𝐈𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐥 𝐀𝐭𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 (Completed)

28. W E M E E T A G A I N

C H A C E'S P.O.V

His face was blue. His lips were purple. He continued to lay there motionless, not getting a response out of him to know if he was ok. His eyes were cold, traces of vomit on the side of his mouth. Tristan Evergreen is dead. Clinically brain dead.

His room was in a mess. We watched the paramedics carry his lifeless body, nobody could stop him and neither of us understood why did what he did. Michael couldn't stop crying, Caleb is pacing up and down uncomfortably, Nick is in a corner kicking a trashcan, everyone crowded outside Tristan's room is waiting for some kind of a miracle to take place.

In the public eye Tristan Evergreen was a washed up musician who lost his focus. He lost everything that was dear to him. He lost his band. His family wanted nothing to do with him, his record agency's expectations skyrocketed like a spaceship getting ready to be launched into space, Tristan couldn't find any other alternative to deal with the apocalypse that was eating him from inside.

When I had my first encounter with him, I could tell he just wanted to be left alone. He didn't want to be recognized as a celebrity. He didn't want to be Tristan Evergreen anymore.
I wanted to go and talk to him but I wanted to give him his space.

"I don't do pictures," I stop in my tracks, turning to face him. "Ask for a fucking sign so this shit gets over with." I smirk. "Don't need neither."

"The hell's your problem then?" I sigh. "Nothing, wanted to make sure if you were o"-

"Cut the crap dude." My skin burns with frustration, I open my mouth to say whatever the fuck I want to but I wasn't in the mood to have an argument with some guy who people think they know all too well, I am not one of those people.

The tears don't fall.

My throat hurts, the ground getting misty watching it dissipate under my feet. Blowing a thick cloud of smoke, the cigarettes aren't helping me to make the tension go away. Regardless, I light another one. I get to lead the life he deserves to have, I get to wake up the next day and pretend to view it like it is every other fucking day and he isn't there?

Taking the cigarette away from my mouth, I stub it against my knuckles that once healed from past self inflicted wounds. I ignore the scorching ash penetrating through my veins, I get up and collide my fist with cement, repeatedly.

I can't stop this. I want to stop. The voice in my head isn't allowing me to until it says I'm good to go. Sliding my phone out of my pocket, I log onto Instagram, typing her name on the search bar. Drops of salty water fall from my eyes, my chest heaving up and down. My throat bobs up and down after hours preserving, forget about wanting Hurricane next to me.

I need her next to me. I want her to be right here, by my side telling me it's going to be ok. I am going to be ok. I want her holding my hand, burying my face into her hair, breathing the scent of her. Feeling her body pressed towards mine, I want to recreate the memory of how I went on a hydraulic lift the last time I held her.

The last time I kissed her. The last time I hurt her so bad, she probably might still be thinking what a terrible piece of shit I was to leave without an explanation except for a stupid note that didn't explain shit. A note that did nothing to highlight I sorry I was.

My thumb tightly presses the unblock button, I scroll through her posts wanting to know if she was able to survive without me. Her curves have become more prominent, hair a darker shade. Hurricane's are still the same just how I remember them : shining bright like a diamond. She has the eyes that can scornfully make you cringe in a corner if you dare to put her limitations to task.

I fucking miss you.

I need to explain. I need to give her a call. My hands are paralyzed, fingers hovering above her contact Hurricane's number displayed on the screen.

I want to tell her what rehab was like for me. I want to tell her the truth about me and where I come from. I want to tell her about the pain, waves of nausea surging in my stomach, my inability to cope with Tristan's demise.

My chest stings with a strange sensation. A sensation that followed me like a tornado, wherever I went I saw her. And now I know she is here.

Quickly spinning around, I run as my feet splash against the puddle, racing towards the entrance. This isn't a flight or fight situation it's the eagerness that is killing me, I have no choice.

Taller than most of the girls her age, blonde, body that is made out of gold, I grab her shoulder. My legs are trembling.

"Excuse me?" An annoyed, shocked girl exclaims, brushing my hands off her. She shoots me a dirty look, slinging her bag on her shoulder walking with full caution.

Running a worried hand through my hair, my neck is hot, dry tears scalding my face. Tristan hated fame. He was a simple human being who had a job he loved. His innocent soul was corrupted by how the media portrayed him to be, forcing Tristan to be the person he wasn't destined of being.

I watched him die in front of me.

I wasn't present when he took his own life, a limp body rotting away in the grave he made for himself. Apart from this, his death made me realize one thing: I am in love with her.

I could've said it. The words that refused to come out of my mouth. I lost that moment, I lost that chance.

"Chace?"

I almost fall as I get up, hearing that familiar voice which isn't so far from where I am currently positioned. This her. The real her.

She is actually standing in front of me. Hurricane is here, blue eyes creasing with affection which she is trying so hard to bring back.

Without uttering a word, I pull her wrist and haul her towards me, pushing stray strands of her blonde hair behind her ear and urgently burry my face into her neck.

"Please," I beg, my body shaking.

"Don't."