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You wish he didn’t care.
You wish he’d just scream at you over the phone, leave, and disappear into the night.
That would be easier than sitting with your back turned to him, three minute long silence stretching through the apartment.
Right about now, you should be mid-kiss outside the community theatre with flowers loosely held in your sore hands, mind whirring about the plans to come.
But you’re not. You’re replaying the sound of his keys hitting that dumb little ceramic trinket dish you two thrifted together; the sound of him struggling to take his shoes off.
You pull your knees to your chest, looking out at the city. When you were little, you used to imagine each little light had a story, that each person was doing something cool, like getting a job they always wanted, or having their first kiss.
You never once imagined that bad things could happen in the light of New York City.
Stupid. You felt incredibly stupid.
At least you were allowed to be a dumb little kid. You shouldn’t have been surprised that Tom missed your show.
The light was out in your home tonight.
He’d taken his first step forward, you could hear, as the floorboards groaned softly as he hesitantly approached you as if the mere idea of being near you would cause you to snap.
Would you? You didn’t know. Maybe it would feel good to scream. Deep down, you knew that shouting would do nothing but cause Tom to only curve inward on himself farther. No spine, only a need to patch a bullet hole before the gun even fired.
”… nothing I can say will… excuse what I did,” he muttered quietly. The wind whistled outside the window. You watch a newspaper flutter by, illuminated by the street lamp.
”… but… but I really need you to look at me,” he choked out. He was misty already. “Please.”
He didn’t do anything for you, so why should you bother?
He sighed, the sound of his jacket rustling a clear indication that he was fiddling with his arms.
He breathed your name, daring to take a step closer. The wind stopped whistling. The world held its breath. The city lights went unnoticed.
You bit the inside of your cheek, shifting on the couch to face him.
He looked exactly how you’d imagined. Hair messed up from the wind and his habit of fixing it, brows upwards and furrowed together, eyes slightly glassy. He sniffed, tilting his head.
”I’m.. sorry—“ he croaked, and you just shook your head.
”That doesn’t matter to me, Tom,” you whispered. He visibly winced as if the shards of his heart were stabbing his chest.
”You broke a promise,” you said simply. “I’ve been begging for your attention like a desperate dog for weeks now, and you couldn’t take a single second—“
”I tried, okay?! I really did! But— But Derek, he— he needed me to write another song and Julia wasn’t cooperating—“ he pleaded. You slowly stood up.
”I called you a million times,” you said firmly.
”My… phone died,” he said meekly.
”Did you even fuckin’ think of me during rehearsal?”
”I think of you every second of my life—“ he cried, you stamped forward.
“Then you would’ve bothered to actually do something, Tom! You always swear you care about things, but when it conflicts with Marilyn, you always choose the damn show,” you scoffed, gesturing dramatically.
”It’s Bombshell,” he corrected shakily. You kept your finger pointed at him.
”I can’t keep doing this,” you sniffed, shoving past him to get into the bedroom.
”Baby, please…” he pleaded, gripping onto the doorframe like he could pry it open for a solution.
”’Please’ what, Tom? Stay with you? If that’s what you’re begging for, you can forget about it,” you sighed, pulling open a drawer. “I am fed up with feeling like I’m in third place.”
”I—“
”I’ve been in third place my entire fucking life, Tom,” you sobbed. “I’m doing this—“ you gesture to everything and nothing at once— “to feel wanted. To have eyes on me, to get attention, to be praised, to be seen.”
“Let me talk,” he uttered, holding his hands out defensively. Something twisted deep in your gut. You sniffed, wiping aggressively at your eyes.
”I did everything I could to show up tonight, baby, I really did,” he frowned.
“I need you to know that,” he continued softly, yet you couldn’t hear the wind anymore. “It’s been… it’s been kicking my ass, and… and I’ve been so overwhelmed but too goddamn prideful to ask for help. But, I promised you that once it was over that’d I’d spend every day watching that shitty horror movie you somehow like.. and singing showtunes.”
”Tom—“ you cried, and he held out his hand.
”Please,” he begged.
“… I’ve been coming home late, acting like a crabby dick.. and.. and breaking promises,” he bit his lip, stepping further into the room.
”… but, you know that isn’t me.”
”You still missed my show,” you said as if every breath of air had been stolen from your lungs.
He nodded, tear tracks glistening in the moonlight. “I did,” he admitted.
”And I’m mad at you,” you continued on, balling your fists up tight.
”You have every right to,” he whispered. “But, you need to get that it isn’t on purpose.”
You held up a shirt in your hands, the grey fabric pooling between your fingers.
A shitty Midsummer Night’s Dream cast shirt. It had to be a couple of years old, as it was a shirt you both shared since the first time you hooked up. You ran a thumb over the hole in the collar. It was in rough shape, but it was still yours and his.
He said your name softly and you looked over to him.
”I wish we could re-do it all,” he whispered, walking in front of you.
”Why?” You clutched the shirt tighter.
”… just to… see your face when you really loved me. Just one more time,” he stammered.
You furrowed your brows, your throat tightening.
“… what’re you gonna end up choosing, Tom?” You shook your head, meeting his eyes.
”I don’t want to choose.”
”You never do.”
He wet his lips, nodding.
”… and I don’t wanna do this either,” he frowned, releasing a few more tears.
”What am I supposed to do, stay here and act like nothing happened?”
”We’re talking it out, doesn’t that help?” He pleaded quietly.
You closed your eyes tightly, scrambling for the right thing to say.
”You should’ve been there,” you sniffled again.
”I know. I tried really damn hard to get there, honey,” he whispered.
”I looked around for you. Like a lost little kid,” you sighed. He frowned, wiping his face.
“I have flowers, I have my lips, and I have that dvd in the same spot it always is,” he breathed.
”It’s not the same,” you cried quietly.
”Please,” he whimpered, but you both knew he was begging for nothing.
”I have to, I need to. I can’t keep going on like this,” you sighed, turning back towards the drawers. You felt his hand shoot out and grab your forearm.
”What can I do, babe, please? I’ll do anything—“ he choked.
”Maybe if you find a way to re-do it all,” was all you said, grabbing your hairbrush off of nightstand.
”Come see Bombshell in a month. Our last performance, and.. and then it’ll all be over,” he begged through sobs, following you around the apartment like a lost dog.
”To what? To see the thing that stole my boyfriend?” You muttered exasperatedly, marching towards the entry.
“To see me again,” he bawled. “Please, see me again.”
You exhaled, placing your hands on his shoulders. He reduced to small hiccups.
”Tom, I love you—“ you began.
”I love you too, I love you more than Bombshell, than songwriting, than any of it,” he choked.
”Then prove it to me,” you said firmly.
He froze, blinking tears out of his lashes.
”I— I can’t, I don’t know how to—“
You sighed, looking away. The reality of the situation sunk in when you looked back at the door.
”Get your act together, literally, and take a break for once,” you swallowed, grabbing the doorknob.
”And if I lose my Tom to the one thing that was supposed to make him unique—“
”Please, I don’t want you to—“ he cried.
”At the end of Bombshell, we’ll see each other again for the first time,” you murmured. “Maybe then I’ll forgive you.”
”Maybe then I’ll have it all figured out,” he breathed, eyes wide as he watched you close the door.