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You knew it was coming. Perhaps the fact that it was gradual was why it hurt more. Would it have hurt this much if you'd just ripped the bandaid off? Were you perhaps just back to your old habits? Staying so long that it was joy they left, because of all the time they had to hurt you?
You truly didn't know.
He'd been coming by your apartment more often, Gaster was still stuck there. They would sit on the couch and talk.
At first, it was sweet. Old lovers. Then you felt more like a child at the adults table.
At first you'd simply excuse yourself to the bathroom. Fifteen minutes later, when you would show back up, they wouldn't say a word. None of Gaster's sarcastic, "drown in there?" Quips. You'd slowly backed further and further away, hurt that they'd not noticed, and confused as to why you kept on hurting yourself with the knowledge.
Slowly the bathroom trios were bedroom trips. Kitchen trips, too. Thirty minutes, then an hour.
Gaster had just requested you give Grillby the spare key. You obliged.
Now you sit at a café. It had started as trips to the corner store. Grabbing drinks for you and Gaster, snacks for you all.
You hadn't even bothered to go home yet. You knew you would before Grillby left. Just to see if they noticed. And surely they would this time, but you're sure you'll just lie.
You can't quite keep away. It hurts, but a quick ruffle of your hair from Gaster has those feelings sinking away. They come back moments later, as he excuses himself to the couch, but at least they leave.
You wouldn't call it a drug. Not at all. The weed in your drawers is more pleasant. It doesn't hurt when you don't smoke it. Nor does the nicotine.
You run each moment over and over again in your mind. Before you knew Grillby existed, before you had entered his restaurant. Before you had hesitantly told the bartender that Gaster had shown up in your closet, and couldn't leave. Before you invited the man of fire over.
You knew about his "fear of touch" before you'd met the elemental. Gaster had explained in a long, drawn-out retelling of their "love story" how Grillby was afraid. Losing his temper meant losing control of his temperature. That slip in control could hurt more than his countertops. And it had.
You hadn't expected touch, but perhaps you had hoped for it. Even more so when you saw the way he clung to Gaster.
It had never happened. It never will. As soon as Gaster fully fades into existence, and is no longer attached to your apartment, they'll both leave you. Gaster will live at Grillby's, and you'll never visit the restaurant again.
Except, one part of you fears, they'll know where you live. You don't know about Grillby, but Gaster is determined (and a tad paranoid). A few missed calls and ignored texts, and he'll be at your door.
And then you'll somehow have to explain the obvious.
"Yes Gaster. You kissing me, confiding in me and then just leaving? Fucking hurt, dude."
And maybe he'd bring Grillby. And that information would make Grillby upset, wouldn't it? Not to mention, it's just an awkward thing to say with company. So maybe you wouldn't say it.
Maybe you could close the door in his face? But that's too dramatic. And lying to him would hurt, but you're not out of the practice by any means.
You'd just tell him you're okay. Busy. Promotion. Moving out soon.
And maybe you would move. Maybe you wouldn't.
Back to your hometown. Not quite a small one. Not quite a city either. All the teens know each other, but not an adult has a clue.
You zone back in momentarily. At the shaking of your hands and the jerking of your chest, you try to zone out again. Thinking about it is easier than feeling it.
And you're in a public place.
But tears are blurring your vision, your coffee liquefied and white in your eyes.
Each breath comes out ragged and short.
Your chest keeps jerking with every breath.
You so desperately want to end it, but crying feels more freeing.
You make your way to stand up. There's a bathroom.
Your leg catches on the seat of the booth, making a sound.
It sounds loud, you're not sure if it is.
It feels like everyone is staring. You don't know if they are.
Everything's a hot blur as you walk, coming to your senses as you close and lock the door.
Stuck in a decorated box, you wheeze for air.
It's too loud, and so are your sobs.
You want to sit on the ground. It's cold, hard. It's refreshing.
And it's probably covered in piss.
You lean in a corner and hug yourself instead. It offers little-to-no comfort. The floor looks so nice.
But instead, you choke on your tears. No form of comfort to give yourself.
Gaster was comforting.
But he didn't want you, he needed you, and he doesn't need you anymore.
And you don't want to walk away.