heart-print

#92 - For isle-of-flightless-josh & vanswritings

Filling the prompts “can you write Single dad Van? Taking his 5, 6 years old daughter on tour with him? And maybe him taking her to meet the reader for the first time?” from @isle-of-flightless-josh and “Can you write about Van as a dad ?” from @vanswritings

Note: ONE FOR MY GIRLSSSS! This is a long one - about 4,500 words. Also, I really like this one so if you do too, pls let me know! 


You walked around the corner of the hallway and stopped in your tracks. There was a child standing in the middle of the room, looking around confused. She was in teeny tiny jeans, and her tshirt had little cats and love hearts printed on it. Her brown hair was a mess and she was barefoot. She looked up at you with big blue eyes. You could see she was upset, but wasn’t at the crying stage just yet.

“Hey honey. Are you okay?” you asked, crouching down but not stepping closer to her. She closed the space herself, walking the few metres to stand right in front of you. She had freckles across her nose.

“I can’t find Daddy,” she told you. Her little face was contorted into the saddest expression you’d ever seen. She was holding her hands together, twisting her fingers in anxiety.

“Okay. We can find him. Can’t have gone far,” you said. She nodded. “Do you know Daddy’s name?”

“Daddy,” she replied. It was cute, but you didn’t laugh at her.

“What do other grown-ups call him?” you tried again.

“Van.”

A convenient coincidence. You hadn’t met him yet, but you knew Van. You were on your way to a meeting to lay out the plan for their tour. Their usual tour manager, Mike, wasn’t available. You were handed Catfish and the Bottlemen, and the opportunity to prove you could run a really fucking successful string of shows.

"I know exactly where he is. Let’s go,” you told her standing up. She held up both hands, and you realised she wanted to be picked up. You complied, and sat her on your hip. She cuddled into you. The kid was clearly used to strangers and you didn’t know if that was good or bad. “What’s your name, honey?”

“Dylan.”

Keep reading

Monday 8:27am
I woke up with you on my mind.
You called me babe last night —
my heart is still pounding.

Tuesday 10:53pm
Today I realized we won’t work.
What we are is hurting her.
And I think she matters more to me than you do.

Wednesday 11:52pm
I broke things off with you today.
She barely said a word.
I’ve never regretted anything more than this.

Thursday 4:03pm
I shouldn’t have sent that message.
You shouldn’t have been so okay with receiving it.

Friday 9:57pm
I almost messaged you today.
I didn’t.

Saturday 8:49pm
I’m walking around town in search of alcohol.
They say that liquor numbs the pain of having a broken heart.
I want to put that to the test.

Sunday 2:32am
I heard you texted a girl you’ve never spoken to before.
I wonder if it’s because you’re trying to replace me.
I can’t help but wish you weren’t.
I thought I was irreplaceable.

—  a week with you on my mind, c.j.n.
Looking back, I can’t remember the truth. I blew everything out of proportion so I could feel the hurt and betrayal and write about it in vivid detail. It was my own method of torture. My own undoing; and I enjoyed every second of it.
—  c.j.n.