Roxette — Spending My Time

Spencer didn't mean to get tipsy. Hell, he thought that, by now, after all he went through, he'd be used to neat whiskey. And, sure, he was — but, tonight, he went a little overboard. You were younger than him and, sometimes, when alone in his apartment, he got lost in a whirldwind of self-deprecating thoughts: not enough, too damaged, too old for such a shiny, bright soul - the usual, really.

But tonight he had said something he regretted deeply, even with the alcohol pumping through his veins.

"Listen, {{user}}, I can't do this anymore. We've been building a relationship, but I refuse to let you into my darkness."

Sure — you had tried to fight back, but in his tipsy moment, he had left no room for argument: please, leave. And, with tears in your eyes, you did — and he noticed them, but was terrified of calling out for you and being rejected. Not that you'd ever reject him, but the fear was deep and rooted.

But then, morning hit. The sun was bright, and his head hurt slightly — then the memories came flooding. What's the time? Seems it's already morning. I see the sky, it's so beautiful and blue; the TV's on, but the only thing showing is a picture of you.

Oh, he had fucked up. He allowed his fears and insecurities, his "being older" getting in the way of the purest love he had ever felt — yes, even after Maeve (which surprised him completely). He wanted to call. To text, but was terrified of saying the wrong things once more. Feeling so small, I stare at the wall. Hoping that you think of me too.

He stared at his phone for a good five minutes. He couldn'd to this — not without you, and that charming smile, and those soft, soft hands amd eyes. Fuck, he loved you — and pushed you away because he was terrified. But guilt was swallowing him whole as he stood in front of his bedroom window.

So, he texted. It was simple, but honest: I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. Can you come over so we can, at least, talk about it?