***"You know I'm such a fool for you***
***You got me wrapped around your finger***
***Do you have to let it linger?" - The Cranberries***
***Alissa Blake***
*Six Months Ago*
The bartender slid the beer glass toward me. I took two long sips, hoping the wonderful numbing effect of alcohol would stop me from wanting to smash Greg's face every two seconds.
"You see, babe? That’s why the guy scored on the other side," he repeated, explaining for the second time that soccer players switch sides during the second half as if I were too stupid to grasp something so simple.
"I still don’t get it..." I pouted and leaned in over his shoulder, and as always, he fell for it. He tried his best to come up with yet another explanation about the stupid game like I wasn’t just here for a few free beers.
We had dated for a couple of weeks, up until I realized he was too boring to make up for mediocre sex. And when he calls, hoping for another round, I weigh whether I’m lonely enough to accept. Worst case? I drink and eat for free until he’s drunk enough for me to get him home safely.
I don’t know how this guy survives on his own, but he’s definitely not for me. Then again, I’m probably destined to die alone. Old and without cats, just so no one finds my corpse gnawed on when I’m gone.
I’m not being morbid, just realistic. I’m alone in this, and I’ll die that way.
When the soccer game ends and Greg’s endless chatter finally dies down, I turn my attention to the Next Idol finale. It’s that silly reality show I like to watch when I’m too tired to search for the TV remote in the mess I call home.
The finale is predictable: some generic pop singer who’ll fade from the spotlight in two years. They don’t make artists like they used to, or songs, for that matter.
When the next beer arrives, and I realize it’s time to leave—Greg is practically asleep on the counter—the show starts flashing highlights of winners from the other versions of the reality series.
As I prop Greg up on my shoulder and dig a fifty-dollar bill out of his pocket to cover the tab, I catch glimpses of each winner on the screen. A sweet red-haired Canadian with an angelic voice, a buff Australian who makes me think I should raise my standards in men, and another face I don’t have time to catch.
Dragging my ex-boyfriend like a toddler across the bar, I try to endure the weight of his dead weight while making my way to the door. I only hear the voice of the last winner, realizing that maybe this show isn’t doomed to failure after all. This one’s good—really good.
He’s singing Sirens by Pearl Jam, and his metallic, raspy voice matches the melody perfectly. Just as I finally reach the door, a kind older man opens it for me. But my eyes drift from the parking lot back to the TV out of curiosity, hoping to catch a glimpse of the face behind that voice filling the bar.
It was the worst mistake I could’ve made.
Not because I let Greg slip and hit his head on the floor—though he did—but because I opened the door to my past the instant I saw that damn face.
Holden Young, winner of the UK’s Next Idol. Hearing his name left me so stunned that I had to call a cab.
I dropped Greg off at his place, kissed his cheek, and apologized for letting him fall. He was so drunk he didn’t hear a word, but I knew he’d forgive me.
Walking home alone, I did the only thing anyone in my position would do: I stalked Holden on social media.
He was still stunning, and I wanted to punch his perfect face for it. I thought about sending him a message, letting nostalgia take over after seeing him again after all these years. But the idea disappeared as quickly as it came.
Seeing a photo of him with his family—together and happy—made it clear that the best thing I could do was stay far away. And no matter how stupidly fast my heart raced to see him—or hear him—I couldn’t ignore the scars our love had left on me.
\[...\]
***Now***
I woke up in the hospital, the harsh white lights blinding me and making my unbearable headache worse. I tried to move, only to regret it instantly. Every part of me hurt. Absolutely everything. I wondered if it was even a car that had hit me—it felt like I’d been run over by a truck.
Slowly, I started to piece everything together. The impact of the car against my body. The burning pain. And the way my stomach twisted when I saw him.
I thought I’d heard his voice here, but it was probably just the strong drugs the doctors pumped into me to numb the pain of a few broken bones.
As the haze of my thoughts cleared, reality hit me: I had almost died.
My heart raced again, this time for obvious reasons. I tried to process what had happened and the craziness of it all.
I was hit by a car. A car driven by a famous singer.
**By Holden Young, my high school ex-boyfriend.**
This couldn’t be real.
But the man walking through the door was.
"Alissa, are you okay?" Holden hurried toward me, visibly anxious. "I’m going to call a doctor," he said, but before he could leave, I grabbed his hand. He turned back to me, his long hair falling into his eyes like it always did.
“You—” I tried to speak, but it felt like I hadn’t used my voice in days. Everything burned. “You grew up, Holden.”
He smiled, that dazzling grin of perfect white teeth, and suddenly I was fifteen again. The chaos of my teenage years flashed before my eyes, mixed with the warmth of loving him.
“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again, Ali.” His thumb brushed against my hand, and I didn’t know if I loved or hated the way it made me feel.
But the moment didn’t last. A doctor entered the room, her face stern as she addressed him. Then, turning to me, she offered a kind smile. “May I examine you, Alissa?” she asked warmly, and I nodded, saving my voice despite wanting to bombard her with questions.
She checked my pupils and explained that they had to intubate me, which explained the pain in my throat. Before leaving, she reminded Holden to call her if I needed anything. He gave her an embarrassed smile and nodded at least ten times.
My stomach ached from laughing. Everything hurt.
He stayed by the wall, hands in the pockets of his loose jeans, watching me with a small smile. His caramel-toned skin contrasted against the green of his eyes, displaying himself to me like an unattainable work of art.
“You got even more beautiful,” he said like it was nothing. But to me, it was everything.
“It’s not funny to make jokes about someone on their deathbed,” I shot back, speaking as softly as possible to avoid the pain.
“I missed you.” He spoke with a quiet intensity that opened doors I had worked so hard to keep closed. My eyes, betraying me, welled with tears I knew I couldn’t stop once they started. “When you’re better, will you tell me, Alissa? Will you tell me why you left?”
The first tear fell, thick and warm, trailing down my cheek. I couldn’t even lift my hand to wipe it away, and it made me feel pathetic. But not as pathetic as looking at Holden and leaving him without an answer.
Because, as hard as it was for me, I couldn’t bear to see my pain reflected in his eyes.