GIRLS // ILIWYS
i told her from the start: i'll break your heart (girl i'm not your saviour) // before you go turn the big light off (please don't go)
"give me your phone," he says, hand held out expectantly. when she places it in his palm, he opens her list of contacts, tapping the add button with his thumb. moments later, he returns it, putting out the last of his cigarette on the ground beside him. it's late, but his body isn't quite ready for the evening to end, not when he's unsure of his next trip to los angeles. two years out of sixth form and he's still trying to find build a future in something, fighting the temptation to join the rest of his peers in excess.

he’s drunk but not too drunk as he leans in to kiss her, lingering for just a moment before stumbling to his feet from the pavement. as he bends over to pick up his empty cup like the good citizen he is, part of him wants to tell her not to phone, that he doesn’t need another teenage distraction if he ever wants to be something, but the other part of him feels like a collector of beautiful things. the first half of him speaks first: "i shouldn’t’ve done that," he laughs, humourlessly, "you’re like seventeen—"

"eighteen," she corrects, but he doesn’t hear.

"and too –" the sentence ends there, unfinished. too genuine, perhaps, but even in the moment it seems like an insult rather than a compliment.

"los angeles is bad for you."
they get along better in new york or london, but la is the one that seems most like home, the graffiti-covered walls that hold the timeline of their love. it seems fitting that the city which brought them together would tear them apart, the birthplace of what would become a relationship splashed across tabloid magazines: lead singer of a band who caters to emotionally unstable teenage tumblr girls dates lady gaga wannabe and embarrasses both her and his family by fucking his way through the z-list.

if their other fights are explosive, this is a conflagration. he's created a scale for their destruction: clothing tossed out of the window is a four, but thrown dishes are only a three. if she calls him andrew, it's a five, and if she breaks a guitar, they're at a six. add two points if either of them is under the influence. he can't remember getting further, but this is a ten. it was meant to be the night, but it's all gone wrong. he doesn't love her enough, she says, not realising that it's the opposite.

he never professed sainthood but the decision to pull every mistake he's made from the depths of their collective past cuts deeply, a reminder that he can hope for the future as much as he'd like but he creates misery and happiness in equal measure. she accuses him of not loving her and he feels everything inside of him shatter as though he were made of glass.

at the end of the fight she collapses into their bed and drags the covers over her head.

"before you go, turn the big light off." and more quietly, barely a whisper: "please don't go".