Chapter Text
Your feet ache, ankles throbbing in pain with each step you take. You’ve lost count of all the street signs you’ve passed, the chipped white lettering barely giving you an inkling of where you are anyway. All you know is that there’s something clawing inside of your chest, and the alleyways are slowly darkening. Graffiti streaks across red brick walls. Trash flutters out from parked cars.
I don’t need your help!
Jason’s words echo, ringing inside your head like a bell. Your temples feel tense, as if bracing for each thunderous shout of those simple words. A lump forms like a sharp pebble in your throat.
“Okay, Jason,” you whisper, choking on the small utterance like it might cleave you in half. You didn’t get to tell him that—didn’t get to say anything at all. The door had slammed shut behind you once he’d said enough, and you hadn’t bothered to wait and see if he’d come racing after you.
He’s never shouted at you before—the most heated your arguments get is a little bit of bite in your tone, but never your voices raising to shake the frame of your psyche.
I don’t need you.
He’d said that in a much quieter voice—something muttered beneath his breath like an afterthought. You heard that and knew you wouldn’t be able to say anymore without breaking down, and that was the last thing you wanted to do. You wouldn’t let him see you like that. You could barely afford to see yourself in such a state. It was demeaning—overwhelming, too.
A shout skewers through your haze of grief-stricken thoughts, and you glance away from your shoes to scan the street. Long shadows stretch across the cracked asphalt as street lamps tower over you like sentinels, bathing a group of teenage boys in sickly yellow light. They skip and prance like zealous predators, voices dipped in the usual ‘bad boy’ drawl, shouting or laughing at jokes you weren’t privy to. Clouds of smoke puffed from many of them, cigarettes tucked between two fingers like modern weapons.
You usually wouldn’t be too bothered if it was one or two, but you could count five easily, and felt caution settle in your stomach like lead.
Smoothly turning into an alleyway littered with overflowing dumpsters and leftover cardboard boxes, you cut through two buildings to reach the next street. The teenagers fade into the background, leaving you behind. Sucking in a breath, you find that your chest is trembling.
“It’s fine,” you say to yourself, breathing out.
That’s all I am! Okay? I’m fine. I don’t need you constantly pestering me about it.
All you’d been was worried. Afraid, even. He’d been coming over less, and you’d sleep through the night without any interruptions. No living room window sliding open, or boots thudding softly onto the ground. At first, Jason left behind notes on the fire escape, taping the yellow square of paper to the metal bars for you to find when you opened the window for the sharp morning air.
They were cute, with handwriting that was overly neat.
Got caught up with something — wanted to let you sleep. Love you.
Though there was the dull ache of disappointment, it made you smile, imagining him taking the time out of his night (early morning) to do that for you. Him, sleepy from work, leaning against the fire escape while he scribbled the note down, before taping it down for you—that was more than what most men are ever willing to do.
But the notes changed, getting shorter in length. Sometimes you gripped the wind-bent paper and felt that he’d done it out of obligation, rather than consideration. It opened up a chasm in your chest, one where your worries began to fall into, slowly taking up space. It made breathing hard, and your days even harder. Then, the notes stopped entirely.
You went a whole month without hearing anything from him, and tonight was the first night that he finally showed up. No note, but his face cast in moonlight as he rapped on the frame of your window, waiting with shifting feet.
You weren’t expecting the hot feeling inside your chest. A molten ache of loneliness that made itself present when he climbed into your apartment, flashing a white grin that would usually have your knees weak. No, you were surprised when tears already burned at the back of your eyes, though you refused to let them fall.
“Hey, doll,” Jason murmured, stepping towards you to wrap an arm around your neck, pulling your face into him. Gunpowder and leather overwhelmed your senses, and the usual warmth pouring out from him felt suffocating. You wrapped your arms around his waist, but you couldn’t bring yourself to hold on tight.
Jason pressed his lips to your scalp. “How ‘ave you been?”
“Fine,” you answered quietly, grateful that you could hide your face from him. You knew that what you were saying silently would be obvious in the way your brows were bunched together, and how you were chewing on the inside of your cheek.
“Jus’ fine?”
“Yeah—I was actually making dinner.”
“Ah,” Jason pulled away, his arm slipping from you. It felt cold suddenly, like icy teeth were nibbling on your skin. You smiled wanly, watching as he glanced at the kitchen—at the stovetop where vegetables were simmering in an oil-slick pan.
It was strange. Where was your enthusiasm? Where was the joy that bubbled inside you like liquid sunlight? And why were his eyes so bloodshot?
You know for a fact that you didn’t mean to be overbearing. All you asked was if he was okay. What had he been up to? Why hadn’t he called? Texted? Why did the notes stop?
Had you done something without even realising?
Maybe you should have realised he was already fraying around the edges.
Maybe you should have realised that he wasn’t ready to come face to face with something that ached to love him when he’d spent a whole month fighting people who didn’t.
“Jason, come on. I can tell that you’re more than tired,” you stressed, hands falling to your sides. You watched as he scrubbed a harsh hand down his face. He didn’t know it, but the lines beneath his eyes seemed to deepen just as the chasm split through you.
“Doll,” he said quietly, with something dancing along the edge of viscous. “I promise you, nothing is wrong. I am fine.”
“Then why’d you disappear on me?”
“I was busy!”
“You look terrible.”
“Gee, thanks for that, doll. Really sweet of you.”
“I’m just worried.”
“Yeah, sure you are.”
It spiralled and you weren’t able to stop it. Each new word said was worse than the last—bitter with something neither of you had tried to acknowledge. Since when were you so distant from each other?
Sirens whoop in the distance, and a cold front of wind pushes against you. If only it could seep inside of you and reach for the heat settled between your lungs. If only it could freeze whatever ugly, wailing mess was lingering just beneath the surface of the calm you’d forced on yourself when you walked out of the apartment.
Feeling like a pair of eyes are digging holes into your back, you speed up your pace. A crossroad up ahead is lit with headlights, streaks of light burning through the air as cars zip by, while others are kept at a standstill behind changing traffic lights. You walk up to the pedestrian crossing, glancing up at the little red walking man.
“Lovely,” you mutter, and you wait with the tips of your shoes hanging over the edge of the curb. Swallowing thickly, you look over your shoulder. There’s no one walking up the street. No cloaked figure or rowdy teenage boys. In fact, it looks empty. The only thing keeping the quiet buildings company being the cars sitting dormant and dark in front of thin strips of grass and concrete steps leading into homes. It’s just you and the rush of light traffic, and the little red walking man.
And it hits you like a car—you’re alone, and so is Jason. You left and he let you leave. Is he still at your apartment? What happens when you go back?
“We’re gonna ruin this,” you say softly, breathlessly—like it’s a confession. It’s most certainly the truth.
Frantically, you look around. Lights glaring from cars has your head throbbing with pain, but you find what you’re looking for. A phone booth sits at the edge of the opposite street, and your heart jumps like a bird catching flight. You don’t bother checking for upcoming traffic or whether or not the little red walking man has turned green. You dash across the street, feeling your throat seize with panic and despair and desperation all at once.
You don’t even hear the screeching tires and the horn blaring at you.
Rushing into the booth, the smell of urine and cigarette smoke nearly has you gagging, but you reach for the phone anyway. With it balanced between your ear and your shoulder, you fish around in your pocket from your wallet (something you’d learned to bring with you everywhere in case of emergencies like these). With shaking fingers, you manage to find a couple of quarters and you feed it into the machine. Punching the numbers, you call your apartment's landline.
As you wait, hearing the ring vibrate against your ear, the outside world feels muted. Dull in comparison to the tempest raging inside of you.
You’re worried, but you’re also angry. You're panicking, but you’re also bitter. You want Jason, but his words still sting. You’re a walking juxtaposition and it’s setting your teeth on edge. Maybe all you need is to hear his voice and the pieces will fall into place and you’ll realise what exactly you need to say.
But Jason doesn’t answer, and the phone rings another two times before falling silent with a resolute ping.
You scare yourself when you slam the phone back into place with a hissed curse, though it doesn’t latch on properly and falls, dangling by its springy chord. You rush out into the open, sucking in fresh air into your aching chest.
“Damn it, Jason…” you whisper, and your vision swims as tears blur the endless sweep of pale light from traffic, and the bird in your chest begins to brutally beat itself to death. If he wasn’t picking up the phone, that means he’s not there anymore.
Why are you both leaving? Why are you two—people meant to love each other—both walking out of the same apartment without searching for the other? Without waiting. Without so much as a goodbye.
Shaking, you bring your fist to your mouth as a choked sob breaks inside of you, spilling out in a harsh heave for air.
"Oh, gosh—” you sputter, and the world feels like it’s spinning. Engines are roaring and it’s too loud inside your ears, droning like airplanes sweeping right above you. The lights are too bright and the little red walking man is stuck. He won’t turn green.
What is happening?