#𓍯 ִֶָ 🎀.@sauvvhffp

[sauvhffp]

𝗔𝗙𝗧𝗘𝗥 𝗛𝗢𝗨𝗥𝗦.

"why'd you come?" perplexed at the sight of him outside my window—my house—under the rain pouring heavily, holding a plastic bag, on his motorcycle without wearing a helmet-

"what the fuck are you doing outside my house?" my voice cracks, unsure of what to feel. because, honestly, what could you feel in this situation? how would anyone react if their ex showed up soaked from head to toe outside their house?

"... brooks couldn't come." even through the phone, even in the heavy rain, his voice is so clear compared to the heavy pour of rain—it irritates me. "he told me you were sick—and that no one was there to take care of you."

why do you care? my heart clenches, aches. why does he care?

"that isn't any of your business." i say in a dismissive, sick, tone. paired with a cough. i turn away and take off my glasses, placing it on the nightstand and laying on my bed, pulling up the covers to cover my burning body. "i can take care of myself just fine. go home, santiago—"

"intaking unhealthy meals isn't taking care of yourself, viagra." i frown. does he think i'm that incapable of taking care of myself? i mean, i've only eaten instant for the couple of days wes couldn't come, but that doesn't count! "don't play dumb, you're smart enough to know that."

"i'm not playing dumb." i scowl, rolling on my side, lifting the covers in an attempt to cease my body shivering from the cold. it just so happens that my heater also broke, so now i'm enduring a cold temperature with a cold. yay. "i know enough to take care of myself, santiago."

"if i needed help, you would be the last person i'd ask it for." i spat. this whole situation made my head ache worse. pair it up with an asshole criticizing your way of living outside your house, and now you have a migraine. great. "end of conversation. go home."

without waiting for a reply, i immediately ended the call. fuck, why'd i even answer that in the first place? i snuggle myself deeper in the covers, my breath hitching and teeth cluttering from the cold. i knew he was going to be an asshole anyway, why'd i answer it?

i close my eyes, curling up. the sight of him outside, drenched from the rain without a helmet on, made me feel a bit guilty. oh, well. he's probably on his way home now.

i nod to myself, knowing that he probably was just forced to check up on me—courtesy of wes. he didn't care if i got knocked out cold during the days we lived together, what was the difference now?

feeling myself almost drifting off to sleep, a sudden vibration from my phone woke my consciousness. i sigh and grab my phone. the continuous vibration must mean that someone's calling me.

i rub and blink my eyes, pulling the phone closer to my eyes so i can clearly see the caller id. it must be wes, i say to myself as i blink a little more before my vision clears at the name.

him, again? i scowl. god, doesn't he have anything better to do than to mess around with a sick person? i placed my phone on the nightstand and turned my back against it, closing my eyes to sleep.

the vibrations stop for a few moments, the room going silent. save for the rain still pouring heavily outside. i try to sleep, but i can't. the throbbing pain of my headache, the cold atmosphere, and my stomach complaining for not being able to consume any proper meal prevent me from getting a good rest.

i slowly open my eyes, and the room is blurry. everything is, it always has been. i close it once again, but they open again when i hear the buzz of my phone. a text message.

is it wesleyan this time? i'm unsure now, but why should i be? wes has been the only one sending me messages and requesting calls, who's message was i expecting other than his?

him. the voice at the back of my head whispers, but i ignore it. i pick up my phone along with my glasses to confirm the name of my messenger,

[ SANTIAGOFUCKYOURSELF 🖕 ] [ 11:23 pm ] Please. [ 11:23 pm ] Just take the medicine.

" ... ?" medicine? puzzled, i blinked. what medicine?

i prop my hands up the bed to lean myself upwards and peek at the window, my eyes widening. is that ... him, still? still outside my house ...?

what the fuck?

he was looking down at his phone, fingers hovering over the keyboard. the plastic bag still in his clutches, it was closed tight so the i doubt the contents inside were dry. was that ... the medicine?

i feel myself weakening, my mind going blank and crazy at the same time. what...? what?

WHAT?

what the fuck is he trying to do? is this some sort of game?? was he bribed by wesleyan?? i doubt the latter. what else could wes have offered him that he doesn’t have?

while i come up with theories and hypotheses on why this was currently happening, i get another message.

[ SANTIAGOFUCKYOURSELF 🖕 ] [ 11:28 pm ] I'm sorry. [ 11:28 pm ] I'll be on my way. [ 11:28 pm ] I'll leave the medicine on your doorknob.

... fuck. i could feel my heartbeat pace erratically, the previously cold room getting warmer, sweat sliding down my forehead and palms.

was i too harsh on him? i think i was. all he wanted to do was to help, did i really have to push him away?

i close my eyes and lean against the headboard, hands on my face. all i could think about is how i'm being an asshole for refusing help from someone who's lending me hand and for him to be like this when he wasn't like this before.

what mind games are you playing at, ian?

i sit there for a few moments, thinking what i'll do, but came up with nothing. i could just wait for him to leave and grab the medicine on the front door, but i'm too weak willed. i opened my eyes to glance at the window and still saw him there, on his motorcycle, phone in hand, rain still pouring.

"will be on your way"? what are you still doing outside then? why are you just sitting there like you're waiting for something?

i close my eyes again, feeling the room getting really warm. fuck.

i can't believe i'm about to do this to myself.

—

... fuck, i can't believe i did this to myself.

ian thought to himself, it'd be better for me to leave. she clearly doesn't want anything to do with me. not what after i did.

still, why do i still follow after her? like a lost puppy, seville would say. i didn't think it'd turn out this way.

none of us did.

ian sat there on his bike, his least concerns were sitting out in the rain and getting sick later, his first priority was to see if she was doing okay.

and maybe that was why he hadn't made any move to go home because he hadn't seen her yet.

ian was concerned for her well-being. he knew how self-destructive she was and that she's bad at taking care of herself. she was hospitalized, for fucks sake. she could be at risk again.

... but this time, he wasn't the cause. this time, he can step in and help.

he wants to.

he wants to care for her like she did to him before, wants to return everything she's done for him when he did nothing but turn her away from him.

he wants to make things right.

and maybe, this time, he can.

he just needs time, effort, and to lower his pride. which is why he's learned to apologize and learn to take in his wrongs.

which is why he's here, waiting. like she did for him, multiple times—over and over again.

if he was still the same ian he was during his senior years in high school, he'd probably be in disbelief. surprised of what he's doing just for someone who he's claimed to not give a damn for in the past.

"did you ... even love me?"

ian closed his eyes, clutching the plastic bag filled with medicine and soup ingredients. i did—i think i did. you were everything i could ask for, and more. but i ruined it. i messed up. i ruined us.

opening his eyes, glancing at the window with light illuminating inside, transparent pink curtains that used to be white when they lived together. huh, they lived together.

we could have still be living together.

wallowing in self-loathing, ian's phone flashed white. a notification appearing. he sees the message and immediately gets up to rush to the front door. his bike being left to soak in the rain.

[ AILEEN ] [ 11:37 pm ] door's open.