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something shifts inside you when the leaves begin to decay and fall from their branches, left on the ground to break underneath your boots. you don’t understand why this is happening again, why it’s happening when you thought you checked all the boxes to chase it away for good.
you’re in love. he loves you back. and yet the reason you struggle to get out of bed in the morning has nothing to do with wanting to stay wrapped in his arms. he tries to pull you out of the hole but you dig deeper, you push harder, you refuse to ask for help. it’s fine. you’re fine. everything will work out.
it’s the beginning of the end.
it’s too hard to explain what’s happening to him. you stop writing new songs. there’s nothing catchy and clever about slowly breaking someone’s heart. you gloss over falling apart and tell your best friend some half-assed joke about how maybe you’ve lost your edge when he asks if you're okay.
band practice turns into you wanting to scream every fucking song you’ve ever written about him. you press your fingers down so hard you worry you’ll bleed onto the strings of your guitar. every time you talk about possibly playing another show you back out later without explanation. it's too hard to be vulnerable.
you know the dream of touring together is dead.
you go ghost like danny phantom. you delete his number from your phone so you won’t be tempted to drunk text him. he used to laugh at how you needed a buzz to be nice to him but you’re sober when you decide he should find someone easier to love. it’s too fucking sad to tell him that. so you don't.
weeks, maybe even months, go by before he reaches out again some time after halloween. you want it to be the same. you try to win him back with a song, the first one you write since that first knot formed in your stomach. it doesn’t work. you lie and say it’s okay, you’re feeling better. you even got help and medication.
you delete his number again. it’s whatever.
you’re writing again, annoying the neighbors by strumming chords day and night. nothing about him though, no fucking way. every lyric is meant for someone else - for people you want to see you as worthy of time and attention. inspiration is everywhere. best friends, complete strangers, doesn’t matter.
it’s still difficult to shake an idea that’s lodged itself in between the cracks of your broken heart. you, izzy beacom, can create something from nothing. you can give words a melody and music a feeling. but you can’t check all the boxes on some “how to be happy” list and expect everything to be okay.
sometimes the sadness wins anyways.
sometimes you, izzy beacom, can destroy everything.
tis the season for holiday hookups. it’s easy to swipe right and find your way into new beds with no intention of making a connection beyond surface level bullshit. you’re not the kind of girl anyone will ever bring home to meet the parents. hell, your own can barely tolerate you for longer than a few hours.
but you think about it sometimes when you wake up alone - what it might feel like to let someone fall for you again without stomping on their feelings like leaves on the sidewalk. right now you’ll settle for meeting under the mistletoe or a drunken new year's eve kiss. *nsync style, no strings attached.
you need to forget you fucked up. or at least forget 2018.