn’t open the door for months.
“You hungry?” I ask. He grunts a no.
“Are you telling the truth?” Another grunt. No.
Then I sit on his bed. He doesn’t look at me. He doesn’t look at the computer screen either.
“Why are you here? How are you here?” He whispers.
“They said you were saying my name. Did you need something from me?”
“Why were you calling my name then?”
“I’m not starting anything. I’m trying to finish this.” I say will myself to look at him and see him. See him and understand why he’s like this.
And I see the bags under his eyes. I see his bones peeking from his elbows. His charisma gone. His confidence, gone.
“What happened?” I ask. “I need you to tell me what happened so we can figure out what’s wrong.”
“I told you, I’m fine. Go back to your life. Go back to London. Go back to your books. Go back to your husband. Why are you wasting your time talking to me? Go back to your perfect husband. Just leave.” He says. Every word said with equal amounts of anger, regret, sadness, and frustration.
“You’re angry with me.” I say, understanding. Or so I thought I did.
“I’m not angry with you.”
“Then why do you want me to leave?”
“Because there’s nothing for you here!” He said with his voice raised. “Why are you here? You’re married. You have a career. Your husband is perfect. He has a job. He takes you on dates. He makes you happy. You won’t be happy here. There’s nothing that can make you happy here! Just go!”
“What is it with you and my husband?”
“I can’t look at you and not think about the fact that you’re married!” He stands up. “You come in here, and talk to me. All that you’re doing is reminding me why I shut myself in! Leave!”
“I’m not leaving until I find out why you’re bringing up my husband.”
“Just go to him. Please.”
“Why are you bringing up my husband? He’s not here. I’m here. Talk to me. Let’s talk about why you’re being like this. What happened?”
“You wanna know what happened? You happened!” He points his shaking finger at me. “You are the reason that I’m this kind of person.” He says as tears start pooling around his eyes. Then my hands reach out to him. I couldn’t stop myself. I hug him. And he lets me.
He curls up in my embrace, clutching on to me like a child would.
“I don’t want to see you here.” He says. “But I don’t want to let go.”
“I hate myself. For being the dumbest person in the world. I had you. You were willing to be mine. And I took advantage of that. I’m sorry.” He apologizes.
“No, it’s not! Don’t say that!” He says and pulls away from the hug. “I’ve been in love with you for as long as I remember and I couldn’t take care of you▬didn’t take care of you. And you should be angry! You should be punching me and yelling at me! Instead, I’m yelling at you! It’s easier if you hate me because then you’d be the angry one! Being angry and miserable is not a combination that I want to feel. Please. Please be angry with me.”
“I’m not angry with you.”
Then he takes my hands and hits himself with it. “Stop.” I say. “Stop!” And he stops.
His eyes widen at my outburst. He thinks I’ll finally be angry. I’m not.
“I’m not angry. Stop wanting me to be.” I take his hands into mine and plant a kiss on each one. He holds his breath. “You’ve found girls that were better than me in many ways. Go find another one.”
“I always come back to you.” He says. “I always come back to you.”
“Stop thinking about me. Stop thinking that I’ll be waiting for you.”
And he bursts into tears.
“I can’t wait for you anymore. Someone’s waiting for me. I can’t keep them waiting.”
And he releases a pathetic squeak.
“Shut up and let me forgive you.” And he let me.
