☆

[y/n]

_

FOUR.

We used to meet at four.

Back when everything was fine, and I didn't feel like crying, we used to meet on the steps of the Globe at four. Those were the memories that shouldn't exist, but they do exist, because I wanted them to. I wanted him to. And now I feel like they were mistakes leading up to a moment that I didn't want to reach.

Do you know that feeling when you've done something stupid?

It eats you up from the inside, sucking at your soul until you feel like there's nothing left inside of you to keep you going. A mistake—no, in this case—insanity.

I was insane to think I'd get anything good out of this.

And now I have to face the consequences.

"Are you sure you don't want us to come with?" Monica asked, lingering by the doorway of my room, "it doesn't have to be obvious, we can watch from afar."

I shook my head. "I'd prefer to have this conversation with him alone."

Both of my friends nodded, and then I left.

As I walked down the cracked pavement, I felt like each step was like crushing a memory in my mind—maybe that's what I wanted. Step, step, step, just so I could forget. I didn't want to think about the fact that he had a piece of my life tucked away somewhere in his satchel. Dreams he stole.

And I suppose I was right to call it "An Unfortunate Meeting", describing the time we first met on the train. He spilled his tea, I pretended to hate him for it, but then I let myself grow to love him. But the truth was, I had already loved him. I just fell into the story I had created on the pages of my notebook.

Now I wish we never met.

I avoided taking the tube to the theatre on purpose. I avoided all the familiar streets, all the trips down memory lane, and all the faces that might remind me of him. But no, I'm not overreacting. I'm letting my vulnerability control me, and that is perfectly fine.

But as I passed by the round-about a few blocks away from the Globe, I noticed something.

Someone.

There were figures hovering outside of a bakery, hoods pulled up, and voices low. They were too far for me to hear, but even though they attempted to hide their faces from the world, I saw his—Louis' face.

He was glancing around anxiously, bending down to mumble something to the person in front of him. They spoke in whispers.

And then, I watched as the figure in front of him held out their hand, displaying a set of perfectly manicured nails—lavender. I could see the way it shimmered in the dusk light, curling around the back of Louis' palm as they joined hands.

Held hands.

The girlfriend, I'm guessing, I couldn't see her face.

Not that I wanted to.

Part of my journey through these realities was to learn how to accept a broken heart. I always ended up hurt in one of them, regardless of whether it was mine fault or his, and I always got over it. I could do it again, I think.

He let go of me when he gave someone else the tea box.

So I walked, turning my head and walking towards the theatre with a darker shadow trailing behind me in the foggy air. It followed me past the steps he used to wait by, and it followed me through the doors of a place I used to call home. It followed me through the stairs, past the eyes of tourists milling around, and onto the empty stage with no spotlights.

And to think this is where I first said I loved him.

Standing on a stage, holding his hand, while pretending that I didn't know it was going to end in a matter of days when I had to wake up. All things have an end, don't they? Even this.

I heard the metal doors creak open, and the echo of trainers hitting the marble floor as they walked towards me. I knew who it was. I didn't even bat an eyelash.

"Brilliant writer, Shakespeare, " I said, my eyes trained on the empty stage, "Love all, trust a few, do wrong to none."

I felt his shadow stop a few inches from my own, rocking nervously back and forth on the soles of his shoes. He dared to stand close to me, when I had every reason to push him away.

"All's Well that End's Well," I said, "act 1, scene 1."

He was silent at first, letting my words ring out into the air like a death toll. This is the end, it said, of us. For him, 'us' meant friends. For me, 'us' meant everything.

"Why did you want to talk?" He asked, his voice hesitant.

I didn't look at him. "Guess."

"I don't like guessing games."

"Sorry, wrong answer," I fumed, "try again."

I knew I was being mean, but I had every right to be. He was a stranger now. Someone I used to idolize, but now felt so distant from after he took advantage of my feelings. I wanted to say I hated him, but I couldn't, so I let myself be cruel instead.

"Why are we here?" He asked, quieter this time.

I took a step forward, ignoring his question. "Wrong again."

"Tewks..."

"Don't call me that."

"[y/n]."

"Don't call me that either," I snapped, spinning around, "I know what you did, Louis, and all I want is for you to admit it."

I saw his face for the first time now.

Not the first time, but it felt like it. Seeing his figure silhouetted by the aisle lights, those hazel eyes piercing through the dim space like arrows. His hands were shoved into the pocket of his jumper, his hair strewn over his forehead through the edge of his hood.

"Admit what?" He said flatly.

Tick, tick, tick.

The game has begun.

We're standing on opposite sides of a field of our lives, and we can't bear to see the other win. I want him to admit it. He wants me to admit that I shifted. By asking that question, he's trying to get me to say the truth—and then deny it just as quickly. Then I'd be embarrassed and exposed.

And he'd win.

Tick, tick, tick.

"You know exactly what I mean," I said, narrowing my eyes.

Tick...

He frowned. "I don't."

Tick...

We were getting nowhere, and I was getting tired. For every score I tried to make, he blocked it, sending another my way. But my defense was broken. The longer I try to hold out, the less I have to keep middle ground.

Tick...

The checkered flag is raising, about to come swooping down to begin the race.

"I don't like games," he said, his voice dull and monotone, "but I do like winning. I suggest we take this elsewhere, preferably not in the middle of a dark theatre."

He was scared.

Maybe he knew what memories were held between the marble walls, and didn't want to let them sink through his skin like karmic leeches. I held power here, and he didn't want to see it.

"Where do you suggest?" I said.

Tick, tick, tick...

"Laser-tag," he suggested, "I'm pretty ace at it."

Tick, tick...

I cocked a brow. "And that means you'll win?"

Tick...

"Guess."

At those words, the checkered flag fell to a stop, and the bell started to ring. It's just the two of us in the race, running towards a blurry finish line.

And the game has begun.

_

oh, this will be fun.