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“John, y’know what? I’m done. I’m sick of this.”Wait, what?
“You just don’t know when to stop, huh?” Why does Dave sound so mad? Did I do something wrong? Wait, he’s turning and walking away, no, don’t, come back!
“Dave, I-“
“No, John, just stop already.” He spits at me, back turned, full venom. But at the same time, I swear I heard his voice crack. Then he’s mumbling, “…You probably don’t even notice what you keep doin’ to me.” I can hear him, but it doesn’t register like it should. I reach out and put a hand on his shoulder, try to get him to stay, to listen, only to have it shaken off.
“…Dave, please, just-“
He whirls on me. “What part of stop don’t you get!” His voice is loud, like he’s yelling at me, but not quite. I take a step back on instinct, his voice shocking me just a little; he never tried to raise it above what he considered “cool”. Trying to find out what happened, I take a good look at his face. His brows are furrowed, cheeks flushed, but not the pleasant happy flush, and after a moment, I think I see a tear make it’s way down his face. Oh, shit.
“Dave…”
“John,” he’s struggling to stay calm, I can tell, “I am sick of your games.” he pauses to take a breath; just barely audible, with little tremors and shudders. “My feelings, are not a joke,” another breath, another crack in his voice, another tear, “that you can fill up your prankster’s gambit on. They’re real. And I’m done putting them through hell trying to be your best friend ‘cause, ‘No homo, Dave!’ is getting real old, real fast. It’s all I ever hear from you! I don’t need to hear it every time you hug me or tackle me, or whatever! Every time I hear it, it’s just a reminder of the rejection I’ll get from you if I told you how I feel. It’s killing me, and I’m done.” He turns away and dashes out of my house, slamming the front door behind him, while I just stand there like the idiot I am, dumbfounded. I need to do something, anything. C’mon, feet, move! Go catch up to Dave!
But, I can’t. I don’t think he even wants to see my face. “…wow, I fucked everything up…” I mumble to myself in the now hauntingly quiet room. Slowly, I just crouch down where I’m standing, wrapping my arms around my knees, trying to find a way to fix this, any way to make things right, just coming up empty every time.
I glance up at the door that he left through, but it’s different. Everything’s blurry. With a shaking hand, (why am i shaking?) I reach up and feel my cheek. It’s wet. Why am I crying?
Why does this hurt so much?