Michael Imagine: He
Doesn’t Share Your Feelings Part 2
You’re blinded by him.
By his charming words, by his steady gaze, by the attention
you craved from him for so long –
By the love you fooled yourself into believing he had for
You’ve set yourself up for an inevitable fall, letting his
words of I love you and I’ve been thinking of you all day fool
you; the silly, naïve little girl who was just too eager to love and to be
loved in return.
You should’ve known better.
Michael had completely ignored you for the past few months,
despite his claims of having you on his mind the whole entire time – because the
absent phone calls and missing text messages and overall silence on his part meant you were the only thing he could think
Ashton coming up to you that day, telling you to be careful
with Michael, advising you to forget about him because of who he was now, warning you against loving Michael in
hopes of protecting your flyaway heart.
The media and every social media platform buzzing with
photos and statements about the various girls pictured with Michael with more
friendliness than just another fan, or even another friend. He didn’t agree,
but he also didn’t disagree – and the sources and the personal statements were
too well-put and cohesive to be just another cheap tabloid rumour.
When were you going to see that everything about the boy
screamed trouble – and not the exhilarating,
thrilling trouble – the trouble that would leave you crying on the floor at
three in the morning that led to a numb heartache that would last for weeks.
When were you going to see that Michael didn’t love you?
That when he looked at you, he wasn’t lost in your eyes – he
was lost in how he was reflected in
your wide eyes.
That when he touched you, he wasn’t absorbing the love that
radiated from your pores – he was testing your reaction with calculated brushes
to see just what he could get from you.
That when he said I
love you, there wasn’t any sincerity in his voice, in his eyes – he was
saying the words that he said to everyone else that caught his eye for more
than a minute, and he was using those three words to trap you in him for as
long as he needed you.
But the thing is, Michael didn’t need you. He wanted you. He wanted to play with you, to toy with
your heart like some plaything that a conniving boy like him would dissect
before leaving the pieces lying around as he jumped to his next interest.
Michael loved toys and he loved games and your heart was the
toy you handed so willingly over to him to take and your mind was a game that
you released for him to play.
You gave him your
heart and you gave him your head and
in doing so, you gave him every opportunity to break you just the way he wanted
And the best part?
You’d come back, over and over again, back to his arms and
back to the love you harboured for him – you
silly stupid foolish girl – and he’d
just break you all over again.
The best toy, really.
But like everything Michael Clifford plays with, he’ll get
He’ll get tired of stringing you along and he’ll drop you
without a warning; already looking for the next new game to play.
But you don’t think of this. You don’t think of any of these things despite the clear
three strikes and the strange absurdity of his sudden profession of love
towards you; you don’t think about Michael and the rumours or Ashton and his
warning and you don’t think of anything except Michael saying yes I love you too after years of
dreaming of those words to leave his lips.
You’ve always hung on to that hope, to that chance that Michael might love you back
the way you loved him; that the beautiful Michael might love the plain you just
like how you loved him when he was just plain Michael too.
And it’s that hope – that hope that you carried through the
darkest silences – that hope is what will bring you down.
Because that’s what let you believe you had a chance, that blinded you with the possibility when any rational person
could see the indifference in Michael’s eyes as clearly as they could see the
infatutation in yours.
But of course, you couldn’t see it yourself.
You were too busy staring at him.
You were blinded.
It breaks his heart.
It breaks Ashton’s heart to see you at his doorway at five
in the morning, the hazy beginnings of twilight starting to break through the
darkness of night, making the tears on your cheeks glisten brightly.
It breaks his heart to see your helpless eyes breaking into
a fresh wave of tears, your shoulders wracking with choked sobs, the words you were right leaving your lips in
disjointed fragments with your cries and hiccups.
And he was right, of course – didn’t he try to tell you, didn’t he try to tell you that Michael
Clifford would only break your heart?
Shouldn’t you have tried to listen?
But now you’ve paid the price in tears and heartbreak and
you’re crying into Ashton’s broad shoulders, unintelligible words leaving your
lips, muffled in his shirt and accented by sharp intakes of breath that don’t
seem to help.
He was – I-I saw him –
she was there and he saw m-me and – he just kept on – t-the whole
entire time – you were right.
Your words come out as a wail and Ashton’s holding you
tightly, stroking your hair and rubbing your back and hushing you softly and
being right left the most bitter, acidic taste in his mouth.
Because being right didn’t mean being happy, and your broken
form told him that much.
He said he loved me.
You almost want to laugh because of how juvenile and whiny
your voice sounds, but you can’t help the pathetic squeak of your words when
they leave your mouth in between your shaking.
I’m sorry dear, but he
He didn’t mean it. He
lied. About everything. I know. I
know. I know that now and god, I wish
I knew that earlier because now I just feel so stupid for believing everything he told me and I –
Your words are too thick with tears at this point, and
Ashton merely shushes you and holds your head to his shoulder as your bury your
eyes into his worn shirt, feeling the sturdiness of your best friend around
you; the only thing still holding the remaining fragments of you up.
The pieces of you that Michael didn’t play with, the pieces
that he perhaps chose to let you keep, knowing that those were the jagged edges
that wouldn’t fit anywhere else.
You were just a broken girl made up of shattered
half-finished jigsaw pieces that you’ll never be able to find; he made sure of that. That was his game.
And you can’t believe that this is Michael – you have to
train yourself from saying your Michael
because he was never yours even when he claimed otherwise with fancy words like
my heart is yours even when you knew
they were a guise from keeping you from realizing it was the other way around –
and you just can’t believe that the boy you used to call a friend would become
the smirking epitome of trouble.
People changed, you knew. You saw Michael change with every
song he wrong, with every season as he started to discover himself more and
more – he talent at the guitar, the colours that showcased his mood, the ink
that represented something to him – he was changing, but not once did you ever
think the bashful Michael you once knew would become the reason for your
uncontrollable, cracked tears.
You didn’t want to.
You wanted to hold on to the image of the thin boy in
oversized hoodies, the boy who only played games on a console, the boy who didn’t
have any luck with talking to other girls.
You wanted to cling on to the boy that you loved, believing
he was inside this new person with white-blue hair and cocky grin.
You wanted to believe that maybe if you loved him enough,
the love from the old Michael hidden somewhere in this new person would come
back. That it would come back and love you, too.
But the tears don’t stop and you think the boy you loved is
gone, living only in your memory.
He couldn’t live in the Michael you wanted; your heartbreak
proving that much.
The betrayal cuts through you like a knife; that not only
did Michael not return your feelings, but that he would string you out like he
did, that he would make you suffer tenfold more than you had to. That you would
have to undergo humiliation and heartache and grief all at once just to learn
And perhaps that bit was your fault.
You should’ve learned faster, when there was already one
strike. You should’ve picked it up by strike two. You should’ve told him to
leave the field when it was strike three.
But you stubbornly refused to leave and you stayed in
Michael’s game, and my god, was he quite
But you’ve left the field with your head hung low and pieces
of your heart trailing behind you and this is the price for playing, for
losing, for believing.
You had learned the hard way for such an easy lesson.
He just didn’t love you.
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