Chapter Text
– the escapism chapter –
The worst part is that I don’t know why I’m feeling like this, I don’t know why I feel so… twisted up in my gut? Lightheaded? Upset? Mad? What’s wrong with me? It’s not like we had something. Yes, we are best friends… were best friends? Right now I’m not sure of anything anymore. Regardless, that’s it. Friends. Nothing more going on.
Then why is this… thing inside me happening? I should be happy for him. I mean yes, by all means, have your fun, right? It’s summer, you’re away from home, you find a nice girl, you’re a nice boy, and you end up together, no big deal. So why do I feel frozen right now, why is the room spinning and I feel like I could throw up? It makes no sense.
Raven is talking loudly, but my head feels fuzzy and I can’t follow what she’s saying. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to keep my voice even when I speak for the first time after my friend told me the news on the phone. “Sorry, I just remembered something I had to do and… no, it’s nothing, don’t worry... Yeah, I’ve heard you...” No, please, don’t repeat it, I got you the first time, yes, rumors fly.
“I know you never believe me on these things, Clarke, but this time it’s true”, Raven pauses for a second and I just want to hang up, “I thought you knew.” It’s a struggle to keep from yelling at her. “I really have to go Rae, sorry. I’ll see ya.” What I need to do is breathe– why is it so hard? It’s never been this hard, hasn't it?– and calm down.
Fuck, what is wrong with me? Why do I go around preaching that I do not like the guy like that, that my intentions are not those, that he’s always around because we’re just best friends, and then… this. I’m trying to take deep breaths but my body doesn’t want to cooperate. What. Is wrong. With me. People ask and make assumptions about the two of us all the time. “Oh, you and Bellamy make such a great couple!” they say, and I always automatically reply with a small smile and a shake of my head, “Oh no, we’re not a couple.” Sometimes, when I really want to underline the concept, I laugh loudly, “Can you even imagine? Me? And Bellamy?? Never, oh my God, how did you even– Bell, did you hear? This is so funny!” So funny indeed.
And okay, that may happen more often than not when I have a drink or two and a cute girl or boy in front of me is trying to figure out if they can make a move on me. Once, I remember being a little bit more than tipsy and wanting to scream at this ridiculously pretty brunette girl, “yes, please, do!”, because that’s how it’s supposed to go, because Bellamy and I? Not a couple.
And if you’re not a couple, then– And we will never be, that’s the thing. We went through too much together and we’re still kids, and we’ll never break this bond. How do you change a friendship that got you through the hardest times of your childhood, that made you feel known and understood for the very first time, that made you think “I have a partner in this messy, devastating, beautiful thing called life”? How do you transform it into something different and more? You don’t. You can’t. I’ll never, ever, think about changing it because what we have is too precious to be meddled with, and I don’t want to destroy it. So… what is this all about? What is going on?
To be completely honest, there was some crushing on my behalf but, like, ages ago, back when we had just met and I had no idea who he was or what he was like. I mean, the guy is clearly handsome, and at 10 years old Bellamy Blake was really pretty, so you can’t blame me. But then… gosh, thinking about it now it’s crazy, the way we became friends. Who in their right mind becomes friends with someone who has just lost their father and whose mother is an addict? Not anyone who knows what they’re getting into or who wants to preserve their mental stability.
But when you’re 8 years old you don’t know these things, and so here we were, the two of us, becoming inseparable. It happened throughout years of chasing one another in the playground near his house, sitting side by side in the classes we shared, studying together in the local library or in my room. I remember that time when I tilted my head and curiously looked at him, “You’re one year older than me but we’re in the same grade”. His shoulders had tensed, “It’s because of stuff. At home”, he said with a low voice. I was about to ask more when he continued, “I need help with maths”, effectively putting a halt to the conversation. With time, I stopped asking. You don't need answers to give affection, love doesn't need a reason. (He would talk about the stuff years later, at his own pace.)
Then, we were suddenly grown up, and it was midnight talks on his rooftop, silent trips in his car around the city when life became too much for him, visiting art galleries when life became too much for me. Holding hands, and caressing hair, and hugging tightly, and waking up from naps with limbs intertwined. It all brought us here. I think no one knows me the way he does, the same way I think– no, I’m sure no one knows him the way I do. And yet...
And yet it’s not a crush, not anymore. Somewhere in between watching him cover his sadness and desperation with anger whenever his mom had a relapse, and me hiding into his embrace whenever I didn’t want to be Clarke Griffin anymore, the childhood crush went away, making space for a deep, intimate, real friendship. And now I would never, never, willingly jeopardize it, even if the way Bellamy looks at me sometimes makes me feel warm inside, even if burrowing my face in his chest feels like my favourite place in the world. Because what if I lose him? No, I won’t have it. I wouldn’t be able to make it through life without him, honestly. But then why–
Why didn’t he tell me? Why did I hear the news from Raven? Now, after the summer romance supposedly ended? Is it something unmentionable? Was it that insignificant? Was it too important? We text every day. We call each other almost as much. “Oh and by the way I met this girl…”, it’s not something so difficult to say. It’s not like I haven’t done it a hundred times before.
God, Clarke, why is it okay for you to go to him for advice about a potential partner or to tell him about your dates, but now your whole world has changed because Bellamy suddenly has a sex life? A... love life? That thought makes me sick, and I don’t want it to. It’s not like I own him or something, it’s not like he has to tell me everything he does in his life. Do I even do it? Well, yes, actually I do... but still, this is not the way I should think about him or treat him. Get your shit together, Clarke, you’re 16 and acting like a child.
“And you are?”
“Bellamy. We’re in the same group.”
“I’m Clarke. Now, follow me.”
The curly haired boy stood still.
“And why would I do that?”
The blonde girl raised her eyebrows eloquently.
“Because the teacher said I’m in charge of this group,” she replied, tilting her head towards the other kids waiting nearby.
He shrugged and followed her.
“By the way, Clarke is a boy name.”
“Well, Bellamy is French and a girl name. Now, let’s go.”
When Bellamy and Clarke first met, they were in a small town a couple hours from Arkadia on a school trip, one of those where the teachers mix the kids together, for making them fraternize and having balanced teams for treasure hunts. It was a cold winter morning, big grey clouds covered the sky, and Clarke and Bellamy decided they made a good team for the very first time. They ran through the whole town looking for clues, they were so dedicated, their group won the hunt because of them.
Clarke still has one detail fixed in her mind about that day: Bellamy standing on a bench, focused on scanning the horizon– maybe looking for the right street in which to find their clue. She vividly remembers her eight-year-old self staring at the gentle curve of his nose profile, covered in freckles, and the small dimple on his chin. She had wanted to bop it.
It started snowing in the early afternoon. The activities planned outside were cancelled, and they all played with snowballs instead. Clarke was completely covered in white– Bellamy had an exceptional aim (“How come you never miss?!”, a grin on his face, “Watch and learn”). The last few hours of the trip were spent inside playing board games. Clarke and Bellamy were still on the same team: he was sitting on a table, legs resting on the back of a chair and spread out to welcome a tiny Clarke, who sat on that very chair, comfortably locked in that weirdly intimate position (“Don’t move”, “Are you sure?”, a firm nod, “Yes”).
That’s how it started, and it developed along those lines. Twelve-year-old Clarke was unable to explain the feeling that Bellamy’s deep, inscrutable dark eyes gave her. She couldn’t understand why she often looked at his hands, why she was so sensitive to the shifts in the timber of his voice. But time passed, they grew up and grew closer, and she started to climb the walls Bellamy Blake had built around himself. At the same time, oh so slowly, Clarke let down a rope for him, to help him climb her own sturdy ones. He became the one person she would turn to when she started to feel the beginning of a panic attack (“I’m here, Clarke”), when she fought with her mom (“Where are you going? Are you going to Bellamy’s? He’s ruining you, Clarke, can’t you see? And we’re not done talking!”), when she missed her dad (“Cuddles or art, princess?”), even when she wasn’t sure about her feelings for the new girl in her class.
“You like girls, don’t you?” she had asked him one day, hesitant.
“Uh,” he had frowned, confused. “Yeah?”
“Is it a question?”
“No, the question is– why?”
“How do you know when you like a girl?” Her heart was beating fast and she had no idea what he would say.
“You just… I don’t know, something to do with butterflies in your stomach and smiles and wanting to constantly be with her, I guess.”
“You guess?”
“What– how do you know when you like a boy?”
She had stayed silent for a bit and looked away, then Bellamy had made the connection. He had been the first to know that she liked girls too. His arms had enveloped her body tightly, she remembers feeling like he was almost caressing her soul.
“I am so proud of you”, he had whispered against the top of her head.
They texted over the summer and whenever they weren’t together. They met up in the afternoon whether it was a school day or the holidays, they did homework together. They gifted each other CDs of their favourite musicians and books that made them feel, hope, and cry. (Bellamy’s were always second-hand, but that’s all the more reason why they were so special to Clarke.) They talked about politics and their expectations for life, their dreams.
Bellamy was an incredible listener: he would always give her a shoulder to lean or cry on when needed, he would always find a joke to lighten the mood, and would always let her vent freely. But the times he shared details about his own life were rare. Clarke didn’t mind: she was smart, and soon realized Bellamy’s life wasn’t as easy and carefree as the life of a child should have been. It was hard to watch, because it took a huge toll on him, on his spirit.
Some days his eyes stayed cast down for hours, his mouth closed in a hard line, jaw clenched tightly, the only thing that seemed to anchor him to reality was his hand closed firmly around hers– I’m with you, always, she hoped her squeezes said. So she let him distract himself from his family and their problems whenever he could. He preferred that, rather than dwell on them and burden her with his darkest thoughts (“It’s bad shit, Clarke.”). Besides, the rarity of those words whispered in the silence of the cocoon they loved to create with the duvet made them even more significant. Clarke really cared about him, and she tried to help him in any way she could. Funnily enough– or well, tragically enough, those were the times where she always swore to herself she’d never, ever, lose him.
One day, something strange happened. It was a few days before Clarke’s 16th birthday, and they were sitting on a bench in the park, fingers a bit sticky from the melted ice cream they had just had. Bellamy stretched his arms on the backrest, his left one almost touching Clarke’s shoulders. They kept talking but she was so fully conscious of that presence behind her that it threw her a bit. She didn’t lean on him, and she got scared of the reason why. Touching wasn’t new for them, and the easy intimacy was a normal feature in their friendship. If Bellamy caught her sudden change in demeanor and rigid posture, he didn’t show. Clarke didn’t want to make it weird, but it was like her body was on high alert, and she didn’t know why.
I can’t focus. I can’t stop looking at him, sitting across the desk in my room, head buried in a book, fingers running through rebellious hair, tormenting the highlighter, tormenting me. Does he notice that something’s wrong? Why is he not talking about it? What exactly is wrong? Am I spiraling about something that was completely meaningless to him? If so, what was meaningless, his summer romance or sharing that piece of information with me? Oh, he’s lifting his head. A small smile, then a question. Am I okay?
“Uh? No, yeah, I’m fine.” Jesus, Clarke, just say it. “I was just distracted.”
Calming eyes, this is how I’ve always described them. Now they’re everything but calming. They’re creating a storm inside of me. I wish I could read into them. I hate when I can’t, and lately it’s been happening more and more and I don’t understand why. I wish I could get to the bottom of those dark inscrutable pits and read his mind, his heart, his soul. What is he thinking? I’m tired. I feel sick. This is horrendous and I don’t know why it’s happening. I want to curl up in a ball, and sleep, and forget. I’m mad.
“You look tanned.” I look down at the page of my notes that I’ve been looking at for the past thirty minutes. A beat passes, and I feel his eyes on me. I don’t look up.
“Yeah, well, the seaside usually does that to you.”
I’m hating his voice right now. He’s not saying anything.
He doesn’t want to tell me?
“Hm. Everything alright with your mom and Octavia?”
“Hm-hm.”
He doesn’t want to tell me.
A breath.
“So, who’s Gina?” I have read this one line at least three thousand and forty-five times now but no, I am not looking at him. I feel his gaze burning on my head.
“What?”
Oh, okay. My heart is racing and I’m angry, and sad, and I won't let him get away with this. “Raven told me.” I finally look at him and now he’s the one hiding. “For fuck’s sake, Bellamy, look at me, I’m not gonna eat you alive!”
He does, and raises his eyebrows at my outburst. That’s great, that is just so great.
“Is she ever going to learn how to mind her business?”
“She’s her cousin, Bellamy!” His eyes go wide. He didn’t know. “Yeah. As a matter of fact, Raven told me because she wanted to know if you had maybe died, since you disappeared off the face of the earth after spending the summer with Gina.” I don’t want to scream but my voice keeps rising. “It turns out, not only I had no idea who Gina was– me, your best friend– but apparently you’re the kind of guy who leads girls on, has his fun with them and then ditches them as soon as the summer is over!”
“I didn’t lead her on.”
It’s infuriating how calm he is.
“Oh, no, of course you didn’t, it must’ve been all in her head, right?” God help me, I’m gonna punch him– I don’t care that he’s huge and he’ll stop me the second I raise my arm, I’m gonna do it. “She made everything up, I’m sure, built a whole castle in her mind based on nothing–”
“What's your problem, Clarke? What the fuck do you want from me?”
“I want you to talk to me!” I feel my eyes stinging but I’m not going to cry, not in front of him. “I can’t believe that, after all this time, you wouldn’t tell me something important that happened to you! And when I ask you, because I care about you, you pretend like it doesn’t fucking matter and just stand there like a statue as if we haven’t been best friends for the past ten years! It’s like you don’t even care, like you have a whole other life which I know nothing about and I just… You know everything about me, I tell you everything that–”
“Well, no one asked!”
Silence.
What.
Say something, Clarke.
Do something.
Don’t just sit there. He doesn’t deserve your shock. You’re shocked? You misread. Evidently. For years. You misread everything for years. He was just passing his time. He’s the most important person in your miserable, pitiful, depressing life and you’re just one of the many in his. Last August clearly proved it.
“Clarke, no, I didn’t mean–”, but he said it.
“Leave.”
“Clarke, please, it’s not…” He gets up, gets closer to me, he wants to comfort me, hug me, I can see it in his whiskey-brown eyes that now are oh so open. I’m gonna scream if he touches me.
“I’m gonna scream if you touch me.” My eyes are blurring.
“I didn’t mean that. Clarke...” My name is cracked out of his lips. I feel like I’m going to explode and shatter in a million pieces.
“Don’t make me repeat myself.”
He’s looking at me, pleading with his eyes. He’s not going to go.
No. No, I’m not doing this. I can’t. I stand up quickly, gabbring my phone with shaking hands and I go for the door, but he’s in front of me in an instant.
“Get out of my way, Bellamy.”
“Please, don’t–”
“I said, get the fuck out of my way!”
I can’t even bear to look at him, let alone talk to him right now. I push him away from the door and I run out, leaving everything behind, leaving him behind. Please, God, don’t make him follow me. This is devastating– I’ve wanted him to follow me our whole lives. There is no way I’m going to move on intact from this. The front door slams loudly behind me.
I struggle to catch a breath. This was our first real fight. I want to go back, back to before this whole thing happened, but I meant what I said and gosh, he meant it too. I’m so furious. About everything. What he did to Gina, implying that I could very well not share anything with him because apparently he didn’t fucking ask, not telling me about his summer romance, having a summer romance…
Oh, God. No. No, I can’t have feelings for Bellamy. I can’t… I feel like my chest is going to implode in itself, like my lungs can’t keep up with my brain. Everything is burning up, I’m burning up. I just want to stop in a corner and cry, and scream, and take all of this… this… something that’s inside of me out. But I can’t stop anywhere, because everywhere around here reminds me of him, every building screams his name, and I’m just– I just want this to stop. I can’t believe I was such an idiot. I can’t believe I fell for him without even realizing it. I can name it for what it is now. Jealousy. Such a horrible feeling. And longing– my heart is straining to get to him.
How long have I felt this way? I wish I could wipe him from my memories. I hate this, I hate that I’m breaking over something so stupid, so stupid. (“It’s not stupid, Clarke, it’s what you feel”, it’s his voice, always his voice in my head, stop stop stop.) And Gina... I don’t even know this girl but Raven said that she’s really sweet, and I feel bad for her too, she didn’t deserve this. She had Bellamy for the summer, and he ran away. And I… I’ve always had Bellamy, he’s been a part of me– the best part of me– for so long, that now it feels like I’m missing a limb or something. (Your heart, Clarke. You’re missing your heart.) I almost laugh. Look at the mess I am– he made me like this and I hate him for it. I wouldn’t wish this to anyone because it fucking hurts.
But I can’t just wipe him away. He’s like a bloodstain on my soul, like a scar on my body that’s never going to heal. And I have flashes of the two of us every time I close my eyes to prevent more tears to come out: how he dances in his Levi’s when he gets drunk, how he drops a kiss on my head every time I curl against his chest when watching a movie. That time we rushed to catch the last train back home and hopped on just a moment before the doors closed, how I leaned against him to catch my breath. The way he randomly wraps his arms around me from behind, puts his chin on my head, his eyes quietly looking at the world around us, content to just have me in his arms wherever it is that we are. The weekends he gave me, playing hide-and-seek around his neighbourhood. His fingers always smelly from the cigarettes, a lighter in my purse. Watching him laughing from the passenger side.
In the parking lot that September night, the first time he ever saw me cry, when he told me that I would learn how to ease the pain, day after day, while I was leaving make-up all over his favourite shirt.
“I don’t know how to do it.”
“You’ll learn with time.”
“Will you help me?”
“I’ll be by your side, but it’s something you have to do on your own.”
“But I don’t know how, I don’t think I can.”
“Yes, you can,” brown eyes searching deep into blue ones, “You’re the strongest person I know, Clarke.”
In that moment, as scared as I was, I knew I’d always have him by my side and he would always love me no matter what. Because even in my worst times, he could see the best in me. No matter my rebounds, my earthquakes, even in my worst lies, he saw the truth in me.
What a fucking, monumental idiot. My cheeks are wet, I’m out in the street but I don’t know where to go, who to call. Bellamy was my safe space, my safe person. I tell myself I gotta let go, this is too much and too heavy, a person shouldn’t feel so hollow and broken, but moving on from him seems impossible when I keep seeing it all in my head. His soothing touch, his gentle voice, his secret smiles– he comes to me in flashbacks and echoes, and it burns, and it hurts.
***
The night sky over Arkadia is sparkling with stars. After walking aimlessly for hours, I find myself at the place I would always go to with Bellamy when we needed some space from our hometown and its inhabitants. The lookout is right out of the city, on the side of the hill where Arkadia is located. It’s so pretty here, especially at sunset and at night. Now, everything around me is silent and I look at the twinkling above me. There’s an airplane trail among the stars, and a wave of emotions washes over me.
“There!”
“What?”
“Over there, Bellamy, you didn’t see it?”
“See what?”
“The shooting star!”
“It’s not a shooting star, silly, it’s an airplane trail.”
“But it looked… can you still wish on this kind of shooting star?”
It suddenly comes to me: I fell for Bellamy a long time ago. It happened slowly but surely. All the pieces were there, for months, years maybe, I was just too lazy to finish the puzzle, to see the big picture. I never realized it until it happened and I suddenly found myself thrown in the middle of it. Much like how you fall asleep.
A question keeps swirling in my head for hours, days, weeks later. Who am I more angry at? Myself, because I fell for him? Bellamy, because he’s the person who’s supposed to know me like the back of his hand and failed to realize it, and doesn’t feel the same? Or the world, because either way this is such a cruel joke and I don’t know what will remain of us when this all blows over?
– the saltbox house chapter –
The air is salty.
He shakes off the water from his hair with a firm shrug.
The sun is shining up high, shimmering on the crests of the waves.
Burning sand under their feet.
A blue door, a white wall.
She wears her chestnut wavy hair down, her dress has flowers on it.
The summer days crawl one into the other almost identically, this is how summers are. But this summer– in its stillness, in its placidness– this summer is different.
Hungry hands explore tanned bodies.
Questions are whispered in breathless voices.
“Are you sure?”
“Never have I ever before.”
The excitement, the awkwardness, the eagerness, and the thrill of a moment that feels like it could last forever, but that will soon inevitably become a memory.
She turns around, sheets wrapped around her waist, there’s a light breeze in the room, and his back is slowly moving up and down following the easy rhythm of his sleep. She stretches out a hand and trails her fingers on his back (she wishes she could write her name on it), then up his neck, tracing his hairline. He makes a muffled grunt, he is waking up, turns around, she smiles at him, his kind eyes are still puffy with sleep.
She knows it’s not going to last. She reads it in his melancholic gaze– but she still hopes.
Even if he always gets that call. Even if he always checks that message.
Hope always dies last.
But she still knows that they’re going to be just a parenthesis, so she carves instants in her memory.
When he eats watermelon and the red juice makes his hands sticky.
When she gets an ice cream and wrinkles her nose when he wipes the whipped cream from it with his thumb.
When he’s waiting for her in front of her house, a motorcycle helmet in his hand.
“Why do I even bother to put perfume on, if you're going to intoxicate me with your smoking?” A grin, the noise of the cigarette burning, lips smacking open. “Sorry, I’ll just move somewhere else”, his teasing, her hand out to catch his wrist, “Or maybe I’ll just stop wearing it”, “But it smells nice”, “Yeah, no shit”, a light kiss.
Her fingers intertwining with his, his fingers gently grazing her cheeks, the smell of smoke always lingering around.
Sometimes he doesn’t check his phone. He leaves it at home during the day, when they’re at the beach, and it’s almost too easy for her to think that she can have him for herself.
Mindless dreaming.
But she still drives up to his place.
She still sneaks out of family dinners to meet him.
She tells no to her friends. “Oh, I didn’t know you had plans”, “Kinda”. She doesn’t, actually. But– you know. Just in case he calls.
And he does call. Sometimes he doesn’t, he just shows up and honks.
One night it's the seaside under the moonlight.
Another one it's the movie theatre.
One other night it's the fair where they buy cotton candy.
One night it's the most expensive wine bottle they’ve had at the supermarket. It makes her giggly and desperately sad at the same time, and she realizes that the summer is almost over, that their time is almost up. She doesn’t want to say it, but the words slip out of her mouth before she can catch them, and she hears her voice asking.
“Will you call me?”
He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, eyes fixed on his half-empty glass, he sips some more wine.
Then he looks up, their shoulders brush. It’s not much, just one touch. She feels enough.
“Forget it, I didn’t mean...” The streetlight shines a yellowish light on his face, the shadows of his black curls play weirdly with the curve of his nose.
“I know I’m being the asshole here.”
Yeah, he kind of is.
Gina loves comedies. She thinks comedies are the most intelligent pieces of art because it’s way easier to create tragedies– our whole lives are tragedies. We are born to die. We’re not created to last. Our feelings aren’t created to last as well. We come into the world screaming and crying, not laughing. That’s why, when something or someone makes her laugh, she grabs every ounce of happiness she can get out of it, before going back to her own, personal and unique tragedy.
Bellamy makes her laugh so hard. He makes her feel so happy. For a brief moment in time, but who cares? Brief moments in time are all we’ve got and are all we are, she thinks. And this particular moment in time is packed with the silly, lighthearted, teenage, stupid joy of having everything you want and everything you need right in front of you. Maybe even with love. Definitely with hopeless hope. Hope, Gina thinks, is one of the strongest feelings we can know as humans: for only hope makes us able to forget that we’re doomed. We hope to live forever. We hope to love forever. Even though it’s a lost cause.
“Forget it”, she takes the glass from his fingers and puts it down, presses herself against his warm body and hopes. One last time.
– the sleepless nights chapter –
It’s the first day of school, I’m late and my head is somewhere else altogether. I run to the back of the classroom to sit in my place muttering apologies to the teacher, and then I realize that–
“What the hell are you doing here?”
“Hello to you, too, Blake. I’m great, thanks for asking!”
My tolerance for Murphy’s bullshit right now is below zero. Why is he sitting in her place?
“Where’s Clarke?”
He rolls his eyes at me, and I grind my teeth.
“We switched.”
“You what?”
“Yeah, man, we switched.”
“Why?”
“I think you’re the one who should be telling me.” He says something else but I don’t really know what. I can’t hear him, my ears are ringing, a rush of blood is pumping through my head, and I feel a heavy weight on my chest.
What is she doing? This is too much, she can’t be this mad for something so stupid. Yeah, I didn’t tell her about Gina, so what? Why is she making a big deal out of it? Or maybe she’s mad about what I said the last time I saw her… fairly so, if that was the case. But I swear, I swear, I didn’t mean it! I got angry and– If she only gave me a chance to explain, to talk to her, to tell her that it was just a stupid, simple complication, a miscommunication that led to this huge fall out– but that we can fix it. I know we can fix it. I had hoped to finally do that today. God, I had a speech ready, as pathetic as it sounds, and now she’s… she’s not here.
“Everything alright back there, gents? Bellamy, you’re planning on sitting down?”
Right, I’m still standing up. “Yeah, sorry Mr. Kane, no everything’s fine.”
You don’t happen to know why Miss Griffin switched homeroom class, do you?, I want to ask him. Can you even do that? You’d have to give reasons, I guess, so what did she say? She screamed at her best friend one week ago and she doesn’t want to see him anymore?
I tried going to her place but Abby Griffin… gosh, that woman hates me. She’s never wanted me around her daughter, I could always tell, so I couldn’t even get within ten meters of their front door. I called so many times but Clarke never picked up, not even when I tried calling from other people’s phones. I sent her dozens of texts that went unanswered, our chat is basically just a wall of gray messages from me to her. Well, one more isn’t going to hurt, at this point. It’s not like I’m going to pay attention to anything at school today, anyway.
you switched homeroom??
Okay, maybe two more.
look i don’t wanna sound like i think i’m the center of the world, but did u do it bc of what happened between us? did you do it because of me? this is how much you hate me now?
Maybe this is too much. I don’t want to sound desperate but… I kind of am.
okay i'm bad at texting, you know that, can we please just meet up and talk? please?
I know she reads them, the tiny blue checks cruelly blink at me every time. She could be opening them without reading a word, that’s also true, but– and there it is. Seen. I’m not going to cry in front of Murphy.
She’s exaggerating. She is, and she’s doing her best to avoid me. I don’t want to feel bad for thinking this, she’s the one cutting me out of her life for no reason. She doesn’t want to talk to me and she doesn’t even let me apologize– apologize for what, by the way? Yes, I said something awful but I took it back immediately, and she left anyway. There was something more she wasn’t telling me, I could see it in her eyes. Yes, she’s my best friend and yes, I know her like no one else does, but I still can’t read her mind.
This is ridiculous. She calls me out on my bullshit when I deserve it and always, always makes sure I know what she’s thinking. Because that’s just Clarke, a logical person that gives facts and conclusions, and wants answers. I’m the one who storms out of a room randomly after bottling everything up for weeks, I’m the one with anger issues that sometimes struggles to have a civil conversation when I feel the blood pump in my veins. I am that person, not Clarke, she ’s the one who uses her head without needing reminders to do so. So I don’t understand what happened.
I don’t understand why everything was fine for the whole summer and the first week back home, then one day she suddenly closes off, gives me the silent treatment, and then snaps, yelling at me and acting like I personally killed her pet. What am I supposed to think? Am I a psychic or something? Besides, she has no reason to be mad at me for not telling her about Gina, we didn’t sign a contract that forces me to tell her about every little thing I do in my life. Clarke knows that, she’s never forced me to tell her anything before. And it’s not like I didn’t talk to her over the summer. We texted every day, called each other at least a couple times a week, if not more, nothing changed. Why is she acting like this now? Is she mad on behalf of Gina? What is this, female solidarity? Which I’d understand normally, but Gina knew that what we had was temporary, I was always bound to come back to Arkadia. And, even if she didn’t, it’s not Clarke’s business? My my sex life is not her business. And hers is not mine.
And yet…
I could see the pain written all over her face. Her eyes were empty– they’re always bright, always shiny. There’s always a special light in them, warm and welcoming, curious and excited, since she was a kid. But in that moment they were blank, no emotion within them, like it got all sucked away. Like I sucked it all away. God, I’m such an idiot. I know how hard it is for her to open up, how she always thinks she is a burden and has to carry the weight of the world on her shoulders. It took me so long to make her understand that I was there for her, to help her, that whatever it was she had to do we could do it together.
“Well, no one asked!”
I did not mean it, I don’t even know why I said it! Fuck. Fuck. Clarke has every right to be mad at me.
I blew it. I ruined it all.
I’m so fucking sorry, and I just want to tell her, but she’s not talking to me. And we don’t have classes together this semester, and we’re not even in the same homeroom anymore because she switched it with Murphy. It’s like she’s literally telling me that my place is not the spot next to her anymore. I caught a glimpse of her hair in the cafeteria, the room was crowded, and yet I was standing there still and alone. I tried to get to her but she disappeared before I could do it. I managed to find Raven but she said nothing.
Clarke always waited for me outside of my classes, kept me a seat at her table at lunchtime when I was late, texted me to ask where I was if she didn't see me before first period. Now it's like I've never existed. And I’m just dying to know if it’s killing her like it’s killing me. It looks like she’s trying to tell me that she couldn’t care less, and I hate it. I hate myself as well, because if I’m miserable, if I don’t know how to tell her I miss her, if I can't even find her, if she’s not by my side anymore, it’s all my fault.
***
Days pass, and the pain in the middle of my ribcage is excruciating. Nothing I do sends it away, and I’m not able to explain it to anyone else. Not that I want to. Clarke was the only one I talked to about this kind of things, about the bad days. And I hate how it makes me behave– God, I hadn’t yelled at Octavia in ages (“Why are you mad at me now?!” “Can you please just leave me alone?” “Look, if you’re angry because of her– just make your peace with it, Bellamy. She doesn’t want you as her friend anymore, she’s gone!” No, she’s not!, I wanted to scream, I’m not losing her, she’s not gone. “Octavia, get the fuck out of my room, now!”). I’m not eating, I’m not sleeping, I’m just waiting for this goddamned phone to ring, but it’s always silent.
It’s like I’m surrounded by silence. Clarke is life, and sounds, and laughter, and now there’s no life anymore. So I climb on the rooftop and get drunk, I finish another pack of cigarettes and I hear her voice, “Bell, you’ll need to stop smoking sooner or later”, and I just feel tears running down my face as I watch the sun rise on another meaningless morning.
The sun shines up high, she’s beautiful and has flowers on her dress.
She’s wrapped in a cloud of perfume, and then she’s wrapped in bed sheets.
She leads him through the blue door of her house, there’s tan lines on her body, her voice is a whisper, and her name curls up at the bottom of his throat.
He knows it’s a bad decision, he knows it the first time, the second time, and he knows it even when he loses count. He knows it’s a lost cause, he knows it’s only going to bring pain, and sadness, and guilt. He knows no one will like the aftermath. But it’s a mercurial high, a drug that only works a few hundred times.
Sometimes he gets lost in the days and in the nights, and he finds himself thinking about how his life could have turned out had he not been Bellamy Blake. Maybe something like what was happening with Gina. Sweet. Light. Carefree. But it’s fleeting thoughts, and he also feels bad about them. He has a responsibility to the people in his life, it’s not fair to them to be so selfish.
Besides, these thoughts always disappear the moment his phone rings and he hears Clarke’s voice. There’s one good thing about being Bellamy Blake, after all.
He sits alone on the beach in the quiet morning, and talks with her.
He watches people moving around the busy night streets from the terrace of his aunt’s house, and talks with her.
He laughs at dumb jokes she sends him and snaps quick pictures that remind him of her to tell her he misses her.
He does.
One night, Gina asks if he’ll call, after, if he...
She knows he won’t. He knows she won’t either, because she respects his choice, as wrong to her as it is. He can’t immediately put it into words: a part of him– the one who had always wanted to run away, the irrational, impulsive, emotional one– is dying to say yes, yes I’m staying, I don’t care, but it’s dangerous daydreaming and he has given into his worst intentions for far too long already. And he cares. He cares about Octavia, he cares about his mom, and most of all– most of all, he feels like he’s missing something here. And it’s not fair, not to Gina, not to him, but he always feels like that when Clarke is not around. But how can he explain it to Gina? Sweet, loyal, Gina. He struggles to explain it to himself. He feels like the biggest asshole in the world.
“Forget it”, her voice is small.
I’m sorry, he wants to say.
Gina hides her face into his chest.
***
When he’s back in town and sees Clarke again, Bellamy feels his heart slow down to a calm, serene pace. He hadn’t even realized it was racing like crazy, all those weeks. And then she smiles and runs to hug him, and his heartbeat is rapid again. The smell of her shampoo in his nostrils when he presses a light kiss on the top of her head is so familiar to him, that he suddenly feels like everything is back in its rightful place.
All those times he had hoped to be someone else during the summer– those thoughts vanish as soon as he locks eyes with Clarke. He wouldn’t give up on what they have for anything in the world, and he had promised to himself, years and years before, that nothing would break them apart.
They talk, she asks about his summer, and for some reason he decides not to tell her about Gina. He tells himself that it’s because she won’t care anyway, and that it’s pointless– he and Gina opened the parenthesis and closed it consensually- but he can’t help but think that maybe there’s another reason why. But Clarke’s vibrant voice is loud, and she’s telling him about this art show she’s just been to, showing him pictures, her eyes are lively (“This is me and the artist, she’s a genius, believe me– what is it?”, “I didn’t say anything”, “You think I’m crazy”, “Not crazy. A little pathetic, maybe– ouch, leave my arm alone!”), and he just forgets about it. Bellamy forgets about everything else when he’s with Clarke.
One day she feels off, she’s been this way for a couple of days actually. She doesn't meet his eyes, there’s a coldness in the room where they're studying that threatens to chill him to the bone. Then a question, “So, who’s Gina?”. Bellamy feels like a bucket of ice has been dropped on his body, and Clarke still doesn't look at him. When she does, the hurt in her eyes is just too evident to be ignored.
He’s taken aback, he doesn’t know what to say, he feels sirens in his ears, they echo in the beat of his heart. He knows he should just explain, but he can’t find the right words, and then the worst ones fire out of his mouth, aiming straight for her soul. He feels everything around him crumble as Clarke’s devastation leaves her open mouthed. He stands up, quickly covers the distance between them, but she steps back, a horrified look on her face that pierces right through his heart. She runs away, and he doesn’t follow her.
He walks back home, mind reeling, hands shaking, he can’t understand what just happened, and decides to give her some time before calling her. The longest they have gone without talking was for two days the previous year, and on the third she had shown up at his house, sullen and with a batch of homemade cookies in her arms. She had put a movie on and settled on his couch. She had stayed silent the whole time, but her head was on his shoulder when the movie had come to an end.
Now it’s day five, and she hasn’t shown up.
He starts texting. He calls, again and again. There’s no answer.
School starts, it’s senior year and they’ll sit together in homeroom class like they’ve done for ages. But he walks in the room on the first day, and she’s not there.
Bellamy falls into a devastating spiral of pain and emptiness. He can’t understand what happened between them. He feels guilty, and can’t pretend that everything’s okay for everyone else’s sake around him, not this time.
***
Clarke’s birthday comes around. The countdown rings in his brain, even though the days pass one after the other, hollow and sad. The Monday of her birthday week, Bellamy finds a piece of paper on his desk in homeroom class: the invitation to her party. He stares at it, unable to even touch it. It’s the first contact she had made with him in… he doesn’t even know how long now. He hands it over to Murphy when he arrives.
“I think it’s for the both of us, actually.”
“There would have been two.”
“Griffin the ecologist printing out two sheets of paper for two people who are likely to see them at the same time? I thought you knew her.”
He does know her, that’s why he knows that “Griffin the ecologist” would have just sent out a group text. She hasn’t. She printed it and put it on their desk because, this way, it would have looked like he was invited to her party as well.
Bellamy knows he wouldn’t have gotten the text.
“Ouch”, when will I learn to shave without cutting myself? I should have just kept the beard. The face looking back at me in the mirror looks like the one of a preteen. And my eye circles are showing, they’re even more visible like this. Maybe Octavia should put makeup on my face, that would make me look less dead than this. But do I really care? It would probably melt away with the tears anyway… yeah, I’m not ashamed to admit that. I already feel them prickling my eyes. Do I still have tears? I thought I ran out of those something like three weeks ago. My eyes burn as the rising sun shines its light on me. The sky is incredible, the colors beautiful, pinkish and purplish, ultraviolet is the right word, I’m gonna take a picture and send it to–
Clarke. Her name causes a lump to form in my throat that it’s a struggle to swallow. I close my eyes, it’s all a nightmare, wake up, just wake up. But it’s not a nightmare, it’s reality. And there’s no waking up from it. I never thought it would be possible to miss someone this badly. And I’m sick of being sick. She’s throwing a stupid party and she made sure I saw her stupid invitation, so I’ll put on a stupid shirt, I’ll shave this stupid beard, I’ll grab a stupid present, and I’ll tell her stupid friends that yes, I can give them a lift, no problem, I’ll be there, yeah everything’s okay between us, we’ve just beeen busy. And I’ll find her, I’ll look at her in the eyes, I’ll take her face in my hands, I’ll apologize and I’ll beg her to forgive me. I’ll tell her I miss her, and that I’m the biggest dumbass who has ever lived, and that I don’t know how to navigate life without her, and that I don’t wanna be sad anymore, and that the only thing I wanna do is make it up to her. And we’ll clear the air and we’ll be okay.
But… what if she doesn’t want me there? Maybe I shouldn’t go. I can still bail. I can still text Murphy and blame it on my mom. It wouldn’t be the first time, and it’s not like he can check. What if Clarke sees me and turns the other way– again? What if she tells me to leave– again? I don’t think I’d be able to cope with that, not when I’m already torn in tiny pieces, not when I feel like my whole self is just a crumpled up piece of paper lying around, used and then forgotten without a second thought.
My breathing is shaky. Enough, Bellamy, get it together. You have a well laid plan, you’re going and you’ll talk to her. She’s not going to make a scene in front of so many people, and not after all this time anyway– hopefully. You’ll tell her everything, maybe she even expects you to show up, maybe it’s a test, you can’t be sure. It wouldn’t be so shocking, Clarke has the tendency to get confrontational sometimes. I just hope she won’t unleash her fury on me this time.
***
“You guys go, I’ll look for a parking spot”, I tell Murphy and the others. When they all step out of the car though, Murphy stays behind.
I was wondering when he’d say something, actually. I’ve been treating him like shit every morning since the beginning of the year, and he knows that it was about the switch. He must have realized that whatever happened between me and Clarke was serious, because he never taunted me, or made fun of my less than enthusiastic mood. Murphy is an asshole, but he’s also smart and perceptive. And now we’re here, after I told him I wouldn’t be coming and then changed my mind last minute. He looks like he’s pondering what to say and how to say it, and it’s making me more agitated than I already am.
“Murphy, for God’s sake, just say what you want to say.”
“Just... you’re here, at the risk of causing a scene in front of everyone because Clarke didn’t technically invite you, so she could very well throw you out and not speak with you ever again.”
“Your point?”
“She must be pretty important to you.”
My hands squeeze the steering wheel so tightly that I feel my nails scratching the rubber material.
“She is.”
***
Clarke’s mansion is huge in front of me, and I feel my heart pounding in my throat, it’s like drums shaking my whole body. I think I’ll burst if I try to draw one deep breath. I need to calm down. It’s going to be okay. I can do this. It’s not ending like this between us. I’m not letting it end like this, not without fighting for it first– for us. No more theorizing, no more planning, no more dreaming about what happens when she sees my face again.
The lawn in front of her house is full of people, some I know, some I don’t; but I don’t care about any of them, I only care about finding Clarke. I don’t know what she’s going to say or how she’s going to react but–
I see her. She’s laughing. Actually, I hear her laugh before even seeing her– I could recognize that sound anywhere.
A moment later, she sees me. Her face closes off immediately. I hate being the one that makes her stop laughing.
She excuses herself from her friends and heads towards me.
I should go. What if she tells me to go fuck myself? This was a mistake. I turn around pretending I got a phone call, when a small hand wraps around my wrist. And I would know it’s her even blindfolded. Is this what it feels like to draw a new breath after having almost drowned? She leads me to the back garden, her skin leaving flames on mine before she removes her fingers from my wrist. It’s a struggle not to grab her hand back.
She’s looking at me and her eyes are so blue. So blue. They’re light in the middle, around the pupil, and they get darker on the outside, and she has white flakes in them. I don’t think I’ll ever see this shade of blue in anyone else– I don’t even want to see any other shade of blue but this one. Hers. She’s waiting for me to talk and I remember about the present I quickly wrapped earlier in the day.
“Happy birthday”, I extend my hand towards her. She grabs the small package and puts it on a nearby table. She doesn’t even look at it but she’ll love it, I know she will. It’s one of her favourite painter’s originals, I found a deal over the summer and I bought it without telling her, as a surprise. I take a deep breath. Now or never, Bellamy.
“Clarke, I’m sorr– can you please not roll your eyes and look at me?” I just want her to lay her armor down and say she doesn’t want to fight, but no, she has to make that face. I know that face pretty well. Shit, this is already not going as planned.
“I’m not in the mood for a scene.”
“Oh, sorry princess,” yeah, raise that eyebrow, you think I care about manners, “if I barged in and ruined your little, nice, perfect party, which you didn’t even bother to invite me to, by the way.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Fuck you, Clarke!” No, I’m not letting her walk away from this. “I’m here to tell you that I’ve been feeling like shit! That these last few weeks have been hell, that I don’t even know why you’re mad at me because you won’t tell me, but that, whatever I did, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, okay?” Something in her eyes flickers. Maybe not everything is lost. “I didn’t mean what I said. I know it was the last straw for you and I’m mortified, but it’s not what I meant, and you know it, I know you know it. And… if we have a problem we need to talk about it. If that problem is what happened with Gina, then I’ll tell you everything about it– I don’t even know why I didn’t tell you in the first place. But I’m here now, to tell you that I’m sorry that I hurt you, but I can’t…” My voice breaks, tears are pooling at the corners of my eyes, and I can’t help it. “I can’t go on like this, without you. And if this silent treatment was some kind of punishment then, well, message received, I’m miserable, and I feel like I’ve lost you, and I don’t wanna lose you, and this, what I have with you. You’re too important to me, and I just don’t want you to go.” I knew I was going to cry. “I feel like I’m losing my mind, Clarke. I don’t know how to live without you.”
She’s silent, looking at my hand wrapped around her wrist. I don’t know when I grabbed it, but I feel like this is the last tether connecting us. If she decides to shrug it off then… There’s a heavy lump in my throat. Don’t do this, Clarke. Please. I feel like I can’t breathe. Maybe I’m squeezing too hard. But I can’t let go, I won’t. Will she?
“What do you expect me to say?”
No. No. Fuck.
I think I’m shivering, my brain has abandoned every rational control on my body.
“That we’ll be fine? You want me to tell you that it’s all water under the bridge, and that I’ll just forget about everything? That it’s not your fault, that I’m the one who blew things out of proportion?” Her eyes are shimmering. “You’re right about one thing, though, I didn’t tell you the real reason why I was mad at you, and that’s because it scares the shit out of me to admit it. But here goes fucking nothing, right? I got mad because you didn’t bother to share with me, your best friend, something that made you indubitably happy, yes. But, more than that, because you spent a whole summer with another girl, while I was… I was…”
She’s choking up on her own words. She can’t be saying what I think she is. It’s impossible, it’s something I’ve deleted from my mind a long time ago. It’s something that’s never going to happen. Right?
“You were… what, Clarke?”
“Don’t make me say it,” she whispers. She’s crying and I hate myself.
“Clarke, I–”
“You broke my heart, Bellamy. At some point, I stopped wanting you just as a best friend, without even realizing it. And then I found out, in the worst way possible, that it’s definitely not like that for you, and never will be.”
Not like that for me. Not like that for me.
Clarke sits down. Falls, really; then her head is in her hands, and she’s shaking, and I just stand here like the complete idiot I am, unable to utter a word. Not like that for me– she must be joking. It’s been like that for me for longer than I can remember. Since we were children, probably. But then we became this whole other thing, she became my best friend, she started to go out with other people, and I made myself stop thinking about her in that way, even though every time she locked eyes with me I felt the same emotion spark again intensely, bursting in me from the inside. But I couldn’t lose her. I couldn’t lose the happiness, the colors, and the brightness she brought into my pale, gray life, because what if she walked away if I told her? So I suppressed it over and over again, I made sure it died a million little times, and eventually I buried it so deep that I managed to forget. And now she…
Her shoulders are trembling violently now. I drop to my knees to take her hands, touch her face, anything to make her stop crying. Please, Clarke, stop, we’re on the same page, I try to scream, but nothing comes out of my mouth, I’m surrounded by her sobs piercing the chilly autumn air. I want to scream, it is like that for me!, and oh my God, it startles me. This is like opening a new notebook and looking at the fresh blank paper, ready for a thousand possibilities.
This changes everything.
“Clarke, I…” What is it that she said? Here goes fucking nothing. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to know. About Gina. And I told myself that it was because it was none of your business and you probably didn’t even care, but the truth is that... I don’t know how to say this, I just… I didn’t want to tell you because it’s not true that it’s not like that for me. I... I think, no, I’m sure it’s exactly like that for me.”
A moment passes. Then another, and another. She slowly lifts her head, and her eyes are a punch to the gut. Beautiful but devastating, reminding me of everything I did wrong. I feel her gaze piercing my soul, and I just want to lean over and feel the softness of her lips on mine. But I can’t, not when she’s looking at me like she is now. Her eyes were never meant to bear so much pain. I slowly bring my hand up to her cheek, and wipe away the tears. Clarke’s eyes flicker shut and she leans on my palm for a moment, and maybe...
She stands up abruptly.
I look at her while she pulls herself together, runs a hand through her hair, and fixes her dress– I remember that dress, I helped her choose it. Her eyes are puffy and red, her nose is running, her hair is a mess, and yet to me she’s the most beautiful she’s ever been.
But beautiful creatures often punish you.
“This isn’t happening.” Her voice is raspy but her words unmistakable.
What.
I stand up slowly, my heart is beating so fast I can only hear its furious pounding in my ears. “What do you mean?”
“This,” her finger moves in the small space between us, going back and forth from me to her.
The great thing about feeling hollow to your core is that, at a certain point, you’ll stop feeling like the world is crumbling around you and you’re going down with it. Because there’s nothing left to be destroyed.
“Not like this.”
“How, then?” Anything, I’ll do anything.
“I don’t know. But this has been…”, her voice cracks, “terrifying. It’s broken me down, and I’m not strong enough to…” No, no. If I tell her now, if I tell her something, anything, she’ll change her mind. I know what she’s about to say, and I try to stop her.
But she knows me too, and isn’t this the cruelest thing of all. “No, Bellamy, this is not the time for some other ‘You’re the strongest person I know’ bullshit, let me talk. I was happy with you. You were my safe space, the only one I could always run to– you know this already. But all of that… it took us a moment to destroy it, to throw it all away. And I’ve been awful, I’ve been so bad, I’ve felt shattered to my core. And now you’re here, saying that it all started because you felt something for me too, but you still… and then you came home and… I just can’t...” I realize two things in that moment that I know will haunt me forever.
Clarke is hugging herself, she’s protecting herself... from me. She’s also struggling with her words. And Clarke never struggles with her words.
“Please, don’t say something about love that’s too strong and that’s going to break us apart.” My voice is a whisper. It feels like these are the last words I will ever say.
We’re not supposed to end like this. Not us.
Her chin trembles slightly. She’s looking at me when she speaks, and it seems she’s reading the last page of the world’s most famous tragedy: “It already has.”