In your subconsciousness, you turn to gather something, someone into your arms, inhaling the scent of faint vanilla wafting within the blankets. You reach out and dump your arms over the space right next to you, expecting him to be there and fit in snugly. When your arms hit the wrinkles of the soft cotton bedspread instead of a body, however, you gradually awaken. Squeezing your eyes shut and curling up, a mass of blankets is gathered within your arms. 





You hold your breath and await his reply. What's done has been done, but no matter how many times you rehearse the heartbreak with yourself, you know that you're never going to be strong enough to handle another rejection. "I'm sorry, but perhaps we can still remain the best of friends?" 



The guitar suddenly seems so heavy, lying on your lap supported by your hands. You're too numbed of words to plead like the first time - please, just- give us another chance, another shot. we could make this work, i promise. - and you no longer bother about the guitar. The guitar which you don't have a grip on and is slowly sliding off your lap like it wasn't your most prized possession, your one-year anniversary gift from him a year ago. When it lands as crash resounding throughout the room, you know with a wince that no, you can't remain the best of friends. He looks at you with wide eyes and mouth agape, "Are you okay?"



A soft laughter bubbles from within your throat before dying at the tip of your tongue because you're most definitely not okay. You look at him anyway, forcing the edge of your lips to curl up into a smile and hoping that the expression on your face doesn't seem too pained. "Sure," you reply, shrugging almost noncommittally except that rejection sits really heavy on your shoulders and you are not exactly sure whether you have the right amount of strength to shrug it off like all the times you've used to. 



He smiles, dimples embedding into either sides of his cheeks and picks the dropped guitar, inspecting the damages done with a little twist and turn. The scratches and small dents, here and there comes into your view and with all your might, you ignore the painful throbbing of your heart while watching him nurse the instrument. 



The carvings on the body spells Yixing ❤ Chanyeol and you think it doesn't seems so now with a prominent scratch across the heart. He tucks the guitar under his arm, soft brown eyes locking themselves with yours. "I have a friend who can fix scratches. I can get him to fix it." The sentence hangs mid-air when your gaze cuts through it.



"Can he fix us back together?" You know it's a rhetorical question, one which had already been answered with a stale silence implying 'it's already over, let go.' Yixing swallows a lump into his throat, mouth open but there isn't any sound coming out because he's just too much of a saint to directly reject you and you think it's time you stop taking advantage of his saintliness. You should stop making it difficult for Yixing because suffering it yourself is enough, stop being selfish. You then laugh, re-blow the bubbles of chuckle which popped and let it out, try to wave the question of as if everything can be undone. 



"It's nothing. Forget it." 



When you run out of the room and into the cold, freezing winter, it doesn't occur to you that you would be crying until a tear lies frozen on your cheeks.



-end-



a/n:

-written in 2nd pov which essentially means you = chanyeol

-supposedly longer but lazy