Prologue

He was special. I was convinced of that from the first day that I met him. How special, I never knew, but when he left the air heavy with broken promises and things left unsaid, I wondered what I did wrong. Was it my fault that he spoke these fateful words. A sad dedication.

‘This is to a girl I knew a long time ago,’ he muttered into the microphone, his long hair in his eyes, his voice scratchy from his sometimes long set, every night. The unspoken words of his departure spoken through a song, his deft fingers playing the notes on his prized piano. The song was for me, for him, for everything....

-

I can't imagine all the people that you know

And the places that you go

When the lights are turned down low

And I don't understand all the things you've seen

But I'm slipping in between

You and your big dreams

It's always you

In my big dreams

-

‘Konstantine,” he once told me, one humid summer day as he absently touched the keys of the old piano in my living room, ‘We’ll do it..”

‘Do what?’ I asked him quietly, the sun peaking through the large window near the couch, surprised by the desperation in his voice. He looked at me in the same surprise that was written all over my face. The couch creaked as I sat up, meeting his eyes.

‘We’ll become something...’

He had always been a dreamer, a little boy forced to grow up. Forced into the harshness of life, ripped away from his best friend, his love for music, his love for the world that he had created for himself.

I wanted to believe that we would become something, that life would offer us our ‘big dreams’ but as he played, almost angrily, the song that he had written night after night.

The big dreams seemed to slip away...

-

And you tell me that it's over

Wake up lying in a patch of four leaf clovers

And your restless, and I'm naked

You've gotta get out

You can't stand to see me shaking

No Could you let me go?

I didn't think so

-

He blamed me for his dreams, for having to leave. And in a way, I blamed myself. I blamed myself for giving him the confidence in music, in love, in friendship.

Regardless of his words, lyrics, written in anger, one of the cold, lonely nights after he left, I never told him it was over.

I would always love him, I would always be his best friend.

Nothing more, nothing less.

His Konstantine...

-

And you don't wanna be here in the future

So you say the present's just a pleasant interruption to the past

And you don't wanna look much closer

Cause your afraid to find out all this hope

You had sent into the sky by now had crashed

And it did

Because of me

-

Hope was no longer with me. He would play every club in the entire USA, before even thinking of coming back to me. But watching him playing the notes, singing his lyrics, I wondered if I wanted him to come back.

I was a fluke accident, something he never expected to last.

But here I was, standing in the shadows of a bar that I heard that he was playing in, a forgotten friend, nothing more than a stolen kiss.

I wondered if he knew I was there, if he would be happy to see me. I wondered if he would look at me differently 4 years later. If I could ever be more than a fleeting glance in a crowd.

-

And then you bring me home

Afraid to find out that you're alone

And I'm sleeping in your living room

But we don't have much room to live

-

‘Can I sleep on your couch, just for tonight,’ he said a hand on his neck, looking innocent and jaded all at once. He smelt of burnt firewood and cigarette smoke, probably from one of his local gigs. It was late, his voice was raspy, his clothes rumpled, and his mind set. I would shift uncomfortably for a second, forgetting that I was his best friend, and focusing on wishing to be his everything.

I couldn’t even remember how many times that he’d asked me the same question. How many times he didn’t go home, but hearing him sing about, made it feel like only a distant memory. Did it matter?

‘Yeah,’ I would tell him, letting in my house, closing the door and shutting out the world.

It was only us in that house.

It would always just be us....

-

I had these dreams that I learned to play guitar

Maybe cross the country

Become a rock star

And there was hope in me that I could take you there

But dammit you're so young

Well I don't think I care

And if I hurt you Then I'm sorry

Please don't think that this was easy

-

Oh how he’d hurt me.

And how had it not been easy for him?

I wanted to make my presence known at that moment. I wanted to scream out in the suddenly quiet crowd, but for some reason I stayed quiet, entranced like the rest of the group. His voice was mesmerizing. Almost as mesmerizing as it had been when he used to sing in my living room, using the same old piano that he himself was fascinated with.

I never knew why he loved it so much, but somehow, it had been the beginning of everything.

A majority of the people knew the words and when it came to the line about ‘becoming a rock star’, he stopped singing and the audience sang it for them.

Was it hard for him to speak those words, is that why he had the crowd sing it? to cut down on the pain?

Because if he was feeling the same amount of pain as I was at the moment, than how could he even keep speaking.

I was jostled a bit by the person next to me, and I took a deep breath, listening intently to the next verse.

-

Then you bring me home

Cause we both know what it's like to be alone

And I'm dreaming in your living room

But we don't have much room to live

-

My living room. He slept there, always and forever.

Sometimes lost in those dreams that I condemned so wholeheartedly.

The quick music, made the crowd buzz for a moment, and he stood up, pressing the keys hard in frustration and despair. He sang into the microphone, his hair hiding his pained expression.

-

And Konstantine is walking down the stairs

Doesn't she look good

Standing in her underwear

And I was thinking

What I was thinking

We've been drinking and it doesn't get me anywhere

-

‘You’re beautiful, d’you know that?” he would tell me, his voice slurred. He was right, Drinking didn’t get us anywhere, it confused me and destroyed me even more.

‘You’re drunk,’ I would tell him seriously, after answering the door one of the many times he would show up at me house completely plastered. He would raise his hand to my cheek, skimming it softly, then pushing a piece of my blonde hair behind my ear. His hands were rough, and I had to resist so strongly to fall against his hand, wanting nothing more than for him to touch me forever, “Come inside,’ I would tell him, realizing how much I hated myself for loving my best friend so much.

‘Konstantine, life would be dull without you,” he would tell me, catching my arm, ‘You make everything worth it.”

I forced my raging heart to slow down, wondering if he could hear my screaming thoughts. I smiled at him. That was the beers talking, I would tell myself.

The heart of a rock star I could never capture.

And now, as I pushed my way through the crowd, needing to get a closer look at him. I wondered if I had been wrong all this time.

I froze, did I want to find out?

-

My Konstantine came walking down the stairs

And all that I could do is touch her long blonde hair

And I've been thinking

It hurts me thinking that these nights

When we were drinking no they never got us anywhere

No

-

No, no, no, no....

-

This is because I can spell confusion with a k

And I like it It's to dying in another's arms and why I had to try it

It's to Jimmy Eat World and those nights in my car

When the first star you see may not be a star

I'm not your star

Isn't that what you said

What you thought this song meant

-

The soft hum of Jimmy Eat world lingered in the air, along with humidity of that same summer of drunkenness and meaningless words. We sipped cheap liquor, stolen from our parents, with every sip parts of our innocence stolen as well.

‘And if you were with me tonight/ I'd sing to you just one more time’ he sang along with the CD, while the lead singer attempted the bridge to his favorite song, Hear You Me. But his voice, almost boyish compared to that of Jim Adkins from Jimmy Eat World, made me sigh. He shifted and stopped singing. ‘See that star up there...’ he said pointing above us, at a sparkling gem in the sky. I frowned, sitting back on the hood of his car, wishing that he hadn’t stopped singing.

‘That’s not a star, that’s an airplane.’

‘You’re so cynical,’ he told me taking a sip from the bottle he was holding.

‘You’re a dreamer, we both have our downfalls,’ I informed. He frowned and turned towards me, after taking another sip. His tone was light when he mentioned my cynicism but now, in the club, hearing him passionately belting these words, I wondered how lighthearted his words actually were.

‘Being a dreamer isn’t a bad thing, it gives a person ardor, passion, hope, you of all people should know that..” he told me staring at me intently.

‘Why should I of all people know it?’ I asked him slowly, narrowing my eyes confused, lost, hopeful when a crooked grin lit up his face.

‘Because you dream more than me,’ he told me smugly, almost in childish confidence and I wanted to argue. But instead I sat back and thought intently about his words.

He was right and thinking intently about his mentioning of being a star ignited something in me.

Rage, sadness, hope, that ardor and passion that he insisted I have...

He would always be my star, I had all the faith in the world in him, I wished I could tell him at that moment.

-

And if this is what it takes

Just to lie in my mistakes

And live with what I did to you

And all the hell I put you through I always catch the clock

It's 11:11

And now you want to talk

It's not hard to dream

You'll always be my Konstantine

-

Will I? Will I always be his? yours?

I wanted to dream, I wanted to believe. I wanted him to knock on my door like he did all those nights and ask to sleep on my couch. I wanted him to assure me that being the dreamers that we were was what made my thoughts echo with the past, I wanted him to drive me up to the lookout in his car and assure me that all those sparks of light were stars, and that they would always be there.

solid.

jimmy eat world.

him.

me.

dreams.

He would always be there...

-

Konstantine, they'll never hurt you like I do

No they'll never hurt you like I do

No, no, no no no no no no

-

He was right, no one could hurt me like he did.

No one in this entire world.

-

This is to a girl who got into my head

With all the pretty things she did

Hey

You know

You keep me up in bed

This is to a girl who got into my head

With all the fucked up things I did

Hey

Maybe

Baby

You could keep me up in bed

My Konstantine

Spin around me like a dream we played out on this movie Screen

And I said

Did you know I missed you?

Did you know I missed you?

Did you know I missed you?

Did you know I missed you?

Did you know I missed you?

Did you know I missed you?

Did you know I missed you?

I miss you

-

He missed me.

I almost allowed myself to be effected as I had by the rest of the song. Unlike all these people in this club, I had never heard the song that had been written for me. I had never felt the need, never felt the desire to put myself through everything that embodied it. The memories, lies, loss, everything...

I wondered how everyone in this small room, sweaty and half drunk, would react to find out that the same Konstantine that the song was written about was standing only a few feet away from them. Most likely no one would care...

I was just that lucky girl that got into the head of a rock star, that loved pianos, cheap beers and Jimmy Eat World.

My thoughts shifted to that rock star that I loved.

How would he react to know that his Konstantine was there, lost in her thoughts and wishing nothing more than to miss him like he missed her? Would he care? Or was this song all a lie, a memory of all that happened between us.

-

And then you bring me home

And we'll go to sleep, but this time, not alone, no no

And you'll kiss me in your living room I know

You'll miss me in your living room cur these nights I think maybe that I'll miss you in my living room We don't have much room I said does anybody need that room?

Because we all need a little more room

To live

-

He looked so intent at singing the song, so caught up in the words, that I couldn’t move.

This part of the song never happened, he never admitted that he wanted me, he never kissed me, he never loved me.

The song was coming to a close, my song was ending, as was my painful journey down the path of my relationship, my memories, with him.

I loved him and I always did, but this song was closure.

No longer did I believe the empty promises that he would one day come back to me and make everything up to me.

It was now my turn to walk out on him, even though he wouldn’t really know it...

-

My Konstantine

-

I left the club, the unfinished set echoing from the open doors, and jumped in my car. Laying my head gently against the steering wheel, my blonde hair shielding my eyes and laying across the dashboard, I wondered why I had come.

I was only a song to him now.

But I would always be his Konstantine, the girl that many girls longed to be. The girl that had a heartbreaking song written about her. The girl that had her heart broken so that a song could be written...

I didn’t want to be his Konstantine, I didn’t want the fucking song written about me, I didn’t want to be that girl that thousands of girls wished they could be.

I wanted nothing more than to be back in my living room, this time alone, no longer missing him....

An no longer his Konstantine...

Chapter 1



4 years earlier

It was 11:11 and we were driving along interstate 107.

The destination, unknown.

The plan, to get drunk and watch our innocence fade away with the humid, June night.

It was Graduation night, after all, and it was only fitting that I would lose my innocence on the night of my rebirth. On the night of a new life, a cloudy ending to an even more uncertain beginning.

Graduation was supposed to be a new beginning, the driving force of a new life, of what the future held for me. But for some reason it seemed to hold me back. It seemed to pull me closer to home and further from reality.

And I wondered if it was all my own doing...

---------------

There's a sign on the wall but she wants to be sure.

-------------

My mom was worthless, a woman that gave me nothing but a last name and minimal self-confidence. My father was non-existent and there was nothing that I could to change or understand that. High school had been hell, a string of average grades, lost dreams and heartbreaks. I was the girl everyone took advantage of, the girl that everyone turned to with problems, the girl that managed to be good enough to listen to everyone else but never got the chance to be heard herself. The girl that was pulled along through a series of messed up relationships with guys that had only one incentive when it came to her.

After all that I’d been through, I wanted to be loved, and to be able to love.

But it couldn’t happen, I wouldn’t allow it to. I convinced myself of that fact, and in the end that may have been the catalyst for the series of unfortunate events that haunted my dreams and played so fervently, like the notes of one of his songs, in my nightmares.

I convinced myself that love was impossible, it was painful and it was heartbreaking.

Because to love you have to give yourself to the person, you have to offer them everything, and hope that they offer you everything in return. But when love’s one-sided, when you’re the only one to feel exposed in essence, than love is hell.

Love was everything I yearned for and everything I despised.

And somehow it destroyed me, despite my heated avoidance of it.

It wasn’t a quick painless death of my spirit, of my will and passion and ardor, that he always spoke of, it was more of a horrible, endless demise, that ruined my very being. I blame it on my mother, my loveless childhood, I blame it on my high hopes and my lost wishes, but most of all I blame it on him.

I blame it on my best friend. I blame it on his faith in me, his love for everything that he couldn’t have, his honesty and his hopeless dreams. I blame it on the papers etched very closely with the lyrics of countless songs written late nights in my living room, his foot pressing the piano pedal, his fingers playing notes, faltering, and then playing them again. I blame it on his dreamer tendencies, on his ability to captivate a room with his voice or his words. I blame it on his ability to destroy you with a glance, and brighten your day with a greeting. I blame it on the way he looked when he just finished a song, a look so childlike in innocence that it was able to make you love him even more. I blame it on his love for me and his devotion to meaningless things that only he seemed to notice and care enough to notice.

Andrew.

He’s to blame for my crash and burn. For my demise. For my epiphany.

------------

And you know sometimes words have two meanings.

----------

My best friend, the friend I had since I was an awkward middle school child, the same friend that I shared every dream, every wish, every thought. Everything, except one thing...

I don’t know if there was an exact moment that I realized that I wanted more than friendship with him, that I wanted to be his everything, and nothing all at once. Maybe I loved him all along, maybe it was one night when we sat in my living room, the soft hum of the TV or the quiet melody of the piano echoing in the background. Or maybe it was illusion. An illusion of love, that could somehow fill the void of everything that I was missing until he stepped into my life. An awkward little boy with all the dreams in the world...

Maybe it was the steady path that life was taking after Graduation that made me gravitate towards my home, my love, my best friend, my messed up past. It was steady and he was there. That’s all I ever needed.
Driving the long straight highway, packed in the car with Andrew, his friends, and Elise, things felt steady and sure. Everything was perfect, life was moving along as if the car was the determiner in the path it would take. Turn left and life will change forever. Turn right and go tumbling over the edge of the mountain. Stay straight, steady, and nothing will ever change.

“I hate this crap,” Elise mumbled rolling down the passenger’s side window and sticking her hand out, twirling it around a bit. Elise was Andrews’ girlfriend, one of my few friends and also my neighbor.
A sweet girl, but she had little substance. He always seemed to go for those types....

With Elise’s intrusion on the silence of the car, the air was suddenly heavy, making everything feel sticky and warm, lined with a film, isolated from the outside world. I moved over closer to the window, and away from Andrew’s friends and band mates, Adrian, Ryan, and Mike. Adrian, who was the drummer, was seated next to me, drumming his fingers to the beat of the slow song.

“It’s classic Led Zeppelin,” Andrew informed her, “Stairway to Heaven circa 1971...”

I leaning against the open window of the backseat, my head a good distance out the window, my hair blowing gently as we drove along. Elise turned down the music, causing everyone in the car to frown and nearly snap at her.

“Elise,” Ryan warned, instructing her with merely a glance to not remove the tape that was playing, “Do not mess with Zeppelin..”

“Fine,” she huffed. Andrew smiled to himself, content with his girlfriend’s reaction, meeting my eyes in the rearview mirror.

The wind blew his hair in his eyes, making it hard to hold his gaze, but by his suddenly solemn look I could tell that something was irking him. He offered my a half-smile, knowing that I would rather be anywhere but here, but assuring me that everything would turn out okay in the end. His sheer optimism, his positive attitude could be conveyed by a mere glance, a locking of his hidden eyes with mine, a half smile that he only used for assurance.

He shifted his gaze back to the road and I turned to look at the window. Everything was speeding by, the trees, the sides of the large mountains, and an occasional car. Everything was moving so quick, and for a second I was sure that I would be sick. I closed my eyes, focusing intently on my breathing. Nothing was going to changed, life was steady.
Solid.

Even if we turned right or left..

And we turned.

---------------------------

In the tree, by the brook, there's a songbird who sings.

----------------------

We turned right, into a place known as the ‘lookout’. It was the usual hangout for us, a place where we could listen to music as loud as we want and get drunk without having to worry about the cops or any other authority figures catching us.

“Grab the beer,” Andrew said to no one in particular as everyone climbed out of the car and I vowed to stay seated. I didn’t want to spend my graduation night drunk as hell, feeling as if it was another meaningless end to another meaningless day.

I would stay sober, at least to give me the ability to form rational thoughts.

“Stan,” Mike called to me from the hood of the car, “Come get drunk with us!”

I smiled at them and shook my head, pushing my hair off my face and laying my head back down.

“It’s graduation night,” Ryan said holding up open a can of opened beer, in a toast, “You have to celebrate.”

I shook my head again, not bothering to open my eyes. The soft murmur of their speaking, the Led Zeppelin that played continuously from the speakers in the old car made me think of all the nights that we spent up here, losing ourselves in random forms of destructive behavior. Everything was changing, even though I was doing my best to deny it.

I forced my eyes shut, blocking out my thoughts. It took a long time for me to fall asleep, the edge of the window hard against my head, the seatbelt digging into my side. But eventually my mind went blank, my thoughts escaped me, and I slipped into dreamless slumber.

Time slipped passed, slowly, quickly, until a few hours later I was awakened by Andrew’s voice. Calm, soft, sad.

“Stan, we’re at your house,” he said rubbing my arm to awaken me from his driver’s side seat. My vision was hazy, but after a few seconds of squinting my mind was cleared and I mustered the ability to speak.

“What time is it?” I asked him, my voice scratchy from sleep, my head hurting from my position on the seat.
“3,” he told me with the same half-smile he used before. Whatever was bothering him, suddenly seemed more prominent. He hung his head, running his finger over the emergency break absently.

“What’s wrong?” I asked him, only now noticing that the car was desolate. It was only him and me.

Perfection.

“Nothing,” he said, almost rushed, as he got out of the car closing the door behind him. He walked around to my door, opening it for me, and offering his hand to help me out. I accepted his hand, not sure what was going on with him. I knew something was wrong, and I knew he wanted to talk about it, but instead he planned to go around it and somehow con me into letting him sleep on my couch.

He closed the car door behind me, as we walked the small path that led to my darkened house. I was sure that my mother wasn’t home, and that she wouldn’t be coming home anytime that night. She was out with one of her many loser boyfriends, lost in her thoughts and desires, rather than the wishes of her daughter.

As I let him in the house, closing the door behind us, I knew that I needed more sleep. It was almost like I had gotten a taste of something so fulfilling, but it was now being ripped away from me. But there he was, standing in the center of my living room, looking torn. He glanced at me, noting the exhaustion in my face, but than glanced at the piano, his hands itching to touch the keys. I nodded slowly, signaling that it was okay that he went and played. I sat down on the couch, laying my head on the pillow. The beautiful music, I was sure would be enough to lull me asleep.

Andrew walked over to the corner of the living room and opened the cover of the piano. He sat down at the stool, running his fingers over the keys, the ivory glistening in the moonlight through the front window. He pressed a key tentatively , as if it was his first time playing and I sighed at the beautiful note that emerged, strong and soft all at the same time. He broke into a complex melody, humming a long with the original piece that he played so confidently. He tapped his foot in time, nodding his head with the beat. The melody was soft and sweet, the echo of the notes resonating in my mind, slowly and quickly, softly and loudly, real and imaginary.

But suddenly the music stopped, the notes faltering. He looked suddenly taken aback by his abrupt mistake. He stood up, closing the piano, almost angry with it as of it had been the piano’s error and not his own. He walked over to where I was sitting and sat down as well.

He was drunk, I could tell. And he wasn’t just a slightly tipsy, he was completely and utterly plastered.
He leaned over running his fingers over my arm gently.

“Stan,” he said softly. I opened my eyes, meeting his gaze, “Do you ever think that love is an illusion?”

I groaned, burying my face in the soft pillow on the couch. He only got this philosophical when he was drunk or when he was struck with sudden inspiration to write a song.

Right now, it could possibly be both...

“Andrew,” I told him, pushing the hair out of my face, and staring intently at him through the slight moonlight, and endless darkness of my living room, “It’s 3 in the morning, I’m not up to discussing the meaning of life with you...”

“But think about it,” he said shifting on the couch, straightening out, and removing his hand from where it had been lightly tracing circles on my forearm. The removal of his warm touch, made me suddenly cold, “Love is an illusion, it convinces you that a person is perfect and that they make life mean something. But no one’s perfect, so in a sense it’s paradox...”

“But isn’t that what makes love worth it,” I asked him, wondering why he was being so cynical for a second, “The shock value, the fact that you can turn that illusion into anything you want, just to please yourself...”

He was disappointing me with his lack of hopeless dreams.

“I don’t know,” he told me, looking thoughtful, as he tapped his fingers on his knee. I sat up, feeling suddenly less tired. His dark eyes sparkled in the moonlight, under his long hair,“ I don’t want to settle just for the illusion, I want to experience real love, I heard it’s really cathartic...”

I looked at him, wondering how one minute he could take cynicism to a new level, and the next he could be a hopeless romantic, that dreamed of things that only were found it books and movies.

“But maybe, for the sake of argument, there is no possible way to break through that illusion,” I argued, the darkness of the small room, suddenly seeming a little more black, “In a sense, if you truly love a person, you won’t notice their imperfections and only their perfections. Isn’t that an illusion?”

He looked away from me, his finger no longer tapping, but instead resting quietly on his knee. He looked thoughtful.

And confused.

And lost.

He looked as if his dreams had just been shattered.

“So, what,” he asked me, his voice hard, his words even harder, “Are we supposed to push ourselves through a series of meaningless relationships until we can find the ‘one’ that makes the illusion real?”

“Possibly, or maybe sometimes we have to settle for the illusion..” I told him lightly. He looked at me almost content with my words. He frowned momentarily, and I reached over squeezing his hand in assurance. A silence engulfed the room, it was as if the damage was done. Things had changed, I had been forced to think and understand and accept something that I never wanted to be real.

Unlike Andrew, I wanted the illusion, never the reality.

“What brought on this sudden questioning?”

I felt the need to shatter the quiet, and hopefully go back to that delusion I was so very fond of.

“Elise,” he said his voice, light and somewhat thoughtful, “I wondered why I was bothering with her, if it seems to me that love is merely something in our own minds, that we chose to put it in existence and than suddenly erase from our memories, with one mistake of the person that we supposedly loved...”

“It does exist and you know it...”

“Or maybe I just know of the illusion..”

“Either way, love is what you make it...” I ended, closing the conversation it, and opening something completely different. The room felt different, foreign for a second, as we both froze.

Time stopped and sped by almost simultaneously. There was little distance between us, little space to breath, to think, to understand what was happening. I did my best to level out my breathing, as he ran a hand along my cheek, suddenly freezing as he reached the back of my neck, his fingers warm as they buried into my hair. He leaned forward, our lips only inches apart. I could feel his steady breath, his hands bracing me for the kiss that would change everything.

“What are you doing,” I whispered his lips hovering, now only centimeters from mine. We were friends, nothing more, nothing less. But at that moment I wanted to be his illusion...

“Figuring out something....” he returned, easily, softly, beautifully.

And he kissed me.

And I soared, forever changed...

-----------------------

Sometimes all of our thoughts are misgiven.

------------------

I lost my innocence that night, and I somehow found the illusion of love...

And like Andrew had said minutes before, I wanted the illusion to be real...

-Something Corporate ‘Watch the Sky’

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

Today was a good day, I assured myself, doing my best to withhold a frown. It held tightly to that normalcy that I loved so much, and the illusions of the night before were forgotten.

Forever and always....

Andrew slept on the couch of my living room, me, in my room, no real words exchanged after he kissed me. He offered a mere ‘goodnight’, an assuring squeeze of the hand, and then a dismissal. A brush off by my own best friend...

But I couldn’t take it to heart, he had been drunk, lost, thoughtless, and I was overanalyzing my feelings. There was no way that I could feel anything more for him, there was no way that I could even touch on the feelings of love. Because falling in love was against everything that I stood for, everything I longed for, everything I’d ever wanted...

Alone, in my bed, the thought haunted me, though. The exhaustion that I had been feeling, was suddenly lost with his touch. And my mind quickly clouded with foreign, confusing thoughts. I forced myself out of the oblivion that was consuming me whole and forced my eyes shut, for the second time that night. Forcing myself away from the chaos that was suddenly my life, felt more common and more real, and thus helped me to fall into a dreamless sleep.

-------------

I will crawl

-------------

I woke up the next morning, Andrew gone, feeling more alone than I had in a long time. He never left this early, I would usually wake up to him playing a soft melody on the piano, his own or another's. Either way it was special, solid, normal. Why couldn’t life stay constant, why did everything change? Why was there always a need for a new beginning or a new devastation?

I moved absently through the normal household chores. My mind far away from my house, my heart even further. I always cleaned when I became worried, thoughtful, lost. This time, things felt so much more real, like for once, the occurrence required me to think, analyze and interpret everything that happened.

The tasks all seemed like they had a mind of their own and they wanted me to be haunted by my betrayal, my loss, my grief, my feelings.

Wash the Dishes.

Don’t think about last night.

Vacuum the living room.

Andrew didn’t kiss me on that couch.

Do the laundry.

What would have happened if I didn’t pull away?

Clean my room.

Don’t think about it.

----------------------

There's thing that are worth giving up I know.

----------------------

Busying myself didn’t help me to stop thinking, because it seemed that the mundane everyday activities seemed to force me into thought even more.

My reprieve did come, though, and the doorbell rang about half-way through the day. I had been putting off dusting the entire living room, knowing that I couldn’t handle going near his piano, my piano. But when the doorbell rang, as my list of chores diminished, my mood lightened.

When I opened the door and my eyes settled on the person before me, my mind went suddenly blank and my thoughts stopped. But for some reason, I wasn’t satisfied and instead I was filled with guilt and betrayal.

“Elise,” I said quietly, gaining control of my vocal cords after a moment, “Hi.”

She looked sad, in an artificial way, her dark hair pulled into two pig tails, her clothing more revealing than usual. Her make-upped face was distorted in sadness, a frown in place, desolation in her eyes, tears forming slowly.

“Konstan-tine,” she stuttered , her voice cracking, tears now rolling down her cheeks, black streaks of make-up in their wake. She was tainted, as was I. But, oh, how the disparities separated us.

“I need to talk to y-ou.”

“Okay.”

I opened the door wider, letting her in, not sure if I wanted to deal with the crying girl in front of me. I was not one to cry, it was sign of weakness and it made you look effected, and to deal with others when they were in such a state of emotional disarray seemed even more difficult. But my intuition, although clouded with new emotion, troubled me, making me believe that I had to deal with this and no longer think about the complexity of it all.

I led Elise to the couch, instructing her to sit down. I hesitated for a second, the essence of Andrew on the couch was intoxicating, and sitting down with his girlfriend in the space that he kissed me, was mind numbing, causing me to hurt and soar, and change and spin all at once. I opted to sit on the edge of the coffee table, the effect not as extreme, the sin not as painful.

-----------------------------------

But I wont let this get me.

-----------------------------------

“What’s wrong?” I asked her, reprising my role as the girl that always listened but was almost never heard.

“It’s Andrew,” she muttered, wiping at her face, smearing her make-up even more.

I froze, my heart stopped, my mind ceased thinking, my breathing shallow. Why was everything always about Andrew? Why did he haunt my thoughts, have the ability to change the way I thought? Why did he have the capacity to confuse me by kissing me and then indirectly send his girlfriend to force the guilt of the transgression on me? Ho was it possible that he had made me feel something that I’d never think that I would have the intensity to accept within minutes of a thoughtful, thoughtless conversation?

“Ithinkhe’scheatingonme...” she rushed, making her statement one big word. I frowned, my hair falling in my face, the questioning halted by the my betrayal. Elise was a friend, how could I do this to her? And worst of all, how could I be thinking positively about the night before when she was hurting so much because of it? Today was a good day, I forced into my thoughts. A horribly good day...

------------------------

I will fight.

-----------------------

I felt the need to push the conversation in the direction that would be less painful. I had to plead my innocence by keeping up this hazardous charade where I was just Andrew's best friend.

Nothing more, Nothing less. Forever and always....

“With who?”

“I don’t know.”

The room fell into silence, Elise’s sniffling the only echo of sound. I wanted to assure her that he wasn’t cheating, but even I couldn’t lie to that extent.

I was the source of someone else’s tears, I didn’t think that I could handle that burden myself.

“Konstantine.”

My name felt foreign. The real Konstantine would never be the girl that destroyed a friend, while cheating with that said friend‘s boyfriend. The real Konstantine would be able to assure the person that sat before her that she was there for her and that the doubt in her mind was merely her imagination playing subtle tricks on her. The real Konstantine didn’t lie and she never cried. But at that moment I was doing one, while hoping to do both. Had I changed that much overnight?

“Yeah?”

I did my best to sound caring and indifferent all at once.

“You’re his best friend has he said anything to you?”

Her words pleading with me, pushing me away. I wanted to get up and walk out of the room, but for some reason, I sat there frozen, begging the real Konstantine to make an appearance. But I was only a shell, filled with lies, suffering with the past, present and future, hoping for too much and forgetting so little.

“No.”

“Do you think you could talk to him...”

Her voice was heavy, my heart even heavier. I couldn’t talk to him, I couldn’t even be near him, but for some reason I knew that I had to say something to help this, to fix the situation. But could mere words fix this? Could anything be fixed, changed, altered? I wasn’t in control, who was to say that I could make things better...

“I don’t know.”

“Konstantine, please,” she begged, leaning forward forcing me to move farther from her. I frowned, looking away from her. Today was supposed to be a good day, I thought to myself, it was the day after graduation. The day that everything changed for the better...

Or changed for the different. For the heartbreaking, thoughtless, mind numbing, depressing, perplexing, amazing different....

“I-”

“Please,” she said desperately, before I could even have the chance to refuse. I looked everywhere but at her, my settling on Andrew’s piano. I could almost see him sitting there, banging on the keys, frustrated with everything, with life, with people, with his current girlfriend, but never with me. Was he frustrated with me at the moment?

“I’ll try,” I muttered, the shutter of the closing back door suddenly resonating through the house. I frowned sadly, wondering if it was who I thought it was.

“I don’t know.”

Elise looked past me at the door, suddenly distracted, and I followed her gaze, turning around.

Andrew was standing in the doorway looking as if life was good, he had not a care in the world and today was a good day...

---------------

And Some days all I do is watch the sky.

--------------

“Hey,” he said his expression seeming uncomfortable and fake. I noticed that he was wearing glasses, the glasses he only needed for reading, and they made him look older, more lost. I frowned, turning back towards Elise.

Tears were rolling down her face, washing away the mascara that was smeared all over her cheeks.

“I have to go...” Elise said standing up, her posture rigid, tears still falling, her voice clouded with emotion. I heard Andrew take a step closer, and this initiated Elise’s departure. She hurried to the door and without a goodbye, left, slamming the door behind her.

---------------

And Some days all I do is watch the sky.

--------------

Andrew took another step closer to me, looking lost and confused.

He took another step after a moment of silence, this time, making him horizontal to where I was sitting on the speckled wood coffee table.

The distance between us was little, but extremely enthralling. His presence always had an effect on me, his ability to be comfortable in any situation at any given time, his capability to walk into my house unannounced or without invitation and never be questioned, his ability to captivate me with a mere smile.

I remember so clearly that day we met, our distance, our current situation, igniting the memory.

It was recess, when we were mere 7th graders, and he was seated at a table with a group of people, not focused on what they were doing , but instead writing something very quickly, almost as if he needed to get out what he was thinking before he would forget everything he wanted to say.

I was sitting alone on one of the swings, absently writing ‘K’s’ in the sand with my scuffed dress shoe, knowing that my name was way too long to attempt to spell it out. As it was, I was already angered by the fact that a group of girls decided that I would be the poor child they would mock for the day. I didn‘t need to add insult to injury by finding that ‘Konstantine‘ was a good for nothing name that I was burdened with for the rest of my life. They were mean little girls, with their gorgeous hair and newest fashions, that threw others insecurities in their faces, just to mask their own. They chose to torture and torment me about my name, the words they said no longer of importance, but burned in my memory. I cursed my mother mentally for choosing such a stupid name and I forced a glance around the playground, feeling small and alone.

And then he caught my eye, a small glance at first, but then it became a full on stare. His hair was short, his clothes prim and proper. He was an awkward 7th grader, but somehow he managed to light up the table with his presence. They would all intently listen when he spoke, and respond animatedly to whatever he had to say. When someone else would speak, he would glare intently at the paper he had before him, quickly writing something.

But instead of writing at that moment, he chose to look at me, look through me, actually see me, while the table lit up with laughter, happiness.

I was the sad little girl, that he decided he would help that day.

He got up, mumbling a goodbye to the table, and walked towards me. I was shocked, interested and nervous all at the same time. I had just moved to the town, my experiences thus far not pleasant, and I was fearful of the awkward, confident boy that had somehow stepped into my life unannounced but not unwelcome.

“Hey,” he said sitting down next to me, on the empty swing that was swinging in the light wind of the warm Californian day.

“Hey,” I offered meekly, looking at my shoes, and the ‘K’ that I just drew in the sand. I smoothed it over with the sole of my shoe, and looked up into his eyes. He met my gaze, a small smile on his face.

The start of a friendship happened that day on the playground, who knew that we would be here, in my living room 5 years later, the same gracelessness of 7th graders heavy on our shoulders.

---------------------------

And I think I, I could use a little break

But today was a good day

------------------------------

Andrew chose that time to break the silence, his voice confident, solid.

“You’re coming tonight?” he asked me, sitting down on the couch, his couch, my couch.

“I don’t know,” I told him truthfully. Him and the band were playing a small club 15 miles away, and I promised that I would come for moral support and to drive them home when they got completely plastered. It was the band’s tradition to get drunk before going on stage, this was supposed to make them put on a better show. But for some reason, I didn’t think that it was the best idea that I went.

“Stan,” he told me seriously, “You promised...”

He acted as if nothing happened between us the night before, and I couldn’t help but wonder if he even remembered. He had been really drunk, and maybe it was just a mistake. The illusion of love, had only been a mirage created in a moment of drunk glory.

But Andrew was still my best friend, whether he remembered the kiss or not. I couldn’t break my promise because of my insecurity and questioning, I had to do this for the band, for him, for me.

Things couldn’t change.

They wouldn’t.

-------------------------------

And I think I, I could use a little break

But today was a good day

------------------------------

“Okay,” I told him, “I’ll be there...”

His face lit up, and he gave my hand an encouraging squeeze.

Today was a good day, I repeated to myself for the umpteenth time that day, things hadn’t changed quite yet.

Chapter 3





When the time we have now ends. When the big hand goes round again. Can you still feel the butterflies? Can you still hear the last goodnight?

- ‘For Me this is Heaven’ Jimmy Eat World

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“Fuck!”

The single profanity, rang through my house, followed by a sharp bang on the piano, and the sound of the piano stool crashing to the floor.

I was in the kitchen pouring myself a glass of water, while Andrew and the band practiced in the living room. They were set to go on in the bar in about 4 hours, and for some reason, they couldn’t get their Jimmy Eat World cover just right.

Andrew was getting frustrated, his voice cracking, his fingers playing the wrong notes. Adrian couldn’t seem to keep the beat straight, while Ryan and Mike kept faltering on their individual solos. I cringed as Adrian’s frustrated voice, responded angrily to Andrew’s outburst.

“If you would stop fucking up the vocals, then maybe we could get it right,” Adrian muttered, tapping a drum stick on the edge of the drum, making a sharp ping, that made the entire household cringe. Ryan riffed on his guitar, pretending that he didn’t hear them.

“Keep a beat and then maybe I won’t fuck up,” Andrew retorted, adjusting his piano stool and sitting back down.

“Can we just play?” Mike asked, “We go on in a few hours, and this is our only cover tonight. We need this to get the crowd hooked, you two can’t fuck this up because you‘re pissed off.”

Mike was the rational one of the group, his words soothing even me, when I had not been involved with the current band squabble. Ryan tended to lie low, living only for the music, not for the drama. But Adrian, on the other hand, was often high-strung, worried about every little detail, his perfection often clouding his technique. He was an excellent drummer, but when he was under pressure, he had the tendency to crack and ruin everything. Now, didn’t seem the time for him to begin to ruin everything, not when things seemed to be ruining themselves.

I stopped pouring my drink for a second, a thought suddenly coming to me. Andrew was on edge, there was no possible way that they would have a good set later that night.

When Andrew was down, the whole world went down with him.

-----------------------------------

The first star I see, may not be a star.

-----------------------------------

This mix-matched group of musicians had the best potential of all the southern California band’s with a style so uniquely punk rock slash classical piano, but with their potential and inevitable success, came the often rocky moods of their leader and front man.

I knew Andrew better than anyone in that entire band, and I knew that he would never be able to handle the pressure of success, of fame, of freedom, of truly living.

He lived as if he was isolated. It was always him and everyone else, it was his world, all the time, life unable to exist outside of our small hometown. He never thought of the future, whether it be tomorrow or three years from now and in all honesty it would eventually be his downfall.

The heart of dreamer was fragile, the resolve even more delicate.

He would crack, and I didn’t know if I wanted to be around to pick up the broken pieces of him when it did happen.

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We can't do a thing but wait.

-------------------------------

The opening notes of ’For Me this is Heaven’ filled my living room, captivating me for a second. Andrew’s voice, smooth, soft, filled with emotion spoke the first line of the verse, accenting the syllables just perfectly, playing the notes with ease. Adrian's sudden drumming, added to the rhythm, making the song seem alive, with a heart, soul and mind of it’s own. The deep reverberations of the bass added depth to the song, while the guitar helped to give it flavor. The band as a whole was amazing, but like their miss-matched parts, the whole was destined to break and I couldn’t help but wonder how long it would take.

The notes smoothed themselves over, weaving in and out, up and down, while Andrew’s voice gave the song character, emotion and an honesty that Jimmy Eat World couldn’t even portray.

I forgot my drink, momentarily, leaving the pitcher resting on the counter, the cup half-filled, or half-empty. It was all a matter of perception, and all a meaningless thought process.

I floated to the door, captivated by the song, and leaned against the frame, watching the band play.

As if sensing an altercation in the atmosphere, they all began to falter. Andrew slipped up on two keys, Adrian speeded up his drumming, and both Ryan and Mike couldn’t keep a steady rhythm. I cringed, turning away from them.

The music suddenly stopped and a loud bang on the drum caught my attention.

“Damn it, Stan,” Adrian muttered frustrated. My frown becoming more prominent, the twilight colored light creeping through the curtain seeming a little darker. I glanced at Andrew as he ran his fingers over the keys of the piano, absently playing a few notes.

“I’m sorry,” I told Adrian, and I watched intently as he banged his symbol loud in frustration.

“Lay off her, dude,” Ryan muttered, “She’s letting us use her living room...”

I was surprised for a second by the sudden role-reversal.

First, Andrew hadn’t bothered to stand up for me, and then Ryan had taken over the position, for the first time in a while speaking out with real emotion. I smiled at him, and he did his best to hide the smile, as he awkwardly adjusted the tuning on his guitar.

I felt my life changing at that moment.

And I definitely wasn’t ready for the change.

I looked over at Andrew, but he looked busy, intent at scrawling something on the sheet music that he had before him.

Too busy for his best friend, too busy lost in his thoughts, too busy consumed in himself, too busy with anything but me...

-------------------------

So lets wait for one more.

------------------------

The band continued to practice, Adrian suddenly quite, Andrew even quieter.

But they played on, hitting the notes, the emotion behind Andrew’s vocals more real than I’d ever seen. During the Jimmy Eat World cover he seemed the most emotional, angry, fascinated and energetic all at once. He belted out the words, lyrics of beauty and love, with an almost bitter undertone.

But I didn’t want to question his motives, they were only leaving more confused as the hours passed. I did my best to sit on the couch, unnoticed, almost unwanted as they played their entire set.

Amazing.

With a bang on the piano, a short guitar solo and a semi-happy group of guys, the set came to a close, Andrew’s emotional outburst ending with it.

I clapped for them, smiling brightly, earning a smile from even Adrian and a scowl from Andrew.

“That was awesome,“ I told them all, doing my best to avoid Andrew’s gaze. He stared intently at me, though. Almost probing me, looking for the truth behind my words, any hint of emotion, but I stayed set, doing my best to ignore him.

If he could shut me out, I could shut him out as well.

I wanted to go up to him, introduce the new me, hopefully forgetting the old him.

Hi, my name’s Stan, cold hard bitch, nice to meet you, Andrew, dreamer of impossible dreams and epitome of emotional wreckage.

With a fleeting glance and as if he read my blasphemous thoughts, Andrew stood up, his piano stool falling over with a loud crash, and stormed into the kitchen.

“What the fuck is wrong with him?” Adrian muttered angrily, when we heard the back door slam shut, signaling that Andrew had made an exit, “He’s being such a fucking girl with his mood swings. How do you deal with him Stan?”

I thought about his question for a second. He was right, Andrew was being ridiculous with his ever-changing moods and his mixed signals and I was sitting here and taking his shit.

I asked myself again, where was the real Konstantine? Where was that girl that stood by Andrew no matter how many times he messed up, almost ruining everything? Where was the girl that didn’t lie to her friends, that didn't allow change to phase her, that didn’t have all these strange feelings for the last person that she ever thought she would? Where was the girl that would have chased after Andrew, without a second thought? Where was the girl that would give anything to get what she wanted?

I couldn’t comprehend how I could have changed so much, in such a short period of time. I wanted to understand, to accept, to embrace the fact that I was becoming something that I wasn't ready to become.

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And the time, such clumsy time in deciding if it's time.

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I didn’t see Andrew again until he went on stage at the bar, some 3 hours later. I didn’t know where he went and I told myself that I couldn’t care, but it was too strange to not feel something when he was involved.

He played his little musically devoted heart out, looking more than a little drunk. The songs seemed to come more natural to him, when he drank, but I could tell, that this time he didn’t drink for artistic purposes.

I had a feeling that something was bothering him, enough to drive him to drink, and that feeling kept pointing in a single direction.

I was the source of his desperation and I didn’t like that role at all.

He finished the set, with a ‘Thank You (Insert City name here)’ generic goodbye, and he stumbled off stage, leaving the tired, and crumbled band in his wake.

He looked as if everything was erased, and he was carefree, the thought of any issues no longer heavy on his already wavering resolve.

He walked up to where I had been sitting a mess of cheap beer that my fake ID bought and sighing in between songs, and forced me to stand up. Elise was seated on the other side of the bar, looking angry and hurt and I knew some of the emotions were caused by my obvious, painful lie.

Part of her knew about me and Andrew and that was the same part that had originally trusted me to do what was right.

I felt like Stan, the cold hard bitch, at that moment and I didn’t like this new side of me.

-------------------------

I'm careful, but not sure how it goes.

------------------------

“Come with me to the lookout...” Andrew whispered in my ear, holding on to my arms tightly. I frowned as he pushed a piece of blonde hair behind my ear. The echo of the band putting away the instruments filled the bar, and I knew that it would be time to put away Andrew’s piano soon. The same piano that spent most of it’s time in my living room.

The same piano that represented everything...

------------------------------------------

You can lose yourself in your courage.

-----------------------------------------

Elise glared at us from a distance.

Accusing.

Threatening.

Disappointed.

I looked at Andrew, who was looking somewhat childish and lost, in the bar-like atmosphere. I smiled back at him, doing my best to not look at Elise, who continued to bore into me, her eyes speaking clearly of her emotions.

“I don’t know,” I told him, my smile falling into a frown. His face stayed strong, his arms still holding me in place, his mind set, his judgment clouded, “Maybe you should talk to Elise...”

His expression dropped, his eyes suddenly serious. He didn‘t like my words, because he didn‘t want to have to deal with what was currently going down with Elise. He wanted things to be easy, clear, un-jaded, thoughtless.

If only things were that simple...

“I’d rather talk to you,” he told me, releasing my arms and taking a step back. I forgot about Elise, and the air that was heavy with smoke, I forgot about what happened between us over the last few days and I forgot about ever being angry with him.

I needed to make things right.

“Andrew,” I said softly, as he looked at me, his eyes sparkling. He seemed a little less drunk then, more sober and more real.

“I’ll have you in the house by 2:00 AM.”

“I don‘t know,” I hesitated.

“I promise...”

“Okay...” I agreed.

I avoided Elise’s accusing eyes for the rest of the night, but I knew that the time would come when I had to face her.

The truth was bound to come back and haunt me.

-

Chapter 4



Do you even remember?

-Something Corporate’s ‘Drunk Girl’

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It’s said that 11:11 is a completely round number, an hour in which complete peace and serenity are placed before you to either take or let slip away before it‘s too late. The thought of this perfect time is supposed to clear your mind, make you come to terms with life’s fallacies and beauties. It’s the time of night when everything falls into place, when everything you know is the most logical and planned out.

For me, it would be the moment of clarity in a storm of lies and confusion.

I caught the clock on Andrew’s old car, reading the numbers intently, trying to understand the blurred red lights in front of me, but failing miserably. I knew that I had one too many beers, wallowing in my self-pity, while the band played their best set yet, up on the small, but somewhat roomy bar stage.

Andrew was amazing, belting out the lyrics, playing the notes flawlessly and looking more comfortable on the stage than I’d ever seen him. He’d always had a stage presence, something in his personality that caught the audience and made them hang on his every word, his every note. But tonight had been different, he had the crowd going wild, the girls screaming his name, and the singing perfect.

The days were far and few between, when I had seen him that dedicated, real, even happy at a performance.

But those thoughts, hopeless wishes for his happiness, dissipated when he stepped off the stage. Elise’s reaction to Andrew and I standing close to each other, her accusing glances, Andrew’s pleading and genuinely happy expression when he asked me to go with him to the lookout, the pain etched on Elise’s face after she stormed out, then the dismissing of her reaction by Andrew.

It all seemed like so much and so little, all at once...

Everything was beginning to speed quickly away from clarity and instead I was preparing myself for a head-on collision with oblivion that I wasn’t sure that I would make out alive.

My gaze somehow was transfixed on the clock, the numbers blaring into my eyes, numbing my mind, causing me to squint painfully.

It was 11:11, that odd time, that I couldn’t manage to escape from, the time when things didn’t seem to get clearer, but only that much messier. The time that I fought off the thoughts that only the deepest parts of my mind had managed to conjure up. The time spent driving away from everything, but not moving closer to my destination.

My head swam, with thoughts, with confusion, with the start of drunkenness and I wanted nothing more than the clarity of 11:11.

I needed to force everything away, and I took a sip of the beer that was sitting in the cup holder of the car, looking as if it was both the rarest temptation and my deepest regret. The hard, almost bitter liquor burned my throat as it went down, making me wince with discomfort.

Andrew glanced at me, and with a crooked smile, broke the silence that I hadn’t even noticed had invaded his large, vintage car.

“Not good?” he asked me, his voice light, forgetful, painless.

For some reason, I wanted his tone to be heavy, I wanted him to feel what I was feeling, I wanted him to understand for once that life wasn’t as forgetful as he was.

I wanted to tell him that it was horrible, that this was horrible and that I shouldn’t be doing this to myself, I wanted to scream out loud in frustration, I wanted to understand why I was feeling things that made me question my relationship with him, I wanted to cry out for some answers in the tangled web of confusion that I managed to create for myself. I wanted to forget, just like he had, but for some reason I held onto the memory of the night before, while he ran away from it. He ran away from me, from Elise, from reality and into that oblivion that I feared so profoundly.

“No,” I muttered taking another sip, forcing the liquid down my throat, my inhibitions and desires with it, “How do you drink this stuff?”

I tried to make my voice light-hearted, almost simple, like his tone, but instead, because of the fact that I was half-drunk, I came off as bitter and somewhat harsh.

“It’s an acquired taste,” he said his voice laughing, his hair blowing in his face. I wanted to fight his happiness, I wanted to use all the will I had left in me, but instead I could only sit there, the beginnings of a smile on my face. I tried to contain my smirk, but his happiness was contagious, almost magnetic and to fight it, would have been painful and useless.

Andrew was a drug, and like a frequent user, there was no possible way I could handle the withdrawal no matter how angry I was with him.

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I kissed a drunk girl.

----------------------

“Stan, are you mad about something?” he inquired, his voice concerned, when he noticed my uncontrollable giggles. His smile provoked my happiness, and I was to a point, after all the horrible tasting beers, that I could begin to laughing for no reason.

I was a terrible drunk, my personality matching that of Andrew’s. I tended to have the ever-changing moods, the endless dreams and the thoughtless wishes that he possessed so whole-heartedly, his dedication to his cause of achieving those illusions that he so often dreamed of, suddenly becoming more rational to me after I had a few drinks.

But with his sudden change in voice, drunk Stan was gone, replaced with rational, often questionably sane Stan in her wake. I sighed, my giggles quickly replaced with a frown at his questioning, causing me to place the bottle back down in the cup holder.

Drowning my confusion in that horrible tasting liquid wouldn’t solve anything.

I was addicted to Andrew and the alcohol could never dull my desire for his presence, for him, for his love, for his desperation, for his emotion, for his dream, for his reality.

“Nope, I’m a little drunk though,” I admitted, my voice almost accusing. I wondered if he knew he was the reason I’d gotten drunk in the first place. I wondered if he was effected at all or if the act only hours before in which he left my house in a storm of frustration, rage and jealousy, was merely just a side effect of the night before, that would pass, just like my withdrawal and my desire for him.

Or had he spent hours drinking cheap beers or smoking the best weed that our small town could buy with 10 dollars and a promise of future purchases, making his performance both stellar and his mood even more inconsistent than it had been previously?

My drunk brain couldn’t process the fact that I caused him enough pain to do that.

He glanced at me, only momentarily taking his eyes off the road, in an innocent, almost sad, shock. He looked disappointed in my behavior, in me and in our friendship. Not just because of the drinking, but because of something that ran deeper, that I wasn’t sure that I could except just yet.

This was no longer about him failing me, I had now failed him...

And my brain was forced to come to term with that fact.

-------------------------------

Why do I do these things I do to myself?

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We continued driving, the the road dark, the mood in the car rivaling the black of night. Andrew’s disappointment in me hung in the air, like the stale atmosphere of the bar we just managed to escape from. He would steal glances, testing my faces for any hint of emotion or any distinction of why I would spend an entire hour drinking.

To him, I would always be his best friend. Innocent little Stan, that never drank, worked semi-hard in school, smoked on only rare occasions and kissed him on even rarer occasions.

I wanted to understand why I could never be more to him, and why I couldn’t just accept the fact that I would never be more to him.

The turn into the parking lot of the lookout, came suddenly and surprisingly, knocking me away from thought and into reality with a shuttering fall. I felt myself grip on to the door, bracing myself for what lied ahead of me.

Andrew pulled into the lookout, the car once again silent. The quiet wasn’t awkward, my thoughts too hazy to wonder if it was supposed to be awkward, my heart heavy with the thoughts that wouldn’t slip away, even when I drank.

He cut the engine, the headlights slipping away, like my wavering hold on my sanity.

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I kissed a drunk girl.

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The quiet sound of the rustling trees from the wind, and the beautiful music of the summer crickets filled the car, causing me to wonder if I should continue to drink. While drinking caused more thought and more confusion, it also cause me to feel somewhat optimistic.

Everything was okay, everything would be okay, everything had to be okay.

I reached for the bottle, making up my mind in a single thought, but Andrew’s hand stopped mine before I could grip the liquor tight enough to bring it to my lips and take a sip.

“Stan,” he said quietly, holding tightly to my hand, to me, to us.

I frowned, doing my best to shake free from his grip.

His grip was holding me back from consolation, from thoughtlessness, from a certain degree of sanity. I wanted him to release my arm and give me the chance to think properly and get as drunk as I wanted.

“I’m okay,” I told him, my voice slurred, my thoughts hurting, the sounds of nature making my ears ring. All my senses were on alert, and I couldn’t help but yearn for them to be dulled, painless, a figment of my imagination.

“You don’t ever get drunk, what’s wrong,” he asked me, his grip still tightened around my hand. He loosened it for a second, and his thumb stroked the inside of my wrists, causing a fluttering sensation up my arm. I glanced down at his hand, the only one out of the two of us, phased by his actions.

“Nothing, just kind of tired and I have a headache from the music,” I told him, forcing my voice to sound not affected, but failing miserably. He laughed, a childish sort of chuckle, that made me sigh with a certain degree of contentedness.

I longed for his ease in tough situations.

“We weren’t that bad, were we?”

“No you guys were amazing...” I said seriously, shifting in my seat, my drunken feelings suddenly lifted. I narrowed my eyes at him for a second, staring intently. He was looking straight ahead, at the mass of pine trees in front of us, still holding my hand with one of his, and the other absently drumming the steering wheel.

“But I screwed up,” he said turning toward me after a second, his voice was sad, a frown prominent on his face.

I wanted to convince him that he didn’t screw up, that he should have confidence in everything he does, but instead of sounding dedicated and caring , they came off as forced and demanding.

“No, you didn’t. Everything was flawless, you didn’t miss a beat and your vocals were amazing...”

“Not with the set, with you,” he said quietly.

My heart skipped a beat, but my drunken brain, wouldn’t allow me to process what he was saying. I was feeling more confused than before, and for some reason, 11:11 seemed to resonate in my mind. Where was my moment of clarity? Where was my time to understand my strange new feelings and to somehow come to terms with them?

It was now 11:15, and it looked like my chance escaped me.

----------------------------------

And I'm sure I could've been with anybody else.

----------------------------

I looked at him strangely for a second, wondering if he was serious, or it was the alcohol talking.

“You didn’t screw up with me...” I told him, as he moved closer to me, shifting in his seat. The distance between us was minimal and my drunken brain couldn’t help but wonder what was going to happen next.

He continued holding my hand, absently and coherently all at once. He looked as lost as I felt, and I wondered how terrible things would become with both of us in such a state of disarray emotionally. With that thought, I frowned and shifted, mistakenly making us closer. A piece of my blonde hair fell into my face, the wind blowing it gently through the open car windows, and he raised his hand to my face, pushing it out of my view and letting his hand linger on the edge of my cheek. He refused to look at me though, and instead stared at the small space between us on the front seat of his car.

“Yeah, I did,” he said his voice pained, “But I want to fix it...”

I stared at the same small space of worn, brown leather that separated us, as he allowed his hand to run over my cheek, to my chin, lifting it gently, his eyes meeting mine. I tried to look away, but instead I could do nothing, but stare at him, just as amazed at what was occurring between us, at that moment.

It was 11:19, but I felt the wisps of clarity lingering before me, beckoning me forward. Our lips were centimeters apart, the space between us lessening as the seconds, minutes, hours, passed by in a wave of confusion.

“What are you fixing?” I whispered, as he moved his hand back to my cheek.

His touch was soft, necessary and wanted all at once. His breathing was shallow, and he leaned a centimeter closer.

“What I started...”

His voice was deep with emotion, as he leaned forward the remaining millimeters and placed his lips on mine. It felt awkward for a second, my drunken mind, weak in reaction time. But as the kiss intensified, my mind cleared.

The moment of clarity had reached me, in a wave of emotion, reality and exhilaration.

He continued kissing me, entwining his fingers in my hair and pulling me closer to him. It was natural, real and everything I wanted. His hand rested on my face, his thumb rough, against my soft cheek, holding me in place unnecessarily and eagerly.

His hand left my cheek, suddenly sliding down my arm, and skimming the thin strip of skin near my waist, that was visible only now that my tank top had ridden up. His touch ignited something in me, not the conventional passion, not a shiver of surprise and unmasked desire, more of a feeling of home and safety. I wasn’t thinking of his reputation or his past girlfriends, of even his present girlfriend, I was thoughtfully longing for the stability that his touch instilled in me.

My drunken brain coaxed me into remembering those thoughts that I forced myself to forget, though.. Andrew had the sometimes plaguing reputation of a free-spirit. He was known to be fickle and open-minded, when a situation called for the level-headedness of someone of our age. He moved through girlfriends, as he did paper crowded with poetic lyrics and meaningless thoughts, disposing of them as easy as he did the forgotten pieces of sheet music with half-written pages of notes on them. To him, a girl was his next song, her heartbreak fueling a week’s worth of solid music-writing in which he would sit in front of the piano and handwrite pages and pages of sheet music. Half the songs were forgotten, the other half were set aside for another time, another place, and another heartbreak.

Could I be a string of useless notes and ‘emo’ lyrics written and cast aside for the day when Andrew needed a song to capture the crowd’s attention with the crooning of his voice and the melodic tune of his piano?

Damn it, if I was going to be Andrew’s one-hit wonder...

He rested his hand on my waist, adjusting his weight over me, my common sense and questioning thoughts escaping me. Things were moving so quick, and so fast at once, and for a second I panicked. The sudden shift of his weight over me, the way his hands felt buried in my hair, the way our mouths melded together as if we were two pieces of a whole, made me fight for control. The stability that I had felt only minutes before, suddenly felt so far away, a mix of forgotten thoughts and lost wishes.

He sensed my hesitation, my doubt, my utter confusion, and pulled away, pushing a piece of hair out my face.

“I’ll take you home,” he said, an innocently sad look in his eyes. He skimmed a hand over my cheek, and kissed me one last time. The kiss was soft and sweet, a brush-off in a sense. But instead, this time, he wasn’t brushing me off, I was brushing him off.

And for some reason, I couldn’t do it.

I knew that I should agree, that I should sit up, adjust my shirt and allow him to drive the ten minutes, in silence, back to my house, but I couldn’t do it.

Call it curiosity, call it stupidity, call it a mistake.

But at the time, I thought it was clarity.

I caught the edge of his shirt as he began to sit up, pulling him back down on top of me, our mouths crashing against each other. For a second , he hesitated, knowing that if we took it a little further that we wouldn’t be able to stop, but after fighting it for so little time, but what seemed forever, he relented, our mouths connecting and molding to one another’s.

We would hurtle into oblivion a mess of desire, sexual tension and stolen kisses.

-------------------------

I pulled away, I didn't think it would be right.

--------------------

There was time for one last pause, one last plea to stop it before things got completely out of hand.

And Andrew took advantage of it, his mind clouded by the nearness of us, the breathlessness of the kiss, the fact that my touch somehow effected him.

“Stan,” he said quietly, his voice rushed and heated, “Not here, not in my car. It wouldn’t be right...”

He held on to me carefully, one hand on my face, brushing his thumb over my cheek, the other on my waist, his fingertips heavy on my skin.

I didn’t care where we were, what was happening at the moment, what would be the ramifications

Oblivion was everything I feared and everything I dreamed off, and I wanted him to show it to me.

------------------------

I said let's save this for another night.

-------------------

“Everything will be okay...” I told him, surprised by the strength in my voice.

The assurance that I felt in those words, were enough for him as well. He kissed me again, this time without inhibitions, without the fear of what would come of the night.

-------------------

And she said no, no, no; I know that everything's gonna be just fine.

----------------------

The removal of clothes was rushed, the kissing, the touching more intense as the seconds sped by in a rush of confusion and unmasked need.

It was a drunken night of passion that would forever haunt my thoughts.

But I would never mourn any of it, because everything was going to be okay.

------------------

How could I do this, when I want her to be all mine?

-------------

11:23

Him.

Me.

Oblivion...

Chapter 5




With every sunsets a sunrise.

-‘An American Classic’ by Hidden in Plain View

-

-

-

-

It sometimes feels as if sunrise is the time of new beginning. The start of a new day after the previous, hazy, string of events, the introduction of light into a new situation or encounter, a chance to start over when everything else was feeling completely hopeless.

But sometimes sunrise can be the end of something as well. The end of a somewhat confusing night, the end of the horrible feelings of the previous day, and the end of denial that you’re forced to come to terms with.

That morning, that sunrise, I managed to wake up a mass of emptiness, my body numb, the sunlight, blinding in a cruel and diabolical way, my thoughts merged with emotion into a muddled mess that I couldn’t even begin to process.

I wondered exactly what sunrise would prove to me.

Would I find the new beginning or the disastrous end? And most of all, was I ready to find out?

The sunlight peeked through the open car window, a dark, but somewhat flaming orange glare bathing the entire car in the quiet, but brilliant sunrise. The angle, at which the sun was positioned in the sky, cut through the open window, casting shapes of light on my skin. The shapes, rigid triangles and cut diamonds glistened on my skin in vivid violets, deep crimsons and fiery oranges, looking as if there were permanent, stable and magical all at once. But instead of the light looking as is it was only reflections from an outer source, it looked as if the light was radiating from me, within me, throughout me. And with my hazy, somewhat sleepy, eyes, I had to blink a few time to assure myself that I wasn’t glowing, that the sun was merely the vessel that shined down upon me, making the illusion of purity, light, innocence seem as if it were reality.

I looked at my arms, hints of sleep and peacefulness lingering in my thoughts, wondering why my head was hurting as it was, wondering why I was waking up in a car, wondering why the night before was hazy, but memorable all at once. The light continued to radiate, the night’s events returning to me, slowly as the soft light, turned more luminous, veiling the car with a certain beauty and reality with it.

Andrew.

His name resonated in my mind, the act that we shared the night before, coming back to me in a rush of cool warmth, of confusion, surprise and curiosity. The act itself had been awkward and quick, not what I expected and not exactly what I wanted. The removal of our clothes, the kisses, the touches, rushed and slowed all at once, making everything a big blur. Climax came and went, and with it went my wavering hold on reality, slipping into the oblivion that captured us both whole. Afterwards, when touch became too much to bare, he put distance between us, him moving to the front seat, after covering me with the spare blanket in the backseat and offering me his shirt, murmuring meaningless phrases, like lyrics of a song. After what felt like hours of silence, the awkward, distant type, his breathing evened out and I could tell that he had fallen asleep. But I couldn’t relax, still shivering, although not cold, I lay staring at the bright, moonlight pouring in through the open car windows, the light wind rustling the branches of the tree causing a rush of sudden noise. I held his blanket and shirt tight to me, clearing my mind, thoughts not even bothering to come, until I fell into a restless sleep.

The light of the current morning was suddenly brightened, the sun rushing over the horizon, baring down on me accusingly, and making my thoughts rush quickly away from my clouded mind.

The light was so steady and pure, shining on, despite my dark mood, reminding me so sadly of the night before and the actual events that occurred.

Purity, and here I was tainted. Tainted by blind obsession and confusion. I should have pushed him away, the night before. I should have stopped him, before there was any removal of clothes. I should have averted from my path to oblivion to a more straight and meaningless final destination. But I couldn’t.

I couldn’t pull away or back down or move away. Because of one simple, clear and concise reason: I was completely and utterly captivated by him.

It deviated far from the fact that he was my friend, that I loved him to no end, that I could spend hours in his presence just talking or watching him play the music he loved almost as much as me. But he was a little boy, with a band, a load of dreams and a best friend. All his girlfriends were temporary, like a fleeting glance and the hint of a smile, and were disposed of when interest was lost. Considering that he already had a girlfriend, and I was just that fleeting glance, that hint of a smile, and I couldn’t help but want to be more than that. Maybe I was being childish, maybe I was hanging on to those dreams I resented and was being hopelessly devoted to a useless cause.

I wanted so much, and he could give so very little.

------------------------

This pressures to much to take.

--------------------

But the hints of regret lingered on in my mind, making me wonder if everything I’d done had been in vain. I didn’t want our first time to have been in his car, when we were drunken, confused and lonely, so that every encounter after would be a mess of awkwardness and avoidance. I wanted it to mean something, to be thoughtful, something that I was able to remember every detail about and relish in every fact. I sighed sadly, the realization coming to me, curling myself tightly up into a ball, hoping to block out any memories of what occurred between us.

The efforts were futile and often impossible, considering when he was so very close. Maybe not physically, but his essence lingered in me, through me, on me.

I couldn’t find the sweater I had been wearing the previous night, over my sheer and revealing tank top which I was still wearing, and instead I was covered in Andrew’s button down shirt, the very shirt that lingered with his essence. It smelled like him, the mingling of cigarette smoke and clean laundry, causing me to pull it tighter around me, leaning against it.

It wasn’t him, but it provided the same stability that he always instilled in me. I was at home, lost in my illusion, for once completely content with that fact.

But illusions are fickle, sometimes scary, and often short. Knowing this, I should have been prepared for its demise, and for my end with it.

In the distance the sound of an engine revving, the sound of reality, meshed with the silence of early morning, shattering my thoughts and my illusion all at once. With the sudden noise, and my small view to the front seat, I could see Andrew stir lightly, adjusting his arm that was rested above his head absently, his t-shirt riding up only slightly, a sigh escaping his lips. I knew that he would be awake soon, the awkward conversation that followed lingering over my head. What would we say to each other? What did it mean? Why couldn’t I be sure?

I didn’t want to find out, I wanted to run away, from him, from us, from confrontation, from the night before, from life.

I sat up carefully, fear consuming me.

Reality always managed to destroy the illusion that I’d created for myself.

And even though I had been given the chance to prepare, I wasn’t fully ready for the transition. I needed to get the hell out before my life took a turn for the worst, for the best, for the strangely different.

And I did just that…

-----------

Every bend reaches a brake.

---------

I sat up, Andrew’s shirt falling limply at my shoulders, encompassing me and making me doubt my desire to get out of the car. But I pushed the thin dark fabric off of my body, leaving only my tank top covering me, and slowly removed the blanket twisted tightly around my legs, moving as if a weight was lifted off my subconscious. A part of Andrew, the part that lingered on me, confusing and haunting my thoughts, was dulled. Sleeping only a foot away from me, for some reason he now felt miles away, both physically and emotionally.

I pulled on my pants and slid across the smooth leather of the backseat, doing my best to maintain the quiet, the silence deafening and calm all at once. Moving was a terrible feat, causing my brain to scream in protest and want to do nothing more, but lie back down. But I moved to the edge of the door, pushing it open with one hand and steadying myself to stand up with the other.

The sun was blinding, without the shield of the car, causing me to squint and flinch in pain. My head was hurting, my mind incapable of thought as I stood up, the plush deserted scenery of the lookout feeling as if it was spinning past me, in circles of color and light, in confusion and pain. I steadied myself on the car, getting my bearings and preparing myself for the walk away from the car, from Andrew, from the night before.

I took a tentative step, seeing a patch of shade and green grass about 10 feet away.

If I could make it there, I would be that much further away, able to get a grasp on my life that was spinning out of control.

One step.

Breathe.

Two steps.

Almost there.

Three steps.

Everything is okay.

I continued the pattern, the patch seeming further away, than closer, than even further until, finally I reached it, falling to a heap in the patch of grass and clovers, wondering if this was what I needed.

Did I need to sit here, in a heap of utter confusion and sheer agony, because of something that was meaningless?

My thoughts stilled, my head temporarily relieved of the pain that plagued it, my mind set.

The realization came to me in a string of denied thoughts.

I could no longer sit there and pine for Andrew, I could no longer wish for something from him, I could no longer sit with the pain that he instilled in me because we merely shared a one-night stand, I could not longer allow his name to resonate in my mind, like an evil mantra, and most of all I could never allow myself to love him.

It was time for change, for hope, for reality.

I was 18 and I was invincible, Andrew could hurt me no more.

------------

Well that's a sore subject.

---------

I knew with realization came confrontation and when I heard the slamming of the door, and the quiet crunch of footsteps, I knew that reality was about to come crashing down.

He neared and I shrunk away.

Andrew sat down next to me, and the intensity multiplied. The distance between us made my breath catch, the fact that I could hear him shifting uncomfortably in the clovers, his thoughts almost screaming out at me, in anger and confusion, made the entire situation seem more concentrated. My own thought process became slowed, causing my posture to become rigid, the sun suddenly painfully blinding, the thoughts of strength erased from my memory as though it wasn’t even there before.

I had been with guys before, but nothing this intense, nothing that made me feel alive and at the edge of death at once.

Andrew was a force in his self, and there was no way to harness exactly what he made me feel.

I prepared myself for what was come, the deep, thoughtful conversation, filled with regret and no hope of promise. I prepared myself for heartbreak, for destruction, for the end of our friendship and anything else.

But instead, his words were steady and slow, detached and lost.

“Do you want me to drive you home?” he asked his voice intermingled with exhaustion and uncomfortable thoughts. I ignored him, absently running my fingers along the cool calm ground. It was stable, unchanging, alive and real all at once. I resented it and out of anger, I ripped one of the clovers out of the ground, from the patch that I was sitting in, and brought it up to eye level, trying to ignore the fact that he was speaking.

It had four leafs, four little green leaves branching off from the small stem, and for some reason, the rarity that was only inches away from me couldn’t rival Andrew, who was sitting a few feet from me.

Luck was on my side though, I had a four leaf clover to prove it, but somehow that didn’t offer me any hope.

How was I supposed to respond my best friend that was sitting next to me, as much a mess as I was? How was I supposed to deal with the un-composed, utterly lost boy who was visibly shaken? How was I supposed to deal with the ramifications, if I hadn’t even been ready for the act itself?

I nodded slowly, gripping the clover tightly in my hand.

Home, is that the quiet place where I could be alone? Could I find sanctuary in the fact that I was home, alone, without the plaguing thoughts of Andrew?

I was afraid to speak and instead, I awkwardly stood, clutching the clover, and walked away from him and towards the car.

I felt suddenly strengthened as I walked away, leaving him sitting in the patch of clovers, his hands visibly shaking...

For once, I was the strong one...

-------------------

Time to get your head checked.

---------------

He drove me home, the car completely silent, and dropped me off, without even saying goodbye. It was cold and sad, and I did my best to ignore the pain plaguing me and making me feel lost and alone.

But I was different now, better, more sane and much stronger.

Andrew, on the other hand, was shaken, and I began to wonder if he had been effected more than me. The entire time when we had been driving, he kept his hands at two and ten as if he was a student fresh out of driving school, and his eyes never deviated from the road.

Usually he would walk me to the door, come inside to play the piano or just to talk, but this time, he merely flashed me a glance, the pain and fear evident in his expression and willed me to get out of the car.

Not a word, not a gesture, not a smile, not a phrase.

But I was strong Stan, things were different, and I could handle it.

I left the car, my manner just as cold as his and hurried towards the house, the car speeding away when I wasn’t even halfway up the walk.

His cruelty wouldn’t effect me, it couldn’t effect me.

When I got inside my house, I felt suddenly alone and very dirty. I needed to wash away the night before, and I had do it quickly.

Very quickly.

I peeled off my clothes and stepped under the hot water, realizing that I needed to burn away everything.

I showered, the soap washing away my thoughts. The shower somehow cleansed me, removing the impurities, removing the mistakes of the night before, removing any hint of Andrew. I allowed myself to stand calmly under the scalding water, thought not even coming to me.

Quiet Violence. So quiet, but almost murderous.

I emerged an hour later, the bathroom steamy and quiet.

But then I heard it, the sound of distant piano-banging, of a melody so amazingly powerful. And my first reaction was shock. How could he be in my house, when only an hour before he couldn’t even say more than a sentence to me?

The banging on the piano became more harsh, as if he could sense that I could now hear him.

And maybe he could, but I wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.

It was of the angry and frustrated kind. The anger a mix of high and low notes, each sound blending with the next to form a battle and connection all at once. It was beautiful and angry, and it could only coming from one source:

Andrew.

I walked to the stairs, dressed only in my underwear and tank top, and peaked around the corner. Before me sat Andrew, dressed in the same clothes as the previous night, his back to me, completely immersed in the song that he was banging out on the keys. The notes came out in rigid bursts of emotion and frustration, no lyrics, only melodies. He looked tired and worn out, but he continued playing, the music getting louder in the process, his mind getting clearer as he continued.

I could have let him continue to play, I could have went upstairs and pretended that I didn’t hear him playing.

But he was there for a reason, a reason that I was sure that I wasn’t ready to deal with, but a reason that I had to come to terms with and instead I yelled over the notes, in anger and surprise, wondering if interrupting him was such a good idea after all.

“What are you doing here?” I said, my voice full of doubt. The music abruptly stopped and he slowly turned around to face me, the piano stool crashing to the floor in the process. He looked at me strangely, confused maybe or surprised to see me in my own house, and I narrowed my eyes at him. Reality came rushing back to me, though, and I remembered my attire, causing a blush to creep onto my cheeks and my expression to soften into a frown.

I played awkwardly with the edge of my hair, shifting mid-step, wondering why I couldn’t just walk upstairs and put some clothes on.

Damn him...

“Stan,” he said awkwardly looking away, tearing his eyes from me and the fact that he had been staring. He ran a hand through his hair apprehensively, taking a deep breath before he spoke, “I-uh-I, need to use the piano…”

His voice was weak and awkward and I breathed deeply trying to gain more control over the situation. That seemed almost impossible, though, and instead the air was heavy with unspoken thoughts.

I needed to get the hell out of there, the wounds of the night before were still raw.

Strong, I told myself, I had to be strong.

“Fine,” I said turning slightly to go back upstairs.

Away, far away.

And fast.

“Konstantine.”

He never called me Konstantine, always Stan, maybe because he knew how much I hated it. Maybe he was too drunk half the time, to have the strength to say it, or maybe he just reserved it for special, cruel occasions.

This was obviously one of them

He was serious, he looked serious, his face set, a frown prominent on his face, and I was gone.

Gone mentally and gone emotionally, far away in my isolated place.

Like he reserved my name for special occasions, I reserved isolation.

--------------------

You can't keep dwelling on every moment that slipped by.

---------------

“Use the piano, inspiration, I understand…” I said somewhat coldly. I was bitter and hurt, and for some reason I had no problem admitting it to myself. I realized then at that moment, after I’d spent so much time closing myself off and putting my mind in isolation, that I had become exactly what I didn’t want to be.

God dammit, I was just a song to him.

I was going to be a week’s worth of inspiration and for some reason it didn’t hurt.

I was numb.

“I -,” he started off, weakly and couldn’t hold my gaze. I had forgotten that I was standing on the stairs in my underwear, I had forgotten my lack of strength, or the strength that I convinced myself that I possessed. I wanted him to hurt and I didn’t want to have to hurt with him.

And he was leading me towards the pain..

“I don’t want to talk about it…” I told him it coldly, I didn’t want the subject brought up and I would do anything possible to stay gone. The night before had to be forgotten and pushed away, until the pain could no longer effect either of us.

He looked defeated, his head hanging, his hands hanging limp at his side.

The night before was real, but I was in the illusion.

Why couldn’t he stay away?

“I-okay…”

“I have to go…” I told him seriously

“Stan,” he said almost desperately, “I’m so sorry…”

The apology seemed weak, not whole hearted, but for some reason the emotion was there. My strength wavered for a second, he was a mess, and I was somehow the source of it. But I frowned slightly, too gone to give it too much thought.

“I have to go…”

I turned and walked up the stairs, running into my room and slamming the door behind me.

The frustrated banging on the piano could be heard downstairs, pleading and angry, only brief seconds later. I was the song, the useless lyrics, and melodies that would forever be haunting me and those that heard it.

My mistakes and lack of common sense were open so that the entire world could see.

But I was gone, far away.

-----------------------------

With every sunsets a sunrise.

-----------------------------

And sunrise somehow had given me the new beginning.

Because being gone, had now become better than any ounce of stability

Chapter 6 part 1




You are my only one I let go

‘Only One’ by Yellowcard 


Andrew’s inspiration never came, and somehow I found sick pleasure in it. I didn’t want him to have any satisfaction in the fact that he hurt me, and I sure as hell didn’t want to be the driving force of a ballad that would have the female population of the band’s shows swooning, forced into dreaming of an emotionally-wrecked Andrew and wishing that they were the source of his inner turmoil.

No, I was nothing now, a mistake, with no ramifications in sight.

 And when he didn’t find any source of inspiration, I became slightly more confident in the fact that I was his mistake.

 A beautiful mistake, a lapse of judgment, oblivion, that still had my reeling and dying and crying and managing to comprehend the radical idea of change.

 But soon change began to scare me, the lack of Andrew, becoming strangely natural, the thought that he was never coming back haunting and satisfying me all at once.

 The days slipped by and there was no word from him, he didn’t come by to play the piano, he didn’t show up at my house drunk, begging for me to allow him to sleep on my couch, and no longer did he stop by or call spontaneously just to talk.

 ----------------------------

Made my mistakes, let you down...

-------------------

 The lack of music worried me the most, the piano was his godsend, his immortalized icon, his reality and illusion, but most of all his savior.

Without the notes, the beautiful music, pouring from it, my house lacked life or substance.

That night in his car.

The night everything changed.

The night the music died.

------------------

And I can't, I can't hold on for too long.

--------------

I never really understood Andrew’ fascination with the piano. I knew that he started playing when he was very young, but besides that the rest was unknown. I knew his mother loved the piano, and when she left, he played it for her, hoping that she would some day come back to him. And somehow fix everything that she mangled in him emotionally, physically, sadly and menacingly.

Why he made the introduction of a classical piano in a rock band, I could not fathom...

Maybe it was a call for his mother, the return to his childhood, his step away from change. Or maybe it was for a different reason. Maybe it was because of his sister, for her forgiveness and return.

The abandonment of the women in his life, destroyed him, giving him reasoning, at least in his own mind, that he had the capability to hurt girl after girl.

He blamed his ability to be in love one moment, and completely detached the next, on his home life. He used it as an excuse to destroy numerous girls’ lives, drive, love, believing that he was completely and wholeheartedly correct in his actions. I never thought of it as an excuse, growing up in a similar or even worse situation than he had. But maybe that was the bitter afterthoughts of the night that we shared, haunting me, forcing me into a role that I’d rather not hold. I was one of those girls that he destroyed, and I searched his past, hoping to find refuge in the fact that he had suffered just as much as all the girls that he had effected.

Like myself, he grew up in a broken home. My dad left before I was born, leaving me only with my careless mother. Andrews mother, on the other hand, left when he was young, but old enough to remember her. I sometimes wonder if that was worse for a child without a parent that they once knew, then for a child who could only wonder.

His sister and him were left alone with only their father and a few stray memories of happier times. Their father, now lacking the second income, was forced to take on numerous jobs to fill the emptiness that was associated with his wife’s departure and to make ends meet. Kaye, Andrew’s older sister, at only the mere age of 8 was forced to take care of her 6 year old brother, and maintain the rigorous regiment of schoolwork that her father insisted she’d take on. Eventually the pressure became too much to bare, and Kaye’s behavior took a turn for the worse. She got into drugs and drinking, and gained the reputation of a girl with her intelligence and beauty, should never have to bear. When Kaye turned 16, she got pregnant and ran off with her boyfriend, leaving 14 year old Andrew behind, heartbroken and alone.

He hasn’t heard from her 4 years, and he insists that it’s for the better. But I know that he’s still haunted by the fact that he burdened her with his presence, that he indirectly caused her breakdown because of the responsibility that he put on her.

I wanted to understand his reasoning, but instead I felt hollow and used because of that night, not able to find the solace that I longed for.

--------------------------------

Ran my whole life in the ground

-------------------------------

But who was I to question the logic of his musical choice, turning it into something that would help me come to terms with everything that happened between us, it worked, and it lit up the songs, revolutionizing the genre that him and the band worked with.

And without him the band didn’t have a lead singer or the same catchy sound.

Andrew was missing in action and the band was getting restless, their hands itching to play familiar notes, to hold drum sticks or strum out cords on guitars or basses.

And by Friday, they had given up, holding band practice without their front man or driving force. They called him, leaving messages, begging him to show up, but he never did. He isolated himself, using self-pity, I was sure, to justify his actions.

The band couldn’t hold it together. Band practice in my living room, no longer held the same essence, the music not constant or melodic, but more ragged and forced.

They needed Andrew, and during a not-so-quiet band huddle, they decided that I was their ticket to him.

Easy access, with his best friend, Stan.

I wondered what they would think if they knew that I was the barrier that held them back from him.

---------------------

And I can't, I can't get up when you're gone

----------------

"Stan, call him," Ryan, who was elected as the not-so-eager messenger, told me, pulling me to the side, away from the steady beat of the drums and the absent bass playing, of the rest of the band trying to make it seem as if they weren’t doing their best to listen in on our conversation .

"I can’t do that," I mumbled slowly, knowing that he was going to be persistent and overly sweet in hopes that I would fall victim to his charm. Ryan was a sweet guy, his short, dark hair, dark eyes and careless but put together look, adding to his overall attractiveness. And just like Andrew, he knew just when to put on the charm. Knowing that I was going to do my best to resist his attempts, he was going to do his very best to lure me into doing exactly what he wanted.

But I was immune to his charm, numb and still effected from the events of the entire week and I was going to fight his attempts with all that I had left in me.

I missed Andrew, but not enough to relinquish the strength that I had built up against him. And in no way would I be the driving force in him, bringing him back to my house.

"We need him," Ryan said running his hand through his hair absently, mussing it even more than he had already. I sighed and shook my head.

I wanted to tell him that they would be better off without him, but I knew that they wouldn’t. The band was everything they were because of Andrew, and in no way could they ever replace him.

But I was doing my very best to convince myself that I would be better without him.

"I can’t talk to him..." I told Ryan, a certain strength in my voice. He sighed, his eyes meeting mine. I shook my head, furthering my resistance against him.

I heard the silent beat of footsteps outside first, causing Ryan’s eyes to divert from my own. He stared intently at the door, silently wishing that it was the person that he thought it was.

I, on the other hand, pleaded that it wasn’t.

But the click of the door, the rush of hot air from a warm summer’s day, and the smooth silence that engulfed the room, made me think that I should have wished harder.

"Isn’t this supposed to be practice," Andrew’s voice resounded through the cramped living room, filled with the band’s equipment, and heavy attitudes. He sounded light-hearted, his voice intermingled with laughter, and I resisted the urge I had to turn around and meet his eyes, to see if his tone was a mask for what he was really feeling. But instead I stood there, looking intently at Ryan, reading his reaction to Andrew’s somewhat catastrophic entrance, "You all are just standing around like the lazy asses that you are."

I heard Adrian bang his cymbal loudly, the sound reverberating through the house, causing everybody’s head to jerk in his direction. He wanted to speak, and he needed everyone’s attention to do so. That was how Adrian was, with his vibrant red hair and glowing features, he stole the stage, and had great presence. But sometimes he could be overbearing, and overly animated, as he was being now.

"Dude, where the hell have you been?" Adrian asked twirling the drumstick that he had angrily banged on the helpless cymbal only moments before. I turned around slowly, no longer content with Ryan’s stoic emotions, needing to read Andrew for myself.

He met my eyes briefly, smiling at me innocently and a tad shyly. He ducked his head after moment, absently brushing his hair out of his face. I noticed that he looked tired, and a little sad, but his happiness was genuine and serious.

He turned slightly making his way towards the piano.

For a second, things felt alright, like they hadn’t changed and that everything was okay. But when he sat down at the piano, lifting the cover and running his hands over the ivory keys, the scene looking foreign and familiar all at once, I knew that everything was different.

"Fucked up," Andrew muttered, wording exactly what he wanted in a careless statement.

Was I the source of the bitter undertone in that comment or was I completely wrong in that assumption? Had I affected him, and destroyed his hold on those beliefs that if he hurt girl after girl that he would no longer hurt himself.

He played a single note, knocking me out of my thoughts, and pushing Mike into the conversation.

"Elise," Mike said knowingly. Mike always seemed to know what everyone was thinking. He observed quietly, his light, almost pale features, making him blend in easily. Thus making his statement and realizations when he spoke, that much more revolutionary and set in stone. His tone was always ironic, but almost always standard and safe. He was a contradiction in himself, looking fickle and unsteady, in actuality, he could calm a storm, think rationally, and make a situation seem okay all at once. Andrew brightened for a second, then faded, with Mike’s words.

"I broke up with Elise," Andrew said softly, playing a few more notes. His voice wasn’t sad or regretful, it was almost hopeful. And I couldn’t help but want to find out what the break-up meant. I forced myself to tear my eyes away from him and the piano, pushing my hair away from my face and shifting uncomfortable. I noticed Ryan glance at me, and I did my best to look unaffected.

"When?" Ryan asked skeptically, his gaze still on me. I looked at him out of the corner of my eye, taking a step away.

His gaze was accusing, shocked, and amused, and I wondered if he knew exactly what occurred between Andrew and me. I frowned doing my best to shield my features with my long, blonde, hair that fell in my face.

"The beginning of this week," Andrew told the band, not looking at anyone, but instead staring at the piano intently.

"You got bored of her really quick," Ryan, the new-found skeptic, said his tone becoming more amused as the conversation continued. I played with the edge of my t-shirt awkwardly, noting that the room was eerily quiet. I didn’t anticipate Andrew’s reaction, instead, I thought he would brush Ryan off and get the band together. But he turned around, his features clouded with regret and sadness. He met my eyes briefly, then ducked his head quickly, staring intently at the worn carpet around the piano and the legs of the piano bench.

"Actually someone better came along," he muttered softly.

My heart broke and soared all at once.

I was the ‘someone better’ and I wasn’t sure if I was ready for the label, for any label at all.

But I was there in that living room, and I was someone , whether it was better or not, I wasn’t sure if I cared.

-----------------

And something's breaking up

I feel like giving up

I won't walk out until you know

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Chapter 6 part 2




"So you have some new material for us then?" Mike said his voice shattering the delicate silence. His rationalization, the fact that after breaking up with a girl, Andrew always showed up with 20 different songs, some crap, and some the hopeful ‘hit’ that would help them land a record deal. All the guys thrived on his break-ups, but today would be different.

They would curse Elise, the fact that the inspiration never came, and the idea that there was now a setback and a chance that their ‘hit’ was that much further away.

Never would they curse me, I was just Stan, the girl that offered her living room, Andrew's best friend, and steady connection to and from him.

Never would they know that this once, I hindered their success.

"No.." Andrew muttered, as if on cue. The intake of breath in this room, the small sighs, the smirk on Ryan's face, the fact that I felt guilty, made the air heavy and on the verge of violent.

The effects would be cataclysmic...

"What the fuck..." Mike muttered in shock, playing small riff on his bass, the sound echoing through the living room.

I shifted uncomfortably, Ryan’s gaze haunting me, probing me, understanding, and disbelieving. I did my best to stare at the edge of my shirt that I was still playing with, and not meet Andrew or Ryan’s gaze.

I didn’t want this to be so damn hard.

Fuck change, I wanted stability.

"Can you fuckers cut the small talk, and play," Adrian said , calling for the same stability that I longed for, "We don’t need any new material we still need to work on all the old material this asshole wrote when he broke every other girl in Southern California's heart."

The room got suddenly quiet, the silence deafening.

But then the silence was disrupted by a strong wave of laughter from everyone in the band. I couldn’t help but smile, as I rose my eyes, only slightly, to see Andrew let out an awkward laugh, his expression softening.

I felt Ryan’s gaze and his step closer to me. The rest of the band assembled, doing their best to prepare for the long awaited band practice that they’ve all been longing for the entire week

"You’re the someone better," Ryan whispered, his breath warm on my ear. I ducked my head quickly, noticing a smile and a small laugh as he walked away to pick up his guitar.

---------------

Here I go, scream my lungs out and try to get to you...

--------------

The band had their practice, their music once again lighting up my living room, giving the space a glow and an electrified energy that I'd longed for in Andrew's absence.

But it was over quickly, the band packing up their equipment, and leaving my house like a brief cool breeze in the middle of a warm summer’s day.

Quick. Pleasant. Surprising.

Andrew didn’t leave with the rest of the band, though. He sat faithfully behind the piano, playing the same song repeatedly, the notes slow, then fast, then slow again. He hadn’t played the song when the rest of the band had been around, and he waited a long time to play it, his fingers lingering over the keys, as if contemplating whether or not he wanted to enter the world he created with that string of notes.

But finally, when I was lying on my bed, about an hour after the band left, I heard the opening notes of serene, clear melody waft through my door, causing me to sit up and place the book I had been forcing myself to read on my bedside table.

The melody twisted around the curves of the house, enveloping the entire structure in a blanket of illusionary repose. I sat up, the tune, drawing me nearer to the piano, to Andrew.

I needed to hear more, I needed to understand the melody, the notes, the presence that the song created.

---------------

You are my only one I let go.

--------------

I tiptoed down the hallway and to the edge of the stairs, using the melody as my guide. The pace of the song speeded up, the quiet singing of Andrew could be heard over the melody.

It was a complicated tune filled with a different, more haphazard structure, than anything that I’d heard before. But it flowed, and weaved and changed so beautifully and naturally, that I couldn’t help but continue my quiet step down the stairs, and into the living room, and into the heightened, emotionally destructive atmosphere, that Andrew had shielded himself in.

As I continued down the stairs, Andrew’s singing became the highlight of the tune. I could tell that he was doing his very best to sing quietly, so that I wouldn’t hear, but I also could tell that I would have heard the powerful string of lyrics no matter where I was in the house.

His voice cut through me like a sharp knife, leaving me bleeding and broken, my thoughts halted and my body on the verge of complete breakdown.

"But I’m slipping in between you and your big dreams, It’s always you in my big dreams.." The music cut off abruptly, as Andrew picked up the pencil, lying next to his piece of sheet music, and scribbled in his messy cursive, a few notes. He drummed his fingers absently, pushing his hair out of his face with his other hand.

He skimmed his now free hand over the glistening ivory keys, pausing briefly to easily play a single note.

I was only feet from him then, my breathing ragged, my step beginning to falter, the close proximity, the pain radiating on Andrew, affecting me in the way that only he could.

As if sensing me, Andrew turned around, a small half-smile on his face. He looked young and sad, like a little boy whose dreams of something really big, had been shattered in a moments heartbreak.

"Hey," he said softly, his voice a decibel lower than his singing had been. I sighed realizing that I needed to sit down, to be close to him, to hear him play those same notes that had drew my downstairs in the first place

My strength was wavering and I no longer wanted to fight it.

Sometimes, giving in was more satisfying than ever putting up a fight in the first place. And I wanted Andrew to be my indulgence, my guilty pleasure, my mind set.

"Hey," I replied quietly, my voice shaky and raw. I didn’t mean to be as lucid as I was being at the current moment, but I was tired.

Tired of me, of him, of the person I was becoming.

So I did the last thing that he would have ever expected me to do; I sat down next to him on the long piano bench, watching as he shifted further from me, putting distance where our legs could have been touching. I frowned at the fact that he couldn’t stand for us to be close to one another

"What are you playing," I asked quietly, noticing that his hands were lingering over the keys, as if any second he would start playing again. He slowly slid his fingers off the keys, quickly folding up the sheet music that had been lying on the rest, directly over the keys.

He was hiding it from me, a secret that he would never want to share.

But I couldn’t help but wonder why he would risk playing it when he knew that I would hear it, if he didn’t want me to listen to it in the first place.

He looked jumpy, though, his demeanor raw and on edge.

Touch affected him too much, and words too little.

"Something I wrote," he muttered in response to my question, playing a few notes absently. When he closed the sheet music, his temperament softened, giving way to a shy, almost reserved side of him. He leaned one hand on the piano, gliding his hands over the keys, but no longer applying the pressure needed for it to make sound. He looked content at just being close to the instrument, reveling in it’s stability and warmth.

Like me, it would always be there for him to hang on to.

"It’s beautiful," I told him softly, "What’s it’s called?"

Our voices were hushed, but the words spoke volumes. We were returning to that natural place, where things felt alright, but slightly illusionary. But Andrew fought back, keeping us in that awkward place, where life was high strung and events were almost too real for our own good.

"It doesn’t have a title yet," he told me, his head bowed and his words almost rigid. I had the feeling he wanted to say something, something that would somehow turn everything shady and dark, but he didn’t have the courage. He liked this different, awkward place, somehow to him, it felt like home, and that we’d been there all along.

It made me wonder; had we?

"It’s needs an amazing title, something that can do it justice," I said, still affected by the music. It had created a dreamy string of thoughts for me, ones of serenity and hope, that I no longer wanted to charade, but merely voice out in the most hopeless fashion.

"It does," Andrew agreed. His voice sounded set, his tone more supportive than I’d heard in a long time, his knee brushing my in assurance. I turned to him slowly, smiling shyly, noticing that a blush was creeping slowly on to his cheeks.

He was set, but he was awkward.

I’d never seen him ironic to this extent, so awkwardly confident.

"Can you show me how to play it?" I asked boldly, my hand brushing over the keys. At that moment, I didn’t know what possessed me to share in Andrew’s awkward confidence, but I didn’t fight it, much like I hadn’t bothered to fight my losing battle with my new-found strength.

I was so caught up in the melody, still in my dream-like haze, and I clung to it with all the vitality left in me.

"Sure" he said, his voice somewhat strong and still very set, gently grazing his hand with mine. He held on to it, bringing my fingers to the keys. "Here" his voice became even more confident as he continued, the pressure of his hand on mine, causing my dreamy mask, to fade away, into something new and more vivid. I didn’t shy away though, and instead I embraced it for all that it was worth, reveling in the feeling of Andrew’s knee near to mine, his hand bringing me to his favorite place,"Play this note, then this one," he instructed me, one of his hand playing on the right side of the piano, the other teaching me the melody and the sequence of notes that was so different than the one that he played all on his own. I watched intently, as his hand pressed on mine, making the keys rise and fall, causing the music to pour from the piano in a beautiful result. "Like that..."

I continued playing the series of notes, finally realizing what music was to Andrew.

It was the satisfaction of creating something so beautiful, something that was all your own, for no one else to share. It was making up for everything that you’d done wrong with a single note of stability and faith. It was an outlet when nothing else was going in the direction that you planned.

It was nothing at all, but it was so much at once. And like nothing and everything, it was bound to end, in a change of speed, the abrupt removal of Andrew’s hand from mine in a certain degree of fear, and in the rush of painful reality which is bound to hit you with a sudden blow, when things had finally looked to be improving.

I now understood Andrew, the pain and the shortcomings, the dreams and the sometimes harsh realities.

But most all, I understood the music, the notes, the piano, the forgotten sheet music, and the remembered melodies.

It was forever and constant, and no one could ever hurt it.

---------------

There's just no one who gets me like you do.

--------------

"I heard you singing it, it has lyrics?" I said when the my finger had gotten tired and I could no longer play. The atmosphere of the room was still heavy, the reality of music still lingering in my thoughts.

I wanted to be a part of Andrew’s music, I wanted to share it with him. But I wasn’t sure how.

Everything was just so new and different, that I was just beginning to get my bearings.

"Only one verse," he told me, his fingers rested on the keys, not moving or pressing them, but merely resting close to his piano, to his undying love.

"Oh," I said quietly, wanting his hand to be on mine, once again, playing those notes that he taught me only moments ago."Why didn’t you play it for the band?"

My bravery shocked even me, making me secretly wonder if I was ready to handle the territory that I was stepping into. Although I liked when things were easy, and thoughtless, the novelty of the situation beckoned me forward, instilling in me a confidence that I’d never experienced before.

Andrew didn’t look shocked though, he looked almost content, a little bit sad, but most all hopeful. Hopeful of what was come, to what lie ahead for himself, for me, for us, for the band, in music, life, and most all reality.

"I don’t know if it will ever be finished," he told me, his fingers no longer rested over the keys, but instead lying on the sides of him, pressed against the piano bench. There was a good distance between us, physically, but not emotionally, causing me for the first time to feel content.

"But it’s so beautiful, you have to finish it," I disagreed passionately. My voice didn’t get higher or lower, but merely more persistent. I was adamant about the song, it being my gateway into the true world of music and understanding.

I needed to save it and I needed to do my very best in instilling Andrew with the faith that he was capable of finishing anything that he’d started.

"I wish I could, but it’s too scary," he said quietly, causing me for a second to question his fear and his overall meaning in the comment.

He looked at me quickly, doing his very best to read my expression, but I hid my reaction well, ducking my head, and looking expressionless. He turned back defeated and still holding the irony of his awkward confidence.

I wanted to encourage, I wanted to tell him that he could do this, that he was ready, that I was ready.

I wanted to tell him that I understood and that I could now begin to fathom what the piano really meant to him, but instead I could respond only very plainly and with very little emotion.

"Don’t be scared."

He wanted to say something in response, and I could tell by his sudden rigidness and shift on the bench, that he was gaining the confidence to do this.

He had to do this, for me and for him.

We had to continue on that path of no return, even if it meant that there wouldn’t be the most desirable outcome.

"Stan, I’m sorry," he said softly, "About that night..."

His voice was apologetic, but not regretful. For some reason he was content with his decision, but now he wondered exactly how I was feeling about the decision. I wasn’t sure how I felt, though, and there was no way that I could in any way help ease his guilt about hurting me or not hurting me.

I wanted to offer him something though, a consolation for the gift that he’d given me moments before.

"It was a mistake, I was just as much as part of it as you were..." I said giving him what I could. He sighed, loud enough that I could hear, but not in a frustrated way. He looked like he was genuinely sorry or not sorry, depending on how he deciphered from my comment.

"I should have stopped.." he continued, his guilt echoing in his voice. I shook my head, now, running my hands over the keys, feeling as if I had some responsibility to make things better.

"I didn’t let you..." I told him seriously, silencing him for a moment. He looked thoughtful, as ai stole a glance a moment later to see his reaction. He was thinking of something different, some other plaguing thought, that had managed to bother him for the last week in which we hadn’t managed to see or speak to each other.

At the moment, I was questioning my decision to avoid this encounter in the first place.

"And now things are different between us," he said, as if he was speaking on another note. I frowned, that realization, already present in my mind, haunting my thoughts for the last week, making me understand and want to forget everything that was running through my mind.

"Yes."

" I don’t want them to be, but I can’t help but look at you differently," he said slowly, and I was taken aback by his boldness. It wasn’t exactly something that I didn’t expect, but I never thought that he would openly admit it, allowing the change to become reality. He wanted whatever would happen next, but I wasn’t sure that I could handle it. "I broke up with Elise," he added, his intentions becoming even more daring. I was scared and exhilarated, and I wasn’t sure what to do next.

"I know," I said quietly.

"Stan-"

"Not now, later," I said cutting him off, the prior thoughts of music slipping away, and with it my courage to stay in this new different place. I needed to control the destination, and I needed it to be in a place, where both us could be safe and diverted, "Could you play something?"

His hands moved from the piano bench, to the keys, his posture lighter and more melodic at the mention of music. He no longer had to separate the conversation from his music, they could no be one, single vessel, both rewarding him and destroying him.

"What do you want me to play?" he asked quietly, his fingers already playing a few insouciant notes.

"Something nice, something your wrote," I told him, longing to be caught up, once again in the music.

I needed him to bring me to the place of melody, and for once I wasn’t fearful to admit that I needed him to do so.

"Okay."

His voice was strong, as he played the opening notes of the same song that he had been playing when I first walked in, capturing me whole, and making me wonder, why I allowed him to stop in the first place.

And he played, and he played, and he played, for seconds, minutes, hours..

For me, for him, for us...

---------------

You are my only, my only one...

--------------

And there we sat, a song that I wasn’t sure if it was for me, for another girl, or a contentious creation that had it’s source in my living room on that day, but it didn’t matter.

It was our song, at that moment, and I never wanted it to end.

Chapter 7 part 1


I am selfish, I am wrong/I am right, I swear I'm right/ Swear I knew it all along

-‘Vindicated’ by Dashboard Confessional

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It was a summer’s night.

So clear and calm and I was utterly confused.

Although, I was always the most comfortable at night, the air was final and subtle, echoing in one’s thoughts and emotions, making you act upon on your desires, in hopes that you make your day worthwhile. By night, you have an obligation to fix all the things that you messed up, all the people that you hurt, all the thoughts that echoed in your mind and haunted your being. It’s a time of new beginning and a time or recognition of all that was lost. It’s so set, but so new, that it almost instills you with the desire to fix those things, to reflect on all those people you hurt, but it also gave you time to actually take action and repair all the flaws that clouded your conscious.

I had so much to fix, so much hurt that I’d caused, so much to deal with, but for some reason, that night, I felt that I didn’t have any obligation to fix things.

Or maybe, I was too scared or too angry, both of which had no source, to bother to fix anything.

Or maybe it was the air at the lookout, it always made me feel like I was in a different place, at a different time and I no longer was burdened with all the harsh thoughts that irked me constantly.

-----------

Hope, dangles on a string

Like slow spinning redemption

-----------

Andrew and I were up at the lookout, doing our very best to find the normalcy, the natural elements, that tied us together, in the place that we loved the most. I didn’t know why I was there with him, I was confused at the source of my desire to be near to him, especially while we were both so confused as to our feelings. But he had begged me to come, luring me in with promise that it would be like it used to be, that things hadn’t changed, and somehow I was drawn to the fact. The air was heavy with awkward feelings though, and the soft hum of Jimmy Eat world lingered in the air, along with humidity of our summer of drunkenness and meaningless words. We sipped cheap liquor, stolen from our parents, with every sip parts of our innocence stolen as well. We were silently searching for answers, the day still filled with distant memories of music and prior events thus making the air feel heavy, almost weighed down between us.

The searching was meaningless in that heavy type of air, because there wasn’t anything to be found, there was nothing left.

We sat awkwardly on the hood of the car, the distance between us endless, our thoughts so near to one another.

I was thinking so desperately of the days before, their meaning, our acts, the music.

He was wondering whether or not I had been thinking about him at all.

The silence was pleasantly shattered.

‘And if you were with me tonight,I'd sing to you just one more time’ he sang along with the CD that played from the weak, old speakers of his car, while the lead singer attempted the bridge to his favorite song, Hear You Me. But his voice, almost boyish compared to that of Jim Adkins from Jimmy Eat World, made me sigh. I’d wondered if he sang that line for a meaning, a metaphorical trip, that would force me to think. Did he know how much I loved to hear him sing? Did he have any idea how far away from each other we really were?

I hated all this second-guessing and I wanted him to ‘sing to me just one more time’.

It just seemed easier that way.

He shifted, looking thoughtless, and stopped singing. “See that star up there...’ he said pointing above us, at a sparkling gem in the sky. I frowned, sitting back on the hood of his car, wishing that he hadn’t stopped singing, wishing secretly that things were different and the same, all at once.

“That’s not a star, that’s an airplane.”

“You’re so cynical,” he told me taking a sip from the bottle he was holding. Maybe I was, but unless stars moved at about 500 miles an hour and had blinking red lights on them, that wasn’t a star.

I laughed to myself, relishing in my private joke

“You’re a dreamer, we both have our downfalls,” I informed him, my laughter spreading over us slowly. He frowned and turned towards me, after taking another sip. He looked let down for a second as if I shattered his dreams, or hurt his pride, and for a second I wanted to take everything back.

Everything.

And nothing.

“Being a dreamer isn’t a bad thing, it gives a person ardor, passion, hope, you of all people should know that..” he told me staring at me intently. I frowned, not understanding what he was meaning. I honestly believed that I was in no way able to understand hi subtle hint, I was probably the least adamant supporter of dreams in the entire universe, but yet he was seeing things in a different light.

He was the dreamer, I was the cynic, that’s the way everything worked.

Up until now, that was.

--------

Winding in and winding out

--------

“Why should I of all people know it?” I asked him slowly, narrowing my eyes confused, lost, hopeful, when a crooked grin lit up his face.

“Because you dream more than me,” he told me smugly, almost in childish confidence and I wanted to argue. But instead I sat back and thought intently about his words.

He was right. In a way we were all dreamers, with a side of cynicism. Some of us were more dreamer than cynic, others were the complete opposite. For a second, I questioned which one of us was more so the cynic and which one of us was more the dreamer.

I sighed, lately I had been dreaming too much for my own good.

Dreaming of times past, of things lost, of new feelings.

And even more shocking, lately Andrew had become more cynical. He thought rationally, acted only when needed and tried very hard to stay away from any form of emotion.

Too bad that he was failing miserably at looking unaffected.

“Maybe you’re right, but my dreams are never hopeless...” I said slowly, a realization coming to me. All my dreams seemed relational to me, like as if they were to happen I could believe it was true. Or that’s how they seemed.

His dreams about becoming a rock star and inadvertently breaking my heart seemed more than a little generous in reality. Not that I didn’t have faith in him, more so that the cynical side of me was taking over.

Maybe our roles were getting switched after all, or maybe they were staying exactly the same, understanding taking their places.

“How could it be a dream if it wasn’t hopeless? You‘re supposed to be so far from it, but so close. And it want it so much, that it hurts...“ he seemed heated for a second, his mind wanting to relay to me the way reality worked from a dreamer‘s point of view, “That sounds pretty damn hopeless to me...”

I sighed sadly. My mind clouded with beers and cynical dreams.

He was right, and for some reason it seemed strange to me.

I felt the need to defend myself, to defend my situation, the way I thought, the way I think.

Say hello, to the new defensive dreamer Stan...

-----------

The shine of it has caught my eye

Roped me in so mesmerizing

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“I dream rationally,” I said taking a sip of the beer. I hated beer. Why was I drinking it and why the hell was I defending myself to him?

No need to be defensive, it was only Andrew, I told myself.

Only Andrew.

For some reason that statement wasn’t enough for me anymore.

“There’s no such thing and you know it...” He told me his voice light-hearted. He smiled at me, the same crooked grin that lit up his face only moments before. He looked as if he knew a big secret, a secret that he wasn’t ready to share, but he was willing to share when the time was right. A childlike persona, one that drew you to him, but also led you away.

His expression held misery and secrecy, but most of all it held innocence.

And maybe that’s why I wanted to be a part of his secret so desperately.

The CD stopped, the click of the CD changer knocking the previous CD out of place and initiating another string of complex melodies. It amazed me that the transmission on his car was going, the emergency break actually detached from the clutch once and while, the engine made unique noises, and the seatbelts were non-existent since before he even purchased the car, and he complained that he didn‘t have the time or money to fix the problems. But then he went to the local electronic store and spent a hefty amount on a 6 CD changer, so that in his words ‘he could listen to all the best bands without ever having to switch CDs’. The price of the stereo and the installation fees were quite pricey, and he was still paying it off, but he still stood by his decision to purchase it.

If he knew what I was thinking about at the current moment, he would tell me something so simple, but yet profound.

‘It’s all about the music Stan, it can fix everything sometimes...’

His voice echoed in my head, even though he’d never spoken the words.

“The first star you see may not be a star..” Andrew sang, when his favorite song began playing on the CD. It seemed that ’all the best bands’ mostly consisted of Jimmy Eat World and oldies. But I didn’t complain, I wanted to be let in on his secret, and the only way to do that would be to understand his theories. Especially his theories about music making everything better. “See Stan, the first star I saw wasn’t really a star after all...”

I sighed, shaking my head, knowing that he was trying to lighten the mood.

And for a second, I wondered if maybe a witty comment could make everything easier and if not easier, better.

Life seemed so complicated, and yet so simple, especially at the lookout.

“That’s not what the song means,” I told him, “All songs are not meant to be taken literally.”

He laughed as if I was naive.

And maybe I was, I was new to the world of musical stability, and he was a seasoned visitor. How could I ever compare?

Maybe it wasn’t about experience, maybe it was all about hopeless dreams and understanding of the misunderstood, all of which Andrew possessed.

“Why not? It all depends on the songwriter," he said his voice carrying on the wind lightly. He didn’t degrade my comment, just merely disagreed, telling me that there were other ways to look at things. Other ways in which the world could be viewed.

And here I was telling him the same thing, his verbally, mine figuratively.

“I guess,” I said quietly, my voice thoughtful. I wanted so very much to understand him, but he seemed so complex.

A web of intelligence, wit, stupidity, sadness and music.

The music somehow outweighed it all.

“So what does the song mean?” he asked me after a slight pause. He was smirking, as he took another sip of his beer, doing his very best to seem conversational.

He was asking so much in that question.

He was asking for my beliefs, my thoughts, my hopes, my heartbreaks, and for a second I was confused.

Why did he care?

“What?”

“You said that the song is not mean to be taken literally. What does it mean figuratively then?” he asked me, the smirk so hopeful for realization.

The answer came to me in a sad wave, and after a moment of hesitation, I let us wash over us both and take us out to sea.

“A star, it’s a symbol of direction and stability. It can lead you to a certain destination, drawing you from or to it, it can also catch your attention or captivate you. It’s possible that he’s saying that a person is to represent the star, a person that you can count on to enthrall you with simple actions or lead you towards them when you need them most,” I spoke confidently, but my own thought process was deceiving. It felt like I was confessing, and judging by his almost enlightened grin on his face, he knew that I was speaking of him.

I had let him on the secret, the secret I myself held, and now I wondered if he could take things from here.

“So does everyone have a star..” he asked, his smile almost evident from his tone of his voice. His words were smiling, the secret almost tumbling through the smirk in a mess of realization. I looked at him, doing my best to remain serious and set, but failing miserably.

I smiled, shifting lightly on the car, making our placement on the car that much closer. We were facing each other, his smile no longer hidden, mine looking to be found.

“Yes, everyone needs a star...” I said quietly. It seemed like the perfect opportunity to tell him that he was my star, my everything, my stability, my confusion.

But yet, I stayed quiet, holding on to the last parts of my secret.

If I could keep it hidden, I couldn’t be hurt. But yet, it felt like it was too late to prevent the pain.

“Who’s your star, Stan?” Andrew asked, still smiling, as he rose his hand and pushed a piece of hair behind my ear. He was trying to get the remaining wisps of my secret out of me, but I refused to budge. Not even his touch, not even the way he was smiling only at me, not even the nearness of us could make me confess something whole-heartedly.

I gave only parts, never the whole.

“Andrew,” I spoke through a sigh. I wanted to warn him against taking this conversation any further. We had to stop before I confessed, before I lost the last part of me that only I knew existed.

His hand lingered on my cheek after he removed my hair from my face, and I had to look away from his gaze. He seemed so confident and sure of what he was doing, and I was lacking any form of direction.

Why did I fear my star so?

----------

And so hypnotizing

I am captivated

I am...

----------

“Who is it?” he asked quietly and I sighed, doing my best to keep calm, safe, stable.

But he was affecting me and he knew that he was. He understood so much, and I wanted him to let me in on the secret, his secret, any secret.

I didn’t want to be on the outside any longer, I wanted everything to be clear and concise, and I needed him to offer me that.

“Why are you being so persistent?” I whispered, the words almost harder to get out. He didn’t move his hand, just rested it lightly, heavily on my cheek, bringing me so close to understanding, and then pushing me away.

I couldn’t admit anything to him, I needed him to instill the confidence in me, I needed him to admit everything.

Then everything would be okay.

“I’m just curious. You don’t have to tell me, if you don’t want to...” he said softly, the light tone still there, his voice still laughing and smiling. He was pulling away, no longer touching my cheek, now taking a sip of beer as if nothing happened.

How was everything so fickle with him? Wasn’t he supposed to be steady? Wasn’t he supposed to be my star?

I needed to know.

“Who’s your star?” I asked him boldly. I was shocked that I had enough confidence to even speak those words, that I could step into that territory, even if for understanding. I had held everything very close to me in fear that he would find out everything that I didn’t want him to know, but yet here I was, looking smug and doing my best to figure out if I had any chance at all in cracking through his monumental shield of secrecy.

He laughed a single laugh; a smile of insecurity, warning and a test of strength.

I felt stupid for ever speaking, who was I to step into uncharted territory without my star or a map to guide me?

“That would be cheating, I asked you first...” he said quietly. He was still smiling, his voice almost content with the knowledge of my curiosity. I wanted to take everything back and somehow make it so I didn’t seem affected by him or his actions.

But I was so beyond that, so near to it, that all I could do was take the last sip of my beer and drop the empty bottle onto the gravel in a crash.

It didn’t shatter, it clung to it’s form, much like I had been doing lately. I figured if I looked strong, it didn’t matter how I was feeling.

Strength could be seen and not felt.

It was all a matter of perception.

“Fine,” I said slowly. I wasn’t sure if my voice was relenting or persisting. Did I want to find out his answer or did I want to sit back and just embrace the music that softly hummed in the air?

I wondered if I truly wanted to know the answer, or if I was just filling space with stupid questioning...

The silence could once again be felt, be heard, as the CD changer clicked to the next song. The first few chords filled my ears, feeling silent and ear-shattering loud all at once.

I was waiting for Andrew’s response, the anticipation killing me.

I felt him shift, turning his body towards mine, sitting quietly for second.

Come on Andrew, do it, don’t be scared like me...

“You’re my star,” he told me softly.

And he wasn’t scared, not in the least.

------------

Vindicated

-----------

What was I to do with this new information. Did it change things between us? Had we crossed the line of no return? I didn’t know anymore, and with his sudden confession, I wasn’t sure that he could help me find the answers. He seemed so sure of himself, so proud that he had the courage to confess something so meaningful, but so innocent, to the one person that he’d never would have admitted anything that remotely serious to in the past. But yet, I was sitting there with the knowledge I longed for, unable to process it or take action.

I couldn’t understand what I was to do next, do I kiss him, do I tell him he’s my star as well, do I pretend that he hadn’t said anything at all?

Because everything seemed scary and dull and confusing.

All I wanted was realization.

He continued looking at me, his eyes questioning my intentions, daring me to take action and initiate the change just this once. He leaned closer, the space between us so little, that I was breathing heavy. Our lips were centimeters apart, a kiss inevitable, but scary, lingering before us.

A millimeter closer, our lips parted.

Another millimeter close, I could feel him breathing.

Another millimeter closer, our lips brushed lightly.

I pulled away suddenly, fear consuming me.

To me kissing always felt very intimate. It was conveying your desires verbally without having to speak. It was showing a person how much you wanted them to be a part of you, to be close to you, to want you. It was a connection that I didn’t want to share when I wasn’t completely sure that I was ready for it.

“Not now, not here...,” I said quietly. He looked at me intently, brushing his hand over my cheek. I was scared for a second, the realization, not coming from the beginning of his kiss. He tested my reaction to his touch, satisfied that I didn’t pull away or flinch. I wasn’t fearful of him, just of taking the next step.

He looked content, like he was ready to wait. But with closer inspection, a falter in his encouraging smile, a sad look in his eyes, I could tell that he was hurt.

“Okay,” he said softly, doing his best to stay strong. I secretly wondered how many times I could push him away before he would stop coming back.

The fear clenched me tighter, making breathing harder and proximity less painful.

“I just need some time..” I said softly, my own voice sounding weak. I wanted to trust him, I wanted so bad to just believe that he wouldn’t hurt me.

I wanted to soar like I had, just before the kiss.

The moment I felt that it was only me and him, in our own world, where realization didn’t matter, and everything looked easy.

“Okay,” he said quietly, sitting up and offering his hand, his smile seeming more encouraging than before, “Come on, I’ll take you home...”

chapter 7 part 2



------

I am selfish, I am wrong

-------

Time passes slowly when you are floating.

And I was floating, I could still feel Andrew’s hands brushing lightly against mine, his lips centimeters from my own, his confession hanging in the air and it had been hours. Hours since he dropped me off at my house, acting as if nothing happened; hours since my entire thought process was altered; hours since my life changed once again.

I sat on the couch in my living room, staring through the darkness, trying to understand what really started today and what to do about it.

I wanted to accept Andrew’s confession, tell him that things between us could change and that our relationship could be altered so that kissing would be an acceptable activity to pass the time, but I couldn’t because of one solid reason.

I was scared.

Terrified, even, of having my heartbroken, of risking losing everything, of loving my best friend and I just needed time.

Or so I had convinced my already clouded mind.

But time seemed more of a hindering factor than a godsend. It seemed like it only made me think about things even more, it seemed like it clouded my mind with doubt and hope and confusion.

I wanted time erased and sped up, all at once.

A paradox, I knew would never be met.

--------

I am right, I swear I'm right

--------

A knock on the door shattered my thoughts and my beautiful paradox, causing me to hop off the couch and hurry to the door, not bothering to look who it was, not even wondering why someone would be at my house at 2 AM in the middle of the week.

I was still floating, though, nothing could hurt me, not a psycho killer that rang the doorbell before killing their prey on their doorstep, not an insomniac door-to-door salesman selling sleeping pills or the what not, not even a piano playing drunk best friend that happened to show up on my doorstep, looking more innocent, but jaded than I had seen him in a long time. I was safe, and higher than any of those people.

I swung open the door, meeting a pair of hazy, dark eyes, that I loved so dearly, but hated so profusely at the same time.

And I crashed.

I was no longer floating, my theory about the piano-playing best friend, proving false.

-----------

Swear I knew it all along

----------

“Andrew what are you doing here?” I asked him quietly, noticing his disheveled appearance. He looked like he had been up for days, and that he had been drinking hefty amounts of alcohol. I sighed carefully, and he smiled at me, the sweet crooked smile, that made me question my nervous thoughts about him.

I reminded myself that he was drunk, all of this would be forgotten by tomorrow and that I was no longer floating.

“You’re beautiful, d’you know that?” he slurred. He pushed his hair out of his face and met my eyes. I tried to understand how I could force him to drink. He had me convinced that I was just Stan, his best friend, nothing more, than he’d make me believe that I was his everything, his only constant, his Konstantine. But when he stood at the threshold into my living room, I questioned his motives for everything he had ever said to me.

It was always hot and cold with him. One minute he would tell me that I was the only constant thing in his life, the next he would drive me home, acting as if our relationship wasn’t the least bit changed.

I wanted to scream at him.

What is it Andrew? Do you give a fuck or not?

But that wouldn’t solve anything, especially at the moment when he was too drunk to think about anything, never mind me, and I was too sober to think of anything, but him.

I sighed softly, realizing that he was standing awkwardly against the doorframe, his eyes no longer level with mine. He was downcast, his mood and temperament low and unsteady.

I wanted to be his constant at the moment.

I rose my hand to his cheek, skimming it softly. His gaze lifted, his expression confused, his eyes pleading and pushing me away. I questioned what I was doing.

Touch was a taboo subject with us lately. Touch only if you planned on taking the situation to the next level, speak only if you were going to offer the sometimes harsh tones of honesty.

I unwillingly brought us into the intimate reality, not sure if I wanted to go into that territory when he was this drunk.

I cast my eyes downward, hoping that he wouldn’t interpret my actions in the wrong way.

“You’re drunk,” I told him seriously, my voice shaky with indecision. He sensed my wavering resolve, at that moment feeling the need to be my constant. I wondered if he knew that he was my star, my everything, that he’d been all along and would continue to be, even when times seemed tough. I wondered if he could see right through my dodging of his questions and awkward pauses, to the reality of the fact, that I was completely infatuated with him. Judging by the way he was mirroring my previous actions, I questioned how oblivious he really was. He raised his hand to my cheek, skimming it softly, then pushing a piece of my blonde hair behind my ear. His hands were rough, the hours of banging piano keys evident on each inch of skin, and I had to resist so strongly to fall against his hand, wanting nothing more than for him to touch me forever.

“Come inside,” I told him, realizing how much I hated myself for loving my best friend so much and for being too scared to bother to figure out what exactly I wanted when it came to him. I wanted everything to be clear and concise at that moment, I didn’t need the irony of mixed signals or any of these strange, intoxicating feelings for him.

I understood Andrew and he understood me.

But at that moment, I felt so far away.

‘Konstantine, life would be dull without you,” he told me suddenly, catching my arm, ‘You make everything worth it.”

I forced my raging heart to slow down, wondering if he could hear my screaming thoughts. I smiled at him. That was the beers talking, I told myself. This wasn’t the sane Andrew that I clung to, he wasn’t confessing something that he would never confess in reality. This wasn’t reality, this was a dream, or a nightmare. And that wasn’t Andrew, it was a mere illusion.

That was the fake Andrew, the drunk Andrew, the Andrew that could never love me more than friendship would allow.

“How much did you drink,” I questioned, my voice shaky, my eyes glaring intently at where he held tightly to my arm. His fingertips seared my skin.

A pleasant burn, filled with indecision and unmasked emotion.

“Enough to make me realize that I don’t want to wait for you...” he said quietly. He suddenly stepped back from me, the distance confusing me even more.

I didn’t know what to say, what to do, what to think. I wanted to understand what he meant, what he was trying to make me understand, but I came up with nothing. I felt like a shell of a person, only half-heartedly there, my mind drifting to an easier place.

“Andrew,” I whispered reaching out, my hand making contact with his skin. He took another step back from me, a reflex that stung more than his touch. He couldn’t even be close to me.

Was this all too real for him or was it to fake?

Maybe he would have felt better if he was in that faraway place with me.

----------

And I am flawed

---------

“Konstantine,” he said, the distance between us unbearable, but so very constant. It felt like everything that was being said, the half-broken confessions and the recoiling from touch, hung over my head about to crash on me in a wave of realization and confrontation.

My name flowed off his lips, in a warning and a call forward.

Cross the line with me, Konstantine.

But I can’t guarantee you won’t be broken.

Was it worth the risk? Was it worth destroying our relationship to be his fling of the week, was it worth it for me to put my heart an the line, when I was sure that he wouldn’t show the least bit of care with it?

I was so torn, and the conversation was pushing me into reality.

“Don’t call me that,” I said, my voice somewhat harsh. He rose his eyes to mine, his expression one of confusion and realization.

I wasn’t going to let him hurt me, he had to offer everything or nothing. It was his call, now would I be able to accept his decision?

He should have known better than to pull me into reality, and expect me to react well, especially when he was the one that held everything that was hanging in the balance; life, love and reality.

I felt like a cynical dreamer at that moment, the contradiction so very well-situated in the awkward conversation I was forced into having when I wasn’t ready.

“Call you what?” he asked his voice scratchy, igniting me with a strain of thoughts that I wasn‘t sure I was ready to deal with. He smelled like smoke, a sweet, earthy smell, that I was sure wasn’t the stale scent of cigarettes. It was pot, and I wondered once again, how I could drive him to become involved in such terrible things.

Pot and Beer; he only became this reckless when he was heart-broken or confused.

For some reason, I was betting at the moment, that he was bordering on both feelings.

“By my full name,” I answered after a moment. I sounded childish, clinging to petty comments and sad, withdrawn voices. I felt as if any moment he would scold me for being scared and cajole me into believing that he could offer everything when he was really offering nothing at all.

His expression was confused, and I could almost see the thoughts running through his mind.

Why is she so scared?/ She should trust me, I’m her best friend/ What if I hurt her? Will she ever forgive me?/ What the hell am I doing here?/ How many beers did I drink?/ I shouldn’t have bought that weed from Adrian’s guy. It should have already worn off, but I’m still flying.../ Why does she look so confused?/ Should I leave before it’s too late?/ Is it too late?

Or was I wrong, was he not thinking at all?

Contradiction, Confusion, a casualty of the thought process. Was it my own thoughts or was it his? But most of all, did it matter?

-----------

But I am cleaning up so well

-----------

“Why not?” he asked me, his voice thoughtless. He was confused, and lost. And I think, just like me, he was looking for answers.

Why couldn’t everything be lucid, like the clear night sky that lingered right outside my open front door. Stars and the night was constant and solid, maybe it was naive of me to even believe that the song had been referring to people. At that moment, I realized how unsteady everything really was.

But then again, I was naive, for believing that change had to be understood and accepted.

“It makes all of this seem too real...” I muttered sadly, my eyes downcast, my mood low, my star fading away.

Andrew looked set, like I ignited the passion and ardor in him, that he accused me of holding only hours before. He would give me a speech, wanting to make me believe that everything was a certain way, his way, which would ultimately be our way. He touched my arm lightly, taking a step towards me, my eyes still carefully staring down at my bare toes, his bearing murderously into me.

I noticed that the nail polish on my toes was chipped and un-perfect, like the boy in front of me.

But maybe it was time that I dealt with that fact, knowing that although I could go apply another coat of nail polish to fix the cracks in the old, worn paint, I couldn’t fix a person, I couldn’t fix Andrew.

I had to accept the flaws and deal with them.

And Andrew could help me understand that.

“It’s about time you deal with reality. And not all of reality is bad, some of it‘s good, beautiful even, and you can‘t stay closed off in your conservative little world forever. You‘re going to miss out on all those great things that are solely here...” he spoke strongly, his voice was strangely calm and real, and I wondered if he knew what he was saying. I wondered if he was aware that he was confessing something so monumental to me, or that he was only half there, the sane half still in the heightened drunk state. He could never love me, he could never care, I convinced myself of that fact. He added a single thought, his tone shattering my strange hold on my late-night sanity. “In this living room, anywhere...”

It was a confession, that I could never understand.

Especially when all I could think of was how his fingers were holding me in place and how his breathing was heavy from talking so animatedly and how he couldn’t stand still when he was nervous, like he was at the moment.

The small things were making me miss out on the big picture.

“I‘d rather stay isolated, than get hurt,” I said quietly, hooking a piece of hair around my ear. I wanted to feel busy, like I wasn’t standing there, a shell after his almost - confession.

Half hearted, but oh so real.

“I won’t hurt you,” he whispered, his grip loosening. He was losing hope, and I was causing the rapid hope loss. I felt so guilty, so lost, so ultimately shattered.

Why couldn’t I just latch on to him, taking the easy route? He would never let anything happen to me, he cared about me, I was his best friend.

But damn it, things didn’t seem that simple and for some reason I felt as if I couldn’t trust him.

My star kept fading away...away...away...

“We’re not talking about you-” I said quickly, as if he could see right through me, into the depths of my thoughts. But I knew it was too late, he wasn't oblivious and I was more than obvious.

I felt that I had to offer him something though, some kind of barrier that he would have to cross to get to me.

I was making him prove that that he was worthy, and the more he resisted and conquered, the stupider I felt.

Why couldn’t I just trust him?

“Bull shit, I’m not that drunk, every time we talk lately, it’s a conversation filled with subtle hints and innuendos,” he told me harshly. His voice continued to grow louder, clouded by the beers and his raw emotions. I flinched at his tone, wishing that he was as thoughtless as I pretended that he was, “I care about you Stan and I don’t regret a single thing that happened between us.”

I was shocked for a second, and I stepped back from him, breaking contact, freezing time.

My thoughts threatened to stray from normal thinking, but I forced them to stay in reality, the mere idea that I could step away from this situation making me terribly fearful.

He was offering me everything, but for some reason I couldn’t accept it.

I hated being scared, I hate the fact that I was forcing Andrew to admit everything when I could only stand there and listen, I hated the way he was talking, I hated this reality, I hated the dream world I created for myself, but most of all I hated how weak I was acting.

I wanted to be strong, I wanted to understand, I wanted to tell him that I would always be his star, I wanted to tell him that I cared so much that this conversation was hurting me more than it was helping me, I wanted to make him understand that I just needed time.

But all I could do was stand there and offer weak responses in a situation that called for more strength than I’d ever had in my entire life.

For the first time, since I was 10, I felt like I wanted to cry.

But I didn’t cry, I wouldn’t cry, because crying was for people so low, so alone, so sad, that they had no other resort.

And I wasn’t that weak.

Not yet, at least.

------------------

I am seeing in me now

------------------

“Neither do I,” I said quietly, he looked at me like he could see right through me. Like, I was so translucent, that there was barely any of the shield that I had created for myself left. At that moment, I was convinced that I had been wrong all along, maybe he wasn’t as clueless as I had imagined, maybe he understood me more than I could ever know, maybe he could see through my pathetic attempt to cling to normalcy.

But he stood there, looking so sad, so completely heated at my avoidance of the subject, and I couldn’t help but avoid thinking that he understood me. I didn’t want to be his source of distress, I wanted to be his refuge.

Why couldn’t I just be his star?

“Then don’t be scared, take a goddamn chance!” he told me suddenly, he didn’t look at me, his voice harsh and rigid as if he was speaking to a stranger. But I wasn’t a stranger, I was his best friend, his confidant, the person that he trusted.

I wanted to be just that, and if we continued crossing the line, kissing and sharing intimate moments, I knew that I could never just be that.

It had to stop, I had to put my feelings on hold, and focus on fixing what was left of our friendship.

I could deal with being in love with Andrew secretly, if it meant that I could prevent our relationship from breaking apart more than it already had.

“I can’t, not with you,” I said quietly, my words slicing through the humid, sticky air. “We’re friends, Andrew, things can’t just go back to the way they were.”

I wanted him to realize the true matter of our situation, the fact that our friendship meant more to me than anything in the entire world, that I had loved him all along and that I’d lived with it. Now it was his turn to ‘live with it’.

I wanted him to accept these facts, but I knew that he never would be able to.

Unlike me, he never dealt with the rational, he dealt with the ‘here and now’, sometimes setting himself up for cataclysmic results.

I didn’t want to be a part of his ‘crash and burn’. For once, I wanted to be safe on the side lines.

“Exactly, that’s why I’m putting everything on the line here. Don’t you think I’ve thought this through...” he said loudly. He looked angry, angry at the fact that I wasn’t giving in, angry at the fact that I couldn’t trust him, angry that he had put himself on the line and I had been the one to reject him.

I wanted to tell him something to ease the emotion, the pain.

Andrew, it’s better this way. This way things can go back to normal and neither of us will get hurt.

But I couldn’t say anything along those lines, and maybe it was better that I was cold and indifferent.

“You're not thinking rationally,” I told him, doing my best to keep my voice low, my emotions in check “You’re drunk.”

He was taken aback for a second, a cold, icy air settling between us. I shivered, the chill only evident to me. He looked frustrated and heated, and I wondered if the air was suddenly chilled because of the situation or because of the actual temperature.

I looked past him, through the still open door, wondering how the world was spinning, but we were standing still.

I wanted nothing more than to be spinning along with the outside world, no longer in this awkward living room that had once been my haven. I shivered slightly, wrapping my arms around myself and taking a step back.

“I think more rationally when I’m drunk, than you do sober,” he said bitterly, pushing me further

from the living room and nearer to the starry night sky that glistened with new possibilities.

A star was constant, a person, the rocky oblivion that it took to create that star.

“Get out,” I said suddenly, a twinkling star catching my eye, directly above Andrew’s frame in the doorway. My voice was harsh, and I had to resist the urge to push him outside the house. I was fearful of what was to come, but I wanted to relish in my weakness. I wanted to be alone and sad, having the possibility to be heartbroken without feeling guilty.

“Stan,” Andrew said reaching for my arm, trying to hold me back, trying to make me cling to the painful flaws that were haunting me with each word. I took a step back, my hand catching the edge of the door. I tried closing it on him, shutting him out, but he resisted, his hand pushing forcefully from outside of the house.

“Get out!” I said loudly, pushing hard against the door, forcing him outside, forcing the door shut with a loud bang.

I never cried, crying was for the weak. But as the slamming of the door rattled everything in the entire house, and I could see Andrew walk away from the house, angry and feeling more alone than he had ever, I’d realized that I was weak. Terribly, heartbreaking, depressingly, weak.

I stumbled over to the couch, falling onto it in a heap.

And I cried; dry, heaving sobs, that hurt and reminded me of how much I had ruined everything more than Andrew had ever.

I was weak, and it was okay, because crying was for those terrible, heartbreakingly weak people.

-----------

The things you swore you saw yourself

----------

I sat on the couch for hours and hours, my mind free from thoughts, the tears not able to come. I did my best to force myself to cry, but even that wouldn’t ease my pain, I had to think about the situation, analyze and decipher each glance, each smile, each act, and understand it all.

It was best to start with the most obvious thoughts first. I needed to stop being emotional, meaningless Konstantine, and go back to being tough, strong Stan, if only to fix everything that I messed up.

And I messed up, I was strong enough to admit it, but weak enough to not do anything about it. I wanted Andrew to knock on my front door, just as he had a few hours before, just as he had time and time again, and tell me that he could forgive my mistake. But the more, I sat motionless on the couch, the humid night sky, giving way to the dawn of a new day, the more I really understood how fucked up things had become.

I realized then and there that things between Andrew and I could never be the same, the acts shared between us, hanging in the air like the humidity that lingered in my almost suffocating living room. And the worst possible aspect of those horrid and often hard to understand thoughts, coming to me, was the fact that Andrew, for once, wasn’t fearful of the suffocating, of everything coming crashing down.

He admitted, although drunk, that he wanted to risk our friendship, in hopes that something more could occur between us. But I couldn’t begin to comprehend that fact. How could Andrew and I be more than friends, when we hadn’t even been able to work out the already hazy and persistent kinks in our old relationship?

I say old, like so much time had passed, but in reality it had only been a couple of weeks. It felt like eternity, though, the days bleeding together as if they were as simplistic and clear as lines of music handwritten by the composer. But were those lines simplistic, could music ever be simple or easy? But most of all could life ever possess those traits.

I convinced myself that it wasn’t possible, as the early morning light peeked in through the curtains. The light was refracted, a certain darkness of the musty curtain, causing the light beams to refract and break through the thin fabric in bursts.

Seeming disoriented, but in reality, they were complexly organized.

I mentally reminded myself that the they were coated in a thin layer of dust and that I had to clean. These mundane thoughts, and activities, were supposed to make things seem more simplistic, but they seemed so foreign that they hurt.

My life was no longer routine, with the ever-present thought of high school and my future, with the responsibility to clean and keep house without the recognition or acknowledgement of my mother, with the standard ‘star’, my best friend guiding me through everything making it seem worthwhile.

Andrew was changed.

I barely even knew my traitorous thoughts as my own.

And I no longer had to deal with the hopeful thoughts of life outside of my isolated little high school.

Life was changing, dust would collect on curtains and I wouldn’t have the desire to clean them, high school ended and I would have to deal with the harsh realities that I’ve avoided all my life, and Andrew would offer me new things that I wanted nothing more to understand.

It was as if I had an epiphany and I wanted to share it with someone. I wanted to yell it out loud, and whisper it to all that wanted to be let in on this sacred secret. I wanted to make someone understand and accept this solid fact when they had given up all hope on humanity. I wanted someone to know that it was going to be okay, that change could be everything that they needed.

And I knew exactly who I would chose to share it with.

This person came to mind, because they were merely a pawn in a long string of messed up games.

The game of change.

Betrayal.

Wit.

Competition.

A game in which the cards were stacked against that said person, where the odds were in favor of anyone but them.

I had forced this person into a game in which change was presented before them when they were the least bit ready. Their life was turned upside down with a single act, when their friend, who just happened to be me, became their competitor.

Elise.

I had caused her pain and sadness, and right now, I wanted her to have a fair hand at The game of Change. I didn’t care that it was the early hours of the morning, I didn’t care that I was running through the front yard, the dewy grass glistening under my feet, I didn’t even worry about the dusty curtains, as I floated and ran away from The Game of Change, on my journey to her front door.

I knocked on the door, knowing that just like my own mother, that her parents wouldn’t be home, doing my best to stand still, in preparation for her opening the door, feeling as if I would burst from my new-found knowledge.

Footsteps could be heard from beyond the front door, the soft voices speaking quietly and pleadingly from the heavy wood that separated. There was someone inside the house with Elise, and for a second I questioned whether or not, I would start shaking with anticipation of my news.

Everything was going to be okay, when she opened that door. She would be able to forgive me for all the pain that I caused her, because everyone was a winner in The Game of Change. And this would be my first step in fixing everything that I had ruined over the course of a few weeks.

But Elise never opened the door, instead when the heavy wood door swung open. I met the eyes of someone so near to me, but yet so very far.

This wasn’t in the rule book. There was no rule that said that piano playing best friends were supposed to break your heart twice in one night.

But I guess, there was no rule book to begin with.

“Stan what are you doing here?” Andrew asked, his voice hoarse, his hair and clothes disheveled. I could see Elise over his shoulder, a small smile on her lips, her eyes speaking their vengeance.

She looked as if she was the winner of this game, the only winner.

I convinced myself that there were no losers in the game of Change, that everyone won, everyone moved on and encountered new obstacles and bliss.

But meeting Andrew’s cold, somewhat surprised eyes, and Elise’s satisfied and vengeful ones, I was sure that everything I had convinced myself of had been wrong. The Game of Change was filled with thoughtlessness, forgotten promises, empty hope, the mere thought of it making me want to run away.

Only one coherent thought reverberated through my mind, though, hindering my departure.

-----------

Hope, dangles on a string

Like slow spinning redemption...

-----------

That’s it, Stan.

You lose.

 Chapter 8 part 1

Don't you wake up yet, cause soon I'll be leaving you/ Soon I'll be leaving you, but you won't be leaving me

-Something Corporate’s ‘As you Sleep’

-

-

-

-

-

Crash.

Everything, anything, eternity, crashed down on me on those few moments when Andrew opened the door and appeared before me, with Elise in his shadow, whispering and glancing in waves of sorrow and revenge. They both had different expressions, facades, masks, lighting and dimming their faces, confusing me and drawing me nearer to the deafening silence of Elise’s front porch and the corrupted mess of her house. I had to resist every urge to run away, scatter in all attempts to prevent confrontation, and I fought for stability.

Andrew looked like he was doing the same, his posture rigid, the light in his eye fading away, his hand gripping the door so tightly that his knuckles turned white. The feelings rushed across his face in a blur of blinding speed. After a few moments he settled on a mood, an emotion, a wavering look of repentance. The emotion ebbed just like the others and he looked lost for a second, the first pieces of recognition tempting him, than receding almost harshly. I was sure that he was going to yell at me, tell me that it was my fault that I was on the verge of the tears, but instead he stood there, his clothing rumpled, his features dim, his thoughts racing.

Over his shoulder, Elise’s cruel smile, a small wave of her hand, signified that she had accomplished her goal. She looked satisfied that she had hurt me, just like I’d hurt her, and now it was my turn to crash and burn with no one to even rummage through the destruction. She sauntered to the door, a sickly sweet smile on her face, her victory still knocking my misfortunes lower. Her glare was murderous and triumphant, sending me lower, and lower, until, I felt as if I hardly existed. I wanted to yell, to cry, to do anything to get out of this silent reverie of emotion that was haunting me. But I couldn’t function, I was just merely there.

A shell of despair, that was so delicate that it threatened to crack any second.

I took a step back, noticing that Andrew pushed Elise away from him. He glanced at me, sending my looks of remorse, of remiss, of uttermost apology. And I closed my eyes, turning away from them, doing my best to contain the almost strangling emotion that clenched my body, and to maintain my false composure.

-------------

Close your eyes, and I will be swimming

----------

"Stan," he said softly, a footstep could be heard, a pleading tone could me made out, but I felt so far away. I was standing only a few feet from them, the wounds still raw as hell, the emotion even more crude. I took a tentative step, leading me away from them, from the reality that I’d managed to force myself into, knowing that distance could dull the excruciating pain.

One more step, and the pain subsided the slightest bit, leaving me feeling lighter, airy and free.

Another and Another, and I was almost running, but a sudden touch, a warm, jarring grip, held me back. I wanted to resist, I wanted to keep running, closer to the freedom that beckoned me further away, but the grip tightened, meaning only one thing

It was time to face the music. It was time to deal with everything that I had been avoiding with the last remaining wisps of will-power. It was time that I put myself on the line and admitted that I was scared and that I didn’t want to run anymore.

I had to fight through the pain, the light of clarity seeming so close.

"Andrew," I said softly, turning slightly, staring down at the spot where his hand rested on the warm skin of my lower arm. We were so close, the distance almost intoxicating. But I fought, fought through the distance, ignoring the pain and looking towards the light.

"What the fuck do you want me to do?" he urged me forward, his tone bitter and low so that Elise couldn’t hear the short distance away, "I don’t understand what you want. You push me away and then you see me with Elise and you look like I just broke your heart…"

I wanted nothing more than to understand what his words meant, but I refused to decipher it. I stood there quietly, staring down at the connection of his hand and my arm. I wanted him to kiss me and go away.

A bittersweet departure, that would leave me with the taste of his lips and the memory of better times. But instead, I ran through my confession, thinking that there was only one way to go about doing this. He needed to know these words, he needed to recognize that I wasn’t what was right for him, I was just his best friend, not somebody that could love him.

----------------

Lullabies fill your room, and I will be singing

---------------

"You’re my star," I said softly, tearing my eyes away from the few inches that separated us, the small patch of dead grass that put distance between our bare feet, the small space where our bodies lingered, seconds before touch, minutes before departure. I met his eyes, his feature etched with confusion and hope, the meaning of my words not coming to him.

But he didn’t need to understand, he just needed to listen.

"What?" he asked, his hand loosening its grip on my arm. His face screamed hope, his eyes, remorse. I knew then that he wanted to offer me everything, and that he knew that he would never be able to. I sighed, resisting the urge to fall against him, and hope that he would wrap his arms around me. I had to stop hoping, and have more faith in the knowledge that things would be better this way. I needed to let him go, and he had to forget that he I was ever there.

I breathed deeply, searching for the strength and will to say what I would say next.

"You’re my star, I was too scared to tell you," I took a breath, breathing in the warm air, and breathing out my inhibitions, "but you’re my star." I paused briefly and I sensed that he was surprised by my boldness, by the ability for me to speak such harsh, honest words, but I stayed strong, continuing my, now, blatantly obvious secret. I wondered why I bothered keeping it from him in the first place, my reason tumbling out before I could think or analyze it, "Now it seems so easy, I should have told you, but it’s easiest to admit something when nothing’s there anymore."

I felt cruel and heartless, anger filling and pouring from me. I silently wanted him to refute my statement, tell me that I was wrong, that there wasn’t anyway to erase anything that he’d felt for me, but the other cynical side of me told me that there was nothing there to begin with.

I was just there, the shell threatening to crack into thousands of pieces, each was unique and sharp in its own.

He held on to me, not ready to let go, not ready for me to fall apart just yet.

---------------

Singing to only you

---------------

"Stan," he said his voice laced with defeat, a sad melody that sounded almost like a song. I wasn’t sure if he would give up just yet, if he’d do his best to make this easy for both of us, or if he’d break us both in the process. It seemed so hard to decipher him, especially when we both edged closer to falling into each other’s arms, the thoughts of denying the truth any further, too painful for either of us to bear.

I wanted to be closer to him. I wanted him to tell me that everything would be okay. I wanted to stop fighting his advances and tell him that everything would be okay if I just gave it a chance, but instead I felt another wave of strength, the harsh reality of what I witnessed coming crashing down on me once again.

It seemed that ever-present pain would make this that much easier.

"Don’t make me feel guilty." I said softly, noticing the closeness of us, once again. For some reason, my voice became harsher with the realization that he affected me when we were so close. His betrayal, the fact that he turned to Elise sliced me through, my shell edging closer to it’s breaking point, "I made a mistake," I sputtered, my voice shaky, but true, ”But I guess I didn’t anticipate you running off to Elise."

"I didn’t run off to Elise. Nothing happened," he countered quickly, his voice almost cutting off my accusing tone. A wave of relief spread over me, followed by a wave of regret. I trusted that he didn’t do anything with Elise, and that made of all this seem harder.

I hated the fickle situation we were in. One minute walking away seemed so easy, the next it seemed the most distant thought from my mind.

Why couldn’t facing the music be as easy as merely listening to it?

I hardened my resolve at that moment, feeling my anger at Elise, the false victory that she used against me; drive me to feel angry at Andrew. I wanted to be infuriated with him, I’d rather feel that, then the urge to beg him to hold me close and tell me that although this was new in reality, it had always been there.

We had always been there. Only us.

No, I pushed it away, and tried to take a step away from. He stopped me though, his eyes meeting mine his grip tightening.

----------------------

Don’t forget I'll hold your hand

----------------------

"I don’t want an explanation, I’m sorry that things got so fucked up between us, and I’m sorry things can never be the same," I started, my voice low, the tone as apologetic as I could muster, "Maybe someday things can be like they used to."

He pulled me closer, my feet stumbling forward unwillingly, our bodies no longer having any space between them. He wanted to prove something to me, he wanted to have to fight through the nearness of us to find words, he wanted to prove that he was worthy of me.

But I wanted to prove that I wasn’t worthy of him.

I realized then how special he was, how unique, how real, how dedicated. And I felt like I was nothing, I felt weak for running away, for doubting him, for getting this deep before I had the chance to get out.

His dreams seemed so real, my cynicism merely a cheap facade.

"I don’t want things to be like they used to. Everything I said last night was the truth..." he said, his voice hushed, my mind clouded.

I wanted to argue. I wanted to be harsh, because all of those weak traits were so much easier than dealing with what I was really feeling.

Weakness was my last resort, my only resort, because pain was all I deserved at that moment.

"Do you even remember what happened last night?" I said my tone so harsh, that he released his grip on my arm. Pain was laced on his face, mixed with disbelief and anger, and I wanted to take it back. How could I be so cruel, so real? I needed to get away, far away from Elise’s front yard. The yard that we stood in the middle of; so close, but so far from my living room.

Maybe it was so hard, because we were so close, or maybe because we were so far. So far out of our natural element that it was insane to believe that things could work out for the best.

There was no best, there was no worst, there just was...

-----------------------------

Watch the night sky fading red

----------------------------

I turned to move away from Andrew, doing my best to get to that far far away place, now that the damage was done, the horrible feat was over, but he caught my arm. He held me back, his hand catching a hold permanently, forcing me to face him, forcing me to stay there with him.

"You’re scared I get that, but don’t push me away. We’re still friends..." he said his voice heated, almost desperate even, but I avoided his gaze, his words, wondering how far I would push him until things would just stop.

Stop hurting, stop being so constant, stop existing.

I didn’t want to lose him, but somehow it was happening.

"I thought you didn’t want to be my friend. Make up your mind, Andrew, I’m not going to sit around and wait for you to be sober enough to figure out what you’re feeling at that given day," I said, my words cruel, my tone bitter, my thoughts deceiving. But he kept his gaze steady, his mind free from confusion and his tone set.

We stayed like that for a moment, me, a mess of cruel undertones, him a disaster of indecision, until it just fell.

The ties connecting us, his hand from my arm, his gaze from my own, his heated features.

One second it was all there, the next it plummeted, leaving me in a daze.

What had I done?

----------------------

But as you sleep, and no one is listening

----------------------

"I don’t know," he said as if he was reading my thoughts, causing me to fall, no plunge, into a state of shock. What did he mean? Was that it? Was everything over? Could things be better or could they be worse? Was either possible?

I was lost, and no one was willing to find me, not even my fading star...

He took a step back from me, the space between us endless, causing my line of vision to reach Elise. She was standing in the doorway of her old house, a mix of emotion clouding her face. She looked happy, and sad, and triumphant, and lost, in a state of confusion.

But it looked as if her victory was the only thing that would remain valid. She was going to have Andrew, and I was leaving myself with nothing.

"What?" I choked out, words barely coming to me. Everything in the air felt as if it was frozen in the heavy humidity of early morning, as if time stopped and nothing could be understood. Andrew looked like he was deep in thought, as if he was searching for the words that would make everything right, but he was coming up blank, realizing that maybe all hope was lost.

"I don’t know what to tell you to offer you assurance that I’m not going to fuck with you," he said quietly, the whole time fidgeting. All the pent up nerves were coming out now, all the anger, and fear, were boiling over, now that we didn’t have the nearness to keep us grounded. He couldn’t stand still, and I couldn’t meet his eyes.

Neither of us had anything left in us.

---------------------------------

I will lift you off your feet; I'll keep you from sinking

--------------------------------

"I don’t want to be a song to you," I said suddenly, the thought coming to me almost immediately. I needed to keep this charade up, finish what I started. If I planned on confessing everything to him, I wanted to do it on my terms.

He looked taken aback, as if he realized something that he had been avoiding all along, for a second, and he stepped towards me, causing me to step back. The fact that we were in the middle of Elise’s Lawn, for her to see, didn’t seem to phase us. The fact that we were putting ourselves on display, possibly in the worst way we could, didn’t cross our minds. Somehow, it was still us. Only us.

"What- how do you-" his words faltered, his hand making contact with my arm.

I didn’t question his words, the confused expression in his eyes, the way he fixed his hair because he needed something to do to stop his hands from shaking. I just offered a curt response that took all my last wisps of energy to muster into comprehensive conversation.

"You always write songs after you break a girl’s heart. And when you didn’t write a song after-" I cut off, his grip tightening my arm. I couldn’t finish the phrase, the thoughts of that night, still so clear in my mind, and judging by the awkwardness of his features and the visible distress, I realized that he did to. Instead, I continued on another note, "I was certain that things were different. I thought maybe I was different-"

"You are..." he told me forcefully, his voice so quiet that I could only hear. And I wanted to finish my question, I no longer wanted to cling to his words, because they hurt me more than the helped me. I wanted to be free from my feelings for him, free from my plaguing thoughts and relentless conscious, free from the confines of this wide-open yard.

I yearned for false freedom that in most ways I knew I would regret.

-------------------------

Don't you wake up yet, cause soon I'll be leaving you

-------------------------

"I’m not. I know how you are, you’ll get bored after a week, I’ve seen you break so many girls’ hearts," I said seriously and he flinched, almost unnoticeably, but he held his grasp on my arm, almost fearful that I’d run away. But I wasn’t running, I needed to finish this. "You leave them feeling like shit and you gain a week’s worth of inspiration." I said, pausing and knowing that there was very little left in me, "I- I don’t know anymore..."

My voice trailed off, and I knew that was the end of my confession, of my heartbreaking truth, that I wasn’t sure I could handle it now that it was out in the open for anyone, him to see. I felt drained, and emotionless, knowing that any second he would tell me to leave, that he had given up all hope in me, that I made him realize that I wasn’t worth it.

But instead he pulled me a step closer, a fateful step, that caused me to look up at him in confusion and awe. He was so relentless, so persistent, that for a second that almost made me run away.

"I’m not going to break your heart, give me a fucking chance..." he said softly, his voice dripping with honesty and sincerity.

I didn’t know what to do, what to feel, what to argue.

Resistance seemed suddenly so futile.

"I-" I said quietly, my voice trailing off sadly. I wanted to move away from him, but I couldn't think clearly, instead I stood there, looking at him blankly, any thought process that I had a moment before suddenly gone.

Forever lost.

A light breeze brushed past us, causing my hair to fly forward and shield my face, giving me a moment to question my reaction. I no longer knew what I wanted from Andrew. I cared about him so much that it hurt, it ached a dull repetitive pain when I saw him with Elise, when I saw her evil smirk, when I saw him smile a hopeful smile, when I couldn’t help but smile falsely back. But I hated putting my self on the line.

Maybe I just had to give it a chance. Maybe, maybe, maybe…

No more questions.

I pushed my hair behind my ears and met his eyes. He looked at me as I if he expected something. As if he expected me to move, to leave, to speak or kiss him. Either way, he searched my eyes for any hint of emotion, and raised his hand to my cheek. For so long I had avoided his touch, at all costs resisting the urge to lean against his hand when he touched my face, but at that moment, my thoughts of resistance were so complicated that I could only ignore them.

Instead I closed my eyes and leaned against him, support, warmth, and understanding slipping slowly over me.

He would keep me safe, he would take care of me, he would…

Love me.

No.

It didn’t. It couldn’t. It wouldn’t…

I was wrenched back to reality with a shuddering step back, a breaking of contact, the opening of my eyes, the painful realization of something that I had secretly known all along.

I had gotten so deep, way too deep, without realizing it before.

“Stan,” Andrew said reaching out to catch my arm, as I turned away from him. I dodged his grip, knowing all along that I could have gotten away if I tried. I wanted to stand there before and hear what he said, say what I had to say. But now that was done, I had to leave. I had to go before he realized it too.

“I have to go...” I said walking towards my house, away from him, and away from what I’d just learned. I didn’t look back; I ignored the pleading in his voice, the sad hints of emotion and pain, the realization that he might just be feeling as confused, lost and real as I was at that moment.

“Stan,” he called after me for a second time, his voice resonating in my head almost as much as the realization of avoidance. I ignored him, almost as much as the plaguing echoing of temerity that haunted everything I was feeling.

Echo. Echo. Ignore. Ignore.

I walked up the stairs to my house, opened the front door, and slammed it behind me, almost in false routine. But the next chain of events were anything but ordinary, or so I thought.

I leaned against the door, sliding down it into a heap on the floor.

The voice still sounded in my head.

You love him. You love him. You love him. You love him.

A jaded mantra.

It seemed so hard to admit it to myself, so far away, but it had been really close all along. It had been creeping into my thoughts for days, week even, but I’d pushed it aside, silencing it with the fact that he was my best friend and that I loved him for that reason only.

But now I realized it was so much more.

And I was so damn scared.

------------------------

Soon I'll be leaving you, but you won't be leaving me

-----------------------

I sat there for hours, my body a tangled mess, the door the only thing that could support me. The light crept throughout the house, my living room changing colors based on the hour, on the mood, on the echo.

It brightened, then lightened, then darkened. The hours bleeding with the color. A sharp brightness of the morning. A dull ache of mid-day. A harsh darkness of sunset. The quiet pain of night.

It all meant nothing, but color, but echo, but quiet.

I didn’t know what time it was when the knocking began, insistent and hollow, but it persisted and melted, until I couldn’t take it any longer. The knocks reverberated through the door, jostling me, corrupting my quiet. And I wanted to scream, to yell, at the person to leave me alone and never come back. But the words wouldn’t come, movement seeming like a fitful task.

I shifted slightly, trying to ignore the knocking, trying to focus on the moonlight peeking through the curtains and flooding the small space I was in. Washing over me, in a wave of calming light, but the knocking continued, until the person became so frustrated that they resorted to banging.

Loud, incessant banging, that invaded the smooth quiet of a beautiful night.

I hated the person on the other side of the door; I only had love for one person in this entire world it seemed.

------------------------

Soon I'll be leaving you, but you won't be leaving me

-----------------------

I did my best to summon the energy that remained, the very limited supply that was left, and pulled myself to my feet. I wanted the banging to stop ruining my space. It needed to stop.

I stood up, my legs shaky with fatigue. I supported myself on the doorframe, my hand resting on the doorknob. I had to tell the person to go away, to leave my moonlight, my tranquility, my cessation of sound, the way it was.

Without impurity, without disruption.

I opened the door slowly, the banging stopping, revealing someone with their arm poised in the air, ready to bang once again. It took me a few moments to figure out who it was, for my eyes to adjust to the bright moon that seemed to magnify in brilliance the moment I opened the door.

My living room seemed suddenly dark.

“Hey,” I said softly, my voice, having an air of shock. The flawless dark haired, mini-skirted and small topped, Elise stood before me. She looked so beautiful, but yet so hateful.

She was gorgeous on the outside, but ugly on the inside.

I did my best to smile at her politely, gripping the doorframe tighter for support for my suddenly weakened legs. She smirked at me, brushing past my wavering form and stepping into the house, with swift and agile movement. She looked so confident and set, as if she was preparing for a fight, and I was more than apprehensive as to her motives of arriving this late at night to my house.

She’d won, couldn’t she just let me wallow in my defeat.

“Hey” she said her voice feigning disinterest and a master plan. She looked at me, her perfect nose wrinkled in disgust, “You look like shit…”

Her voice was biting and cruel, but most of all indifferent. A few weeks ago, she would have genuinely cared ( or at least acted as if she cared) about my level of emotion distress, but now, I was one of those people that she didn’t give a flying fuck about. And believe me, there were so many people that she’d cast aside, that they were innumerable.

Throughout high school, Elise had been the most beautiful girl in our class and thus everything was handed to her when she needed it or rather wanted it. She was always one to have a boyfriend, always one to be surrounded by a dedicated group of followers that loved, adored, revered and worshipped her, those select few that she deemed worthy of her acclamation. I was never one to bow down to her like the rest of the school, considering she was one of those mean girls that made fun of me, that first day of school when Andrew was the only one to talk to me. I lived in the shadows, not getting noticed or bothered with by her or her posse. Then magically one day, she let go of her abhor for the quiet girl with the unique name, when that said girl’s best friend suddenly intrigued her.  Of course; Andrew intrigued everyone, how could anyone expect even Elise to resist him.

But Elise was a force upon herself, she was determined to make Andrew fall in love with her and somehow get a song written about her, every teenage girl’s silent dream. Then Andrew would achieve small town fame, or maybe even bigger scale fame and Elise would get the chance to ride out the notoriety, being the heroine or rather the anti-heroine of one of his tragic songs of love, loss and the bitter bite of a broken heart.

Too bad the tables were turned, she was the one with the broken heart AND she was left song-less.

I didn’t know what to make out of the fact. Should I care? Should I hurt for her? Should I be more emotionally distraught because I was no longer worthy of Elise’s respect?

In all honesty I didn’t care.

Deep down, she was only my neighbor, one of the many girls that fell for Andrew, the mean girl that made fun of my name just to hide her own insecurities.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, my voice raspy with my defeat and the memories that plagued me. She smiled at me, looking as if she was genuinely concerned.

I questioned for a second if she was at all serious in her concern, but dismissed it, when she narrowed her eyes at me, a perfect, delicate dark curl falling in her face.

She hated me.

“I wanted to see how you were handling having your heart stomped on...” she spat, her voice viciously laced with anger, resentment and revenge.

I gripped the doorframe tighter for support, realizing at that moment that she looked like that mean girl that made fun of me all those years ago.

But this time, I couldn’t help, but think that I deserved her contempt.

“Elise…” I said quietly, my voice so apologetic that I was sure that it meant more than the phrase ‘I’m sorry’. I wanted to take it back, knowing that I shouldn’t have acted as low as she expected.

I wasn’t like her.

I wasn’t the cruel, adored girl that did anything to get what she wanted. I wasn’t that mean, terrible person that slept with a friend’s boyfriend when they were still dating.

I wasn’t like her.

I didn’t even want a song written about me.

Unlike her, I decided that a long time ago, when I realized that it wasn’t such a good thing.

“Konstantine,” she said maliciously. She looked furious, her cheeks bright red with embarrassment and anger, her eyes a stormy shade of green, that clearly displayed the mess of emotions running through her as she stood half in my living room, half outside my house.

I felt so weak, and I didn’t want her anger to be so clearly evident in the place I loved the most.

My living room.

The piano.

Andrew.

Not now, right now I had to deal with Elise. Not Andrew.

Another time, another heartbreak.

“I’m sorry that I hurt you,” I offered weakly. Her face darkened, her normally beautiful features contorted and clouded with her malice.

I looked away, her gaze of animosity making me feel weaker, and I gripped the doorframe tighter.

Just a few more moments, she would unleash her wrath, and then she would leave in a flurry of fury and bitter resentment, that would make me feel more alone than before.

Just a few more moments of this. That’s all I had left.

“You slept with my boyfriend while we were still going out. You were supposed to be my friend, but you lied to my face,” she said, her voice high-pitched and loud because of her anger. I flinched at her obvious realization, secretly wondering how she’d found out. Had Ryan let on to my secret that he’d unwillingly stumbled upon? Had someone seen us, in all of her shameless irony, up at the lookout, and spread the word? Or even worse than either, had Andrew told her?

Would he do that? Would he betray me to…to…

His girlfriend.

The idea hit me in rough waves, all pelting my weakened state of mind, making my head and legs ache with my lies and false hopes.

Elise had been his girlfriend during the time. Maybe I had avoided the full impact of that idea this entire span, but now I realized what I’d done. I had betrayed a person, even though this said person was Elise, and I’d hurt them to the core.

I had made Elise reach her breaking point.

I had destroyed her.

I was cruel.

I was everything I didn’t want to be.

How the hell had this happened?

“How did you find out,” I whispered, the words so painful, they stung as they rolled off my tongue, my lips.

Tainted and cruel, just like Elise’s sardonic laugh that followed.

“Andrew told me last night,” She scoffed, my expression falling as her features brightened. I knew I hurt her, and it was getting harder and harder to stand there, but I never expected my suspicions to be true. I never expected that my wrongdoing would come back to hurt me so profusely. But maybe I was naive, and maybe I was lovelorn, and lost, and most of all afraid. I felt like crying. “Don’t look so down, this is all your fault after all, you should be able to handle the pain,” Elise said sarcastically, her voice too bitter to be her own. I’d dealt with her making fun of me, of her tormenting, then befriending me, I’d even dealt with betraying her, but I’d never really expected her to hate me this much.