Kanye stares down at his cell phone. He’s been waiting for a call, for a text, for anything, but it’s been hours since it’s vibrated. He knows he should sleep—it’s late, and he has the fundraiser to attend tomorrow—but he can’t. Not until he gets an answer from George.
They haven’t seen each other in days. Kanye can still remember waking up in his arms. He can still remember the feeling of his lips on his skin. He can still remember the sting when George walked out, telling him he “had business to attend to.”
Kanye knew he was on vacation. He watched the news, just like everybody else. He wasn’t stupid.
He nearly jumps out of his seat when his phone vibrates, and looks down frantically. It’s a text, from George. He opens it.
“I don’t want to see you anymore,” it says.
Kanye’s stomach lurches. The room looks like it’s spinning, and he’s glad he’s sitting down, because his legs are suddenly weak. He grips his cell phone convulsively before throwing it across the room, and listens to it shatter like his heart just did.
George doesn’t care about him. He doesn’t care.
The next day, Kanye’s standing in front of everyone, in front of the cameras, and he can’t control himself. “George Bush doesn’t care about black people,” he says. Because he doesn’t. George Bush doesn’t care about black people, and he doesn’t care about Kanye West, and he doesn’t care about anything.
But Kanye doesn’t care either. He doesn’t.
i forgot that i never reblogged this to my writing account