everything~~~~

He calls you late at night, and you can’t help holding your breath, waiting for a drunk confession of love, because this must be the time that daydreams become reality.
His voice is barely an exhale, but you hear every syllable because that’s how you always listen to him: so very closely. “Can you come pick me up?” It’s slurred, though his voice is just a whisper.
He’s drunk, but he isn’t in love.
So you slip out of your house, and you start the car, easily agreeing because it’s him. It’s him and it’s him and it’s him, and that is any and every excuse you’ll ever need. Street lights pass in a blur as you get closer and closer to him, and you don’t know why it’s always like this—why does every road and every map lead to this boy?
You like to think that it’s fate.
Your road ends where it always begins, and you stop in front of a bright house in the dark night, and various bottles and different people are scattered across the lawn, and there he is, walking toward you, and he’s drunk and he’s exhausted and he looks like hell, but it’s him—it’s him and it’s him and it’s him. He gets into the car, and he slumps in the passenger seat, and you want to say something—you want him to say something—but silence swallows you whole as you start the car and pull away from the curb.
And you drive, and you drive, and you try to focus on the yellow lines in the center of the road rather than his ragged breathing or your erratic heartbeat, but the lines are blurred and your heart won’t still.
Finally, he mumbles something, and you wish that you didn’t hang on to every word he says. You wish that this wasn’t fate’s plan because this is not the ending you’d always dreamed of. You wish that you weren’t listening close enough to hear him say her name, to hear him mumble, “She’s beautiful, and I don’t fucking deserve her, but god, I wish I did.”
Because he’s drunk, and he’s in love. He’s just not in love with you.
—  H.L. // excerpt from a book I’ll never write #42