So little side note again: You’re the most beautiful person in the entire world and I hope you know that. It doesn’t really matter if you have scars or not. I don’t care if they’re all over you; you should be proud of them. They reflect who you are and show that you’re strong enough to be here right now on this horrible planet even if you struggle with it sometimes because as humans we tend to freak out and obsess and just kinda overwhelm ourselves and there’s really no point for it but we do it anyway because were confused and shitty people. That was a long sentence. Put some breath marks in there if you need them. But you’re beautiful and lovely and I hope you have a fantastic day and I wrote this on my phone so I’m sorry.
Calum - He was off on tour, so there was no way he’d catch you. You had to relieve the stress somehow, it was killing you. Every night you read through Twitter, dying a little more inside. The fans weren’t exactly the nicest people in the world. Ever since you started dating Calum you became that little depressed girl again, back from when you were so young and broken and confused. You still had some white scars as reminders of your struggles with who you were. So there you were, sitting in the bathroom, holding your old blade from when you were young. You sighed. You had to. You had to cut, at least once. You dragged the blade across the outside of your wrist. It was quick, but it was deep. Blood started to pour through the line. You smiled at the burning sensation. It was so messed up, so insane, but you loved the feeling of cutting. You deserved every mark you gave yourself.
Your pent up stress instantly faded as blood washed down your arms and legs. It was like all the pain was slowly exiting your body. You were happy, smiling even, at the pulsing pain that exerted from the cuts.
“I’m sorry Calum.” You whispered to yourself as you ran your thumb across a particular cut on your wrist.
“Yeah, I am too.” You jumped at the sound of the voice - could it be? Your boyfriend stood in the doorway, a mix of hurt and anger apparent on his face.
“What the hell, (Y/N)! What the hell is this!” He didn’t wait for you to answer. He started rummaging through the medicine cabinets, his back to you. You were silent.
He returned with gauze and rubbing alcohol.
“This is gonna sting.” He warned you, before washing the cuts off, drying them, and disinfecting them. He wrapped your wrists up like mummies and took your hands in his laps. “Why would you do this…why-why wouldn’t you just talk to me or something?”
You didn’t utter a word.
“(Y/N) say something.”
You were ashamed. He’d seen you at your lowest point, at your weakest, and you couldn’t feel more vulnerable. You wanted to hug him and kiss him and thank him and tell him you were okay but you couldn’t move. You were stuck in place. You felt worthless, a useless cutter who would never amount to anything. A useless cutter who would do nothing but bring her boyfriend down with her.
“The fans.” You muttered. “The fans,”
“What?” He asked. “I didn’t hear you. What’d you say?”
“Nevermind.” You tried to smile, but to no avail.
“No, tell me.” He pressed.
“Calum we-I I think we should, um, break up.” You spoke louder, looking down at your legs.
“(Y/N) what, where is this coming from? Is this because of your scars? (Y/N) I’m not gonna leave you. I’m gonna stay right here; I want to help you. Please just let me help you.”
“Calum you can’t save me!” You yelled, surprising the both of you. “You-you can’t…”
“Yes I can. I’m gonna stay right here with you. You’re coming with me on tour. I’m not gonna leave your side, babe. I’m gonna be right here for you, okay?” He rubbed this thumb against the red gauze. “Always. You shouldn’t feel this way. No one should feel this way.”
Ashton - Ash was finally meeting your parents. The two of you sat on the couch, going through your old photo albums that your mom had pulled out from the boxes in the attic. Much to your dismay Ash wanted to see them while your parents finished cooking dinner.
“You were so cute!” He smiled as he pointed to a picture of you in first grade, you smiling up to your ears with your two front teeth missing.
“Yeah, yeah, I was fucking adorable.” You mumbled, turning the page in utter embarrassment.
“No need to swear, babe.” He teased you as he wrapped an arm around your shoulder. “What, is that you?” He asked as you turned another page. He was pointing to a picture of you as a sophomore in high school; you went through an emo phase. The picture was of you on a stage speaking in one of the many poetry slams you used to go to constantly back then.
“Yes…” You mumbled again. “It was a phase…”
“Geez looks like you and Michael have more in common than I thought.” He said, referring to your dyed-deep blue hair.
“Haha yeah except unlike Michael I was 100% punk rock back then,” You laughed awkwardly hoping to turn the page again.
“No, wait.” He stopped you. His face had gone a little pale.
“What?” You asked, looking back at the picture.
He took your left sleeve in his hands and rolled it up. His thumb ran across the white scars on your wrist.
Looking at the picture you could see that he’d noticed your scars from back then, fresh and red in all their depressing glory. It was just something everybody did when you went to one of those poetry slams; if you had scars then you didn’t try to cover them up for once, because you should feel welcome and at home and not alone for once. You were in a crowd of people who understood your pain, because they shared the same kind of pain that you did.
“They’re old, Ash.” You finally said, breaking the silence.
“I mean-what-why didn’t you tell me?” He asked.
“Um, I don’t know, it just never came up I guess. I didn’t really know how to tell you.” You paused. “But I’m okay now. You helped me, you helped me a lot, actually. More than you’ll ever know. I stopped a long time ago, way before I met you, but I kind of always missed it, but then I met you, and, well, the rest is history.”
“I hope you never feel like that again, (Y/N). I love you. And I’m glad your better now. You promise you’re alright now?”