She thinks I can’t see the smile that she’s fakin’

Poses for pictures that aren’t being taken.

I loved you

grey sweat pants

No make up

So perfect

Our love was comfortable and so broken in.

John Mayer- Comfortable

New York has been and will always be an elusive city. An indescribable place where mayhem and pleasure mix into one big jumbled mess that is Times Square. New York is even worse at this time of year. Hundreds of thousands of people are huddled in the center of it all, waiting for the last 10 seconds of the year that will bring us all to a new point in our lives, something we’ve all been waiting for, or so it seems.

I’ve been busy all day, rushing around hotel rooms, making final touches on arrangements that have been set in stone for months. He’s set to perform tonight in what’s sure to be the last show for a while. Everything about it is brilliant, from the set, to the songs, to the dances, it all just meshes perfectly. 

The world won’t be seeing Justin Timberlake on stage for a while, and tonight of course will make millions of girl’s fantasies come alive again- mine being one of them, I suppose, one last time.

The plane ride, was, well, amazing and so was the stint at the hotel room after that. But from the moment we ate breakfast the next morning it’s been nonstop preparation for this show tonight. He’s got to nail it, or it’s my ass on the line.

I should admit, I suggested he end with a performance on New Years, show everyone how ready he was done after the New Year for a while, give him a chance to prove that 2007 was his year and now he was ready to give it up to somebody else and maybe give us a chance to have an actual relationship without interruptions. But he’s still out of his mind nervous. Trace has him thinking that maybe he should focus more on William Rast in 2008 and Justin’s afraid that he’ll just get bored and head back to the studio again.

That’s the problem when you’ve been in this business for so long, you work so hard for so many days in a row that it starts to feel natural and when you finally have the chance for some down time, it escapes you because you feel you’re wasting your time. 

But none the less, we’re here, in the middle of Times Square, with 10 minutes left on the clock and he’s starting the opening lines of “My Love.” I’m standing behind the stage, making sure everything goes off without a hitch, and then I see her. 

Standing with her friends, dancing to the songs and singing along with him. I can tell he’s noticed her by the way he’s tensed up and started looking around the stage for me. I make eye contact and suddenly I feel like my world’s spinning out of control.

He ends the song perfectly planned with one minute left on the countdown. He brings me up on stage and we countdown with the rest of the world in anticipation for 2008. 

“TEN”

She rushses up to the stage, friends in toe, and reaches out for him.

“NINE”

“Justin,” she says, “we need to talk.”

“EIGHT”

“What could you possibly want, Jess?”

“SEVEN”

I begin to worry about what could possibly come out of her mouth, I hold his hand tighter for reassurance that he still knows I’m here.

“SIX”

“I still love you, J, I miss you.”

“FIVE”

His hand falls from mine and his face describes his feelings of complete shock.

“FOUR”

“Why? You left me, I’m happy now, Jess.”

“THREE”

“Sure you are, Justin. You know I’m better than she’ll ever be.”

“TWO”

I walk away from the two in tears, grasping onto the railing for support as I feel my body collapsing under me. Trace comes over to me with the knowing look on his face.

“ONE”

“How, Trace?” I sob, “Why is she back? Couldn’t she have just stayed away long enough for us to be happy?”

“HAPPY NEW YEAR”

As I turn from the steps, I see the once ex girlfriend forcefully pull his face down onto hers, lips crashing as cameras flash and all I can do is muster up the strength to ride the elevator down to the room and lock myself in the bathroom.

My phone begins to play the first chords of “Another Song,” answering it, I say the only words that will form.

“Happy fucking New Year, Justin.”

Chucking the phone against the wall, the handset shatters on impact and falls to the floor like my heart. I can hear the door opening and closing and his hands banging against the bathroom door, pleading with me to open the door. He relents, sliding down, crying.

My body, to weak to move, too sick to look him in the face, pulls down the towels hanging over the shower and I form a pillow and a makeshift bed for the night. Taking the ring, I slide it under the door, where he picks it up and begins crying harder, begging me to come out and talk about it. My sobs continue and I eventually drift off into a dreamless state.