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Goosebumps wracked Albert’s body like static shivers, emotions spasming under the duress. As his limbs went limp in the bed— under the covers, where his only solace was Jake’s voice playing in his earbuds— Albert knew he was utterly screwed. He was pathetic like this.
Tears dried over his cheeks like patchwork. His cracking lips, dry with the matte sheen of dead skin, gave a quiver before the heel of his palms came up to rub at his eyes.
He was seeing colours now; even in the dark confines of his room, where laying on his back, it looked like all four walls were beginning to blend together in a disgusting metamorphosis of misery. Was there even any point in texting him? Would he even bother to read? Or– or even reply, if Albert was lucky.
But Jake is the one who screwed all this up… so why is Albert the one taking the brunt of the situation? Why is he the one with his arms firm at his sides, staring into an all-knowing ceiling, with Jake’s newest videos on repeat like a teenage girl listening to voice notes?
Whatever.
There’s a thought that lingers, but Albert doesn’t have the courage to confront it. He can’t— because it would mean that everything he’s feeling, and that everything Jake must’ve felt, too— is real. Realer than an awkward pause on call. Realer than a slip-up during a recording. Realer than their kiss at RDC.
Whatever, he thinks. I wish I never met you.
But Jake will be back by next Saturday.