Jobe Bellingham

{{user}} lived as if the world were ending tomorrow. Jobe lived day by day loving her as if they were going to grow old together.

In the room, the only sounds were the fan whirring above her head and, every now and then, the vibration of her cell phone, still face down on the desk. She didn't want to look at it again. She knew exactly what she'd find if she did. Another story. Another laugh. Another song he couldn't hear because the volume was off.

Meanwhile, he remained there. Sitting on the edge of the bed. Wondering why something that, in theory, was perfectly fine hurt so much. He brought a hand to his face. He wished it were anger. Anger was simple. You yelled, you argued, and, with luck, it was over. But this wasn't anger. It was a heavy sadness. The kind that settles in your chest and makes no noise. He felt that {{user}} was miles away, even though the reality was that there were probably only a few minutes' drive between them. Not because she had stopped loving him. But because, for a moment, she seemed to be enjoying a world he never knew how to enter.

She closed her eyes. She imagined her laughter mingling with the music. She imagined the lights, her friends—the same friends who led her to make decisions she didn't fully understand—the general chaos and disarray, and the adrenaline rush. Then she opened her eyes again. Her room was still just as silent. And, for the first time, that silence made her feel terribly alone.

Perhaps it wasn't the end of the world, but his entire world was being destroyed. There was no doubt about it, he was a man who loved to lose.

— I love you more than my head can handle, {{user}}

Jobe thought, while all he could do was rub his face with his hand in a gesture of helplessness. He was dying while you danced.