Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
( XXX. CALL FOR ME )
THE HEART IS SUCH A FICKLE THING. Funny how the simplest of actions can initiate a grip as tight as a vice— or bruise it, like it had taken a punch, or even break it. Funny how Stiles Stilinski— the human, the powerless— had the power to break Amelie Nightly's— the anchor, the powerful— heart.
It had been exactly fourteen hours since Amelie left her bed last, the satin pillow beneath her brown hair stained with tears. Her bed sheets crumpled underneath her strong grip as she continuously cried into her pillow.
Funny how an argument such as that could do so much to her. It wasn't the argument as much as it was the person she had it with. Funny how he had this effect on her while she had none on him— she hated herself for that. The argument made her subconsciously pick up her phone and call the first person on her mind.
"Why the fuck are you calling me at three in the morning?" The raspy voice of Isaac Lahey came through the phone, making her gasp.
"Oh, I forgot about the whole time difference thing," She smiled sheepishly, "I'm sorry, but I have something to tell you."
"Did you and Stiles finally sleep together?"
"Isaac!" Amelie yelled, "Of course not, and please don't bring that up, I literally had the biggest fight him last night and just the thought of that makes me nauseous."
"Oh, do tell."
"You know, the usual," Amelie sighed, turning over on her bed. "You're a piece of shit— No, you are!— No, you are!"
"I'm sure that's exactly how it went," Isaac's sleepy voice mused.
"It was! Did you know he slept with Malia?!"
"What? Malia, as in werecoyote Malia?"
"That's the one," Amelie said coolly.
"And he confirmed it? Like, verbally? Or did you just catch on?"
"It was written all over his handsome fucking face," She seethed. "You could smell the lies."
"Okay, Ams," Isaac sighed. "How do you feel?"
"I... I don't know," She mumbled, playing with a loose feather from her pillow between her fingertips. "I want to come home."
"You are home."
The sentence sat in her mind for a moment. Was she? "Doesn't feel like it."
"You're just saying that because you and Stiles fought," Isaac argued, "Stop rushing everything, you're trying to bury how hurt you are by distracting yourself with the idea of coming back."
