Dad called me and I didn’t pick up, because hearing the concern in his voice would undo me. It scares me that I’m the disappointment who’s nothing like him in any shape or form. He might have been strict with Lan, but, really, that’s because he reminds him of his younger self.
I’m the fucking anomaly who only ever caused my parents' concern. A fucking hurricane of disappointment and failed potential.
A vibration pulls me out of the trance and I blink twice, then reach for the phone with my injured hand, slightly trembling, my heart lodged in my throat.
Over the past couple of weeks, my coping method to get over the never-ending withdrawal was texting myself as if I were texting Nikolai.
I have enough pride to not contact him after he dumped me, but it didn’t hurt to send those texts to myself. Pretending it was him. At least, that way, I got to express what I felt in words.
Daft words like:
Why did you come into my life if you were going to leave?
Why did you make me addicted to you if you didn’t plan to stay?
If I say I’m sorry will you come back?
You were never a booty call. I don’t even do those. And I’m the fucking toy, not you.
I don’t even like running anymore. You ruined it like everything else. Fucking bastard. Fuck you.
I’m messed up, Nikolai. Extremely so. You should be glad to have dodged a bullet.
I hate myself. Why don’t you hate me, too?
Oh, right. You do now. Finally. Congrats on the wake-up call. Better late than never.
Are you back with Simon and your other friends with benefits? Did you find a replacement already?
That last thought often crams me down the black hole of my mind and I can’t shake it off, no matter how much I try to.
I’ve seen Nikolai in the fight club a couple of times, mainly because I can’t handle not looking at him anymore, but I always leave before he takes notice of me.
Just like I wrote those texts to myself instead of him.
But here’s the thing.
Last night, I got hammered with Remi, and when I came back to my room, I was on edge. So I went through Nikolai’s chaotic Instagram, which he fills with the most random nonsense.
It’s a habit I indulge in lately and it helps to quiet down the demons. At least, for a while.
Around ten thirty, which is when I usually go to the penthouse, he posted a picture of the telly on a scene from the nightly murder mysteries. The hashtags were #Watching #Alone
My heart revived from the ashes at that moment, but only for a fraction of a second before I saw all the comments from men and women thirsting over him and offering to accompany him. Including fucking Simon.
You can watch me, Daddy ;）
So remember the part where I was drunk? I wasn’t thinking straight, so I kind of texted him.
Me
Do you miss me?
I kept pacing my room back and forth, waiting for his reply. My mind, heart, and fucking body were a mess of epic proportions. I wanted to drive to the penthouse and see him.
I wanted to throw away whoever he’d invited to our space.
But I would’ve definitely gotten into an accident if I’d driven in that state, and while I couldn’t give two flying fucks about my life, I wouldn’t endanger other people’s lives.
He replied after a whole two minutes, even though he read it immediately.
Nikolai
Who’s this?
My heart plummeted and I stopped in the middle of my room, staring at the text as if it were a knife that had plunged itself into my chest and protruded through my back.
Maybe I read the post wrong. He’s already moved on and I’m the one stuck in this fucking prison of my own making.
Me
Wrong number. Sorry.
I was about to throw down my phone and indulge in my self-destructive hobby, but it vibrated in my hand.
He was calling me.
I swear I never felt so shaken up as when I swiped up and placed the phone to my ear.
“Why the fuck—” He inhaled sharply and I felt the vibration of his voice in my ear.
Then I stopped breathing altogether as if that would make me hear him better.
“It’s obviously not the wrong fucking number. What the fuck do you want from me, Brandon?” His tone warred with calm, but I could hear the agitation beneath it.
I smiled and closed my eyes briefly in relief as I listened to his breaths and soaked in his voice. He didn’t forget me or delete my number.
“You never call me by my full name,” I whispered. “I don’t like it when you do.”
“I don’t give a fuck what you like. I don’t give a fuck about you or how you’re doing. I told you we’re fucking done, so stay the fuck away from me.”