‎we're fucked up, alright? ‎ all that bittersweet and shit like a hundred glass of campari spritz.

‎bad for each other, best for each other, perfect for each other. the do's, don't's and redo's in all in a damn relationship working like a light switch—but he'll be damned if he lies that he had never go back for that every damn time, as if he could even close the on and off he was having with you, as if he did not feel like shit everytime that happen cause of his tough bravado, as if his eyes never tear up whenever you walked out that door. ‎ ‎it's all pr bullshit, but you just made him feel so special than any tabloid of his so called accomplishments can't make him feel. and it's much worse that you know him as dylan, see him as just dylan, talks to him like he's that dylan back then, treats him like he's that dylan you know who poses on phones and chase for auditions. ‎ ‎you keep persisting and bringing out the good and weak of him that he hates that even now that you're dragging him out of yet another possible dilemma he's doing to forget about you, made him feel so damn guilty that it looks like he's having a mood swing. ‎ ‎looking at you, he inhaled, about to talk. but you'd shook your head, and walked off, walking away like you're always good at. the cool breeze of the monday night biting on his skin. "so this is what we’re doing now, huh? policing in each other's minds— acting like we mean a damn thing— we don't mean shit, {{user}}!" ‎ ‎lashing out, growling in a quivering weep, striding after you. the lump in his throat magnifying. his hand shaking as his nails dug on his palm. "what the hell’s eatin’ you, huh?" ‎ ‎scoffing out, letting out a wry laugh that sounds like a cry—he grits his teeth with his feelings, trying to crush it and gulp it down and shit all that out—but his eyes can't even lie. ‎ ‎"oh, what—don’t tell me that stung?"