if i see one fucking frozen reference i'm deleting my wattpad

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     Jamie gasped as I grabbed him from behind, tucking my arms around his waist and sending the both of us stumbling several steps. He turned around to face me, hooking his arms around my neck, and kissed me up on his toes.

     It was a Friday night, and it was raining. I had asked Jamie to meet me on the football field -- for old times' sake.

     I needed the getaway. He did, too. Because, in all honesty, things had been getting bad for us lately. For both of us, individually.

     Jamie was doing better in school, but the tole it took on him was obvious, and his fading withdrawal symptoms didn't help. I knew that when he was alone, sometimes he sank really, really low. My situation sure as hell hadn't gotten any better, either. It seemed to get worse every week, and I still hadn't told a soul what I was dealing with. We were both spiraling, and we could both see it happening, but there wasn't much either of us could do. On our own, we were pretty damn miserable.

     But in moments like these -- when together was all we had to be for a few seconds or minutes or hours -- we put two bads side-by-side and made a good. I always felt like I was at an all time high when I was alone with Jamie, and I was certain he felt the same with me, so we stole these little moments whenever we could, using them as an escape from all of the low that followed us the second we separated. And we made these moments as happy as we could -- stupid and giddy and easy -- because we wouldn't get much happy once they ended.

     I caught Jamie by surprise, lifting him off the ground like we were in Dirty Dancing and singing (screaming), "I . . . haaad the time of my liiiife!" Jamie yelped, then laughed, then demanded I put him down, then laughed some more when I didn't, giving in and wrapping his legs around my hips. "No I neeever felt this way before!"

     "You're crazy!" he huffed, running his hands into my rain-soaked hair and pushing his smiling lips against mine.

    "Crazy for you," I said cheekily, earning a snort and a push at my chest in response. "You're so smiley today," I pointed out as I set him down. As if to prove my point, I brought my hand up to hold his cheek, and my thumb traced the grinning outline of his lips. "I wonder why . . . Am I breaking the bad boy?"

     Jamie scoffed. "I'm still, like, ninety-eight percent jackass," he said, and he tried to force down his smile, but when that failed, he gave in and said, "But yeah, you might be, a little bit. You do this . . . this thing."

     "What thing?" I mused, kissing the corner of his mouth.

     "Fuck you," Jamie groaned. "That," he said, nodding his head. "You're you, and that's so annoying, because you make me feel all gross and cheesy and shit, like . . . like, I fucking hate poetry, but I feel like I'd write a whole goddamn song about you. That kind of thing. The lovey shit."

     Jamie's mouth snapped shut as soon as that last part came out. 

     I felt myself frown. Jamie had been so on edge ever since his I love you confession. I could have sworn he'd almost said it again a few times, but he'd caught himself, like he was scared that saying it more than once was pushing his luck. He got all tense and cagey whenever the word came up at all. He even averted his eyes when Vanessa and Bryan said it to each other at lunch.

     He didn't need to be so scared. I wasn't, because his prediction had been right; I didn't believe him. I hadn't said that to him, though. I hadn't said anything at all. Maybe that was why he was so nervous: he didn't know what I was thinking. But, in the most selfish way possible, I wanted him to be nervous. Not enough to hurt . . . just enough to refrain from saying it again. Because then he couldn't fool himself further.

     I kissed his forehead to reassure him that it was okay. "You should write the song," I mused, satisfied to feel him relax. "I feel like you're a closet artist."

     Jamie scoffed. "I'm not a closet anything. Believe me, if I had any sense of rhythm at all, you'd know by now."

     "Not true. You're a closet romantic."

      "And you're a closet dumbass," Jamie said with an unconvincing roll of his eyes.

    "Nah-ah," I protested childishly. "That's not a secret to anyone."

     "You're annoying," he said, and he was getting less believable by the second. He'd lost his touch with his defensive facade. Either his mask had fallen off, or I'd finally shaken my blindfold. "Shut up."

     "Should I tell you to make me?" I toyed, sliding my hands beneath his shirt to hold the small of his back. Maybe it was the rain, but his skin felt invitingly warm; so much warmer than anybody would expect from him. Jamie was so much warmer than anyone would expect from him. Warmer than the world gave him credit for. I struggled to remember how I had so easily been fooled into believing he was cold-hearted. All I'd needed was to take a second (and third, and forth, and probably fifth) look at him. "Or would that be too cliche?"

     Chuckling, Jamie pressed himself closer to me and took the sides of my face in his hands to draw me in. "God, you're aggravating," he mumbled. He raised his chin to close the space between our lips, and I leaned into it like he was magnetic, but before I could feel him, he added in a whisper, "And captivating. You're so fucking captivating."

     "Kiss me," I muttered like I needed it; I felt like I needed it. He was fast to comply, and when his lips pushed against mine, I had to dig my fingers into his hips to keep myself standing. He was captivating.

     We stayed out there for as long as we could get away with. With the rain and the breeze, it was chilly, but we were all wrapped up in each other.

     "Alright, I have to go," Jamie said eventually, reluctance in his words as he leaned away from me. Sighing, he absentmindedly slid his hands into my back pockets. "I promised Pip I'd try to see her tonight -- the poor thing's staying up for me. "

     "Mkay," I said, and I guess I was pouting, because Jamie snickered and flicked at my lips. "Ow! You're a bitch."

     "You're a baby," he smirked. "You leaving or staying?"

     "Staying for a bit," I said with a shrug. "Tell Penelope I say hi."

     "Will do," he promised. "By the way, she told me to thank you for the ice cream last weekend."

     "She thanked me in person, like, two-hundred times," I chuckled. "She's the cutest."

     "Yeah, she gets it from me."

     "I don't doubt that."

     Jamie rolled his eyes, gave me one last quick kiss (or, it would've been quick, but he was all-too easy to distract), and untangled himself from me. I watched him go -- the moon seemed to follow him like a spotlight, or maybe that was just me -- until his slender form disappeared.

     When he was gone, I lowered myself onto the grass, laying down on my back and resting my hands on my stomach. As I watched the blinking lights of a plane pass overhead, I couldn't really manage to pull my thoughts away from him -- he stayed at the front of my mind, smiling in my head, and I found myself smiling, too. It was insane to think that this Jamie Alexander -- the kid who, just some months ago, had been nothing to me but an ill-tempered brat who was fun to make out with -- was now the boy that I thought about when I sat, rain-happy, in the middle of an empty field.

     Already, I wished he was back. Back on the grass, back next to me, back in my arms. It was almost pathetic -- I felt lonely when he wasn't around. No one made me giddy like he did. No one made me want to give so much of myself.

     My smile faltered. Slowly, I pushed myself upright, sitting with my legs out in front of me, and narrowed my eyes into the blurry night ahead. Jamie was probably halfway home by now. He was probably listening to some edgy music, driving with his windows down despite the weather, his hair flying all around his face. He was probably thinking of me.

     But that didn't mean I needed to think about him. Not constantly, and not like this -- like I couldn't even enjoy myself without him.

     I tried to focus on something else. The rain. Stevie. Football. Bryan and Vanessa. But my thoughts kept cycling back, like a Frisbee that somehow got twisted into a boomerang, and I couldn't get him out of my head.

     That pissed me off.

     I kept seeing his laugh; his little one, the one he always tried to hide. And when I licked my suddenly-dry lips, I felt the shadow of his pressed against them. I clasped my hands together in exasperation, but it didn't feel as good as when I held his.

     The rain and wind felt colder around me. I pulled my legs close as a shudder passed up my spine, even though the cold had never bothered me before, wishing -- as much as I didn't want to -- that Jamie was here, so I could hold him and warm myself up.

     Then I heard his voice, too -- even though he was miles away, playing in secret with his sister. His voice when he said my name. His voice when he called me an idiot, or an asshole, or big guy . . . or sweet, or amazing, or captivating. His voice when he said,

     "I know you won't believe this, but I'm pretty sure I'm in love with you."

     "And I like you," I murmured to myself, hanging my head. "I like you a lot. But that's it, and that's all it's ever going to be."

     But I wasn't convincing anyone. Not Jamie, who had probably forgotten me by now. Not the stars above my head; I cast my eyes up, and they seemed to frown at me -- or maybe they were mocking me, smirking because I'd fallen into their trap. And not myself -- I definitely wasn't convincing myself.

     "Shit," I hissed, because, right then, 'like' was morphing into a different four-letter L-word. I rose to my feet, telling myself that I needed to walk, or run, or do something to clear my head, ignoring the fact that I knew I was bullshitting myself -- that my head was already clear, because I was alone in the midst of a storm, and there was no better time to think.

     I started to run, repeating in my head that everything was fine, and that I was just getting ahead of myself.

     But it wasn't helping. I didn't feel better. I felt worse -- sick, on top of everything else -- and the part that set me off was that I fucking wished Jamie was here, because I knew he would make me feel better.

     It was like I needed him. Like he had suddenly become the band-aid I would lay across my wounds. And that was fucking terrifying, because I wasn't supposed to need anybody that didn't didn't share my blood.

   I don't need him, I told myself. I like him a lot, and life is better with him in it, but I'd be just fine without him.

     That was when it hit me. I wish I could say it was like a slap in the face, or a punch in the gut. It wasn't.

     Because when I thought about it -- when I closed my eyes and imagined Jamie leaving, walking out of my life somehow, or maybe being taken away -- it was like someone had taken a bulldozer to the field and plowed down the only thing in sight.

    If Jamie was to leave me tomorrow, I would be shattered. I would feel that gaping hole in my heart, and it would eat me up, and I would feel like the part of me that left with him would never come back. I cared about him so much that I needed him, and I needed him so much that I wouldn't be the same without him. If he was gone, I wouldn't just feel sad for a little while and move on -- I would mourn him like he was dead, and I would mourn myself, because I would feel -- for a while at least, for way too long -- like I was dead, too. No . . . not exactly dead, but half-alive -- only ever half-happy, or half-excited, or half there. I would spend all of my time thinking about Jamie, and his laugh, and his lips, and his hands, and his warmth, and his voice . . . he would take over my thoughts, just like he did now, but every time I thought of him, I would be sad and lonely and brokenhearted.

     Brokenhearted. Broken-fucking-hearted.

     I started running faster. I opened my eyes, but the rain and my emotions were blinding, and all I could do was follow the curve of the field, feeling a jolt of pain shoot up to my knees every time my feet hit the ground and a shock of fear every time my feet slipped on the wet track.

     I had done it. I had fallen for the fantasy. The imagined ideal of love, the make-believe, the abstract fairy-tale, the one romantic story told a million different ways. It was all a sham, but I was letting myself believe it; suddenly it seemed real enough to touch, and there was nothing abstract about it, and it wasn't just a tale that dreamers told -- it was real, and it happened, and it was happening to me.

     I loved him. James Riley Alexander. I loved Jamie. I could see myself spending some kind of imagined, make-believe, abstract fairy-tale life with him.

     I ran faster. My lungs were starting to burn, and my feet ached, and my stomach churned, but I pushed on, clueless as to how long I'd been running.

     I was right -- it was a cruel invention, that thing called love. It only existed to hurt people. There was no life with Jamie. He'd made that clear -- he was not and would never be mine. It wasn't what he wanted. He wanted to survive until he didn't have to anymore. Then he would shut down again, and he would give up, and I'd be one of the many things he would stop caring for. And I would end up with that empty space in me, all because I had let myself fucking believe it.

     Or maybe he would stay with me. And we would be so "in love." We would spend our lives together chasing a fantasy.

     And then we would fight. And we would make each other miserable. And I would hate him, and he would hate me. And we would split, hurting everyone stuck in the middle -- some poor kids, maybe. Then we would enter the cycle again, and we'd keep up the wild hunt for the end of the rainbow. We would try again with someone else, then a different someone else, and we would tear ourselves apart in the process, and those poor kids . . . then we would give up on finding something that didn't exist and we would settle, out of necessity, hastily putting together everything we'd broken in the process. We'd sew up our kids and superglue our homes and duct-tape our hearts until we were one big scar.

     And eventually, one of us would pass, and the other -- filled with hatred, but scared of being alone -- would feel that same despair all over again.

     Inevitable. Heartbreak was inevitable, and I was signing myself up for it, red-ink pen in hand.

     My legs were starting to give out. My lungs screamed, and I was gasping. Everything hurt -- my knees ached, my chest burned, and my head throbbed with a persistent pounding. I couldn't tell if the blur I saw before me was caused by the rain or by the whirling in my head. I started coughing -- then choking -- and I had to sit down, stumbling unsteadily to the ground, holding my chest. 

     And I panicked.

     Maybe it wouldn't have been so bad if I hadn't just run myself to exhaustion. Maybe I would have been able to just wait it out like always if my heart wasn't already racing when I started to hear my blood rushing in my ears, or if my chest wasn't already tight when I started losing my breath.  

    I had to lay down. The feeling, there was noting like it -- like I had lost all control of my body -- the feeling of terror, of dizziness and faintness, of shivering and sweating at the same time. I turned so that I was facing the ground, propped on one elbow, and tried to breathe, but it was like I'd forgotten how. Every inhale did nothing, like I was breathing in water instead of oxygen, and with each breath I seemed to choke up more. It was worse than it ever had been -- it was fucking painful, like being ripped open -- and my mind started racing to catch up with my body, but that only made things worse -- because suddenly I couldn't really think, I could just fear, and I lost my sense of logic and rationality and myself. It felt like insanity -- like losing me to some outside force, forgetting who I was or how I was meant to act, focusing only on what I was feeling.

     And what I was feeling was overwhelming. I felt like I was falling in love, and like I was already having my heart broken, and like I was loosing my mind, and like I was just so fucking scared that I would do anything to get myself out from where I was.

     The rain had stopped. I hadn't even noticed. The sky was dark until lightning flashed -- all I saw was bright white, and it felt hot like crazy . . .

     Taking another useless, gasping breath, I grabbed my phone and I did something really, really stupid. Horribly, heartbreakingly, regrettably stupid. It was almost taunting, how simple it was.

     The response came a few minutes later, but it felt like no time at all.

     I'm going to assume you're joking - Jamie

     And I'm not laughing - Jamie

     I replied that I wasn't joking. The words floated off the screen in a blur, and I was in no state to catch them before they reached the sky.

     I watched as Jamie started typing, then stopped, then started again, then stopped again. Then he called me.

     "Liam, cut it out." I could hear him freaking out and trying to hide it. "You're not being funny right now."

     "I said I wasn't joking," I said darkly; after I spoke, it felt like I hadn't said a word at all. But talking burned, like opening up my throat opened up the gates of hell, so I didn't say more.

     Jamie hesitated. He hesitated for a long time.

     "I don't understand," he said, sounding meeker than he would ever let himself sound. "I don't -- what? I- I don't get it . . . No -- no, you can't just . . . Why --"

     "It doesn't matter," I snapped. 

     "Actually, I think it does!" Jamie snapped right back. He spoke louder, and clearer, and finally, he believed me. He sounded angry now; angry and sad. But angry and sad were too easy, the kinds of feelings a child could describe. When Jamie felt something, it was never that simple, because he put his everything into whatever he felt. He was furious -- tempestuously so -- and he was crestfallen; so despondent, it broke int his words. "If you're gonna dump me over a fucking text without so much as a warning, I'm pretty fucking sure I deserve to know why!"

     "How about because I fucking want to?" I snapped, and now I really didn't feel like it was me talking -- the voice that came out of my mouth was tighter and colder and rougher than mine. It took everything in me to stop that foreign voice from shaking the way my phone was in my hand as I pressed it hard against my ear.

     "I don't get it!" Jamie raised his voice, but I heard it break. "Not even an hour ago we were fine, and -- seriously, what's going on? Are you okay? Do you need me to c--"

    "I'm fine!" I didn't know why, but I was yelling, loud enough for the moon to hear me. I didn't  know why I was doing any of this; I didn't know what I was doing at all. I felt so fucking lost, and absolutely terrified -- terrified of what I was running from and where I was going. Yet my mouth kept moving, and no part of me had the strength to tell it to stop. "I'm fine without you, and I don't want -- I don't want to do this!"

   "And I don't want to let go of the only good thing that's happened to me in the last year!" Jamie said. "What the hell has gotten into you?"

     "Nothing has gotten into me!" I shouted. "You have gotten into me! You're in my fucking head, and I want you out! This is me, and this is what I want, so just fucking accept it!"

     The line was quiet for a startling amount of time. Even now -- even fucking now -- I missed his voice, wanted him here. 

     "So this is it?" Jamie had lowered his voice now, and he sounded . . . he sounded like I hadn't heard him sound in months. Like he'd sounded when we first met. "You're gonna force me open, make me feel like the best guy in the world for a few months, let me tell you that I love you, and then just push me aside without an explanation like it was all nothing."

     It wasn't a question. It was almost like he'd expected it. If it wasn't for the raw hurt behind every word -- it was disguised, but I heard it, because even in the state that I was, I knew him -- I might've believed that he had expected it. But he hadn't. And neither had I. I still didn't.

     When I didn't say anything, I heard Jamie sigh. The sound was uneven; he was crying, or else trying really damn hard not to.

   "'Just fucking accept it,'" he echoed. "Story of my goddamn life."

     Then the line went dead. It was almost taunting, how simple it was.

     I felt as if the call had never happened. 

     But it had. And I felt sick. Sick and insane. Sick and insane and hot and cold and breathless and lightheaded and disembodied.

     And unconscious.



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I woke up in the grass. It was still dark out.

    I didn't feel better. Just numb. But still in pain, somehow.

    I didn't remember much of what had just happened. I just moved, lifeless as a ghost. Stumbled to my car, drove dangerously home, crawled into bed. Fell back asleep.

     When I woke up the second time, it was like I was right back on the field -- right back in the midst of hysteria. I remembered what had happened -- every bit of it, from love to panic to loss. But I was in no shape to fix it. The first thing I did was go to the bathroom, lean over the toilet, and throw up.

     Three days.

    Three days went by. The first weekend of February, and Monday. I kept falling back and forth, ricocheting between bad and worse. Every bit of me felt sick; I kept having to run to the bathroom to vomit, until my stomach ran out of food -- I didn't even try to eat -- and I was reduced to heaving, coughing painful and dry. Whenever I tried to sleep, I would toss and turn, so I stopped trying to do that, too. My head ached with a migraine. Sometimes -- more often than ever before -- I would think about what I'd done out of stupid, blind panic, and I would hear the ticking in my head, and I would know what was coming -- it came every time. I was running a fever, but I felt freezing cold; my mom kept telling me to see a doctor, but I was eighteen, she couldn't force me, and eventually I got so harsh, she didn't dare to ask. Everyone in my family gave up on speaking to me; even Jacob kept his comments to himself.

     Jamie called, I think. But I couldn't answer. Not because I didn't want to -- God, all I wanted was to pick up that phone and fix everything. But I physically couldn't do it. He stopped calling after the second day.

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talk about a mood switch whooop i got whiplash just writing it

quick ted talk: after watching endgame i cant read liam's whole "heartbreak is inevitable" line w/o laughing/wanting to die

also i had a random thought editing today: i would love to make an audiobook of this shit,,, like i'd just make fun of my own characters/writing

"'And I panicked' yeah no fucking shit liam"
"we get it jamie has a cool last name u can stop saying it now"
"'Inevitable. Heartbreak was inevitable.' . . . 'i am inevitable.' 'and i . . . am . . . iron man.'" *sobs*

idk why i'm in such a good (n kinda loopy) mood rn lol yall r probably screaming at me