Babybell and the Rollies

It was a mistake. 

I know that now.

I suppose it only took numerous sleepless nights, spent envisioning his face of distraught as I walked from the tour bus that held the history of our love, to finally grasp what I had done. So many mornings, starting with berry lips pressed upon sweaty necks, forgotten with only myself to blame. 

Kenny was the first to support my photography; he always wore his best shirts on stage so my eye refused to miss him. Being front centre of the stage and beaming charisma also made it difficult not to picture him. After each show, he would pause when dropping down the steps to check over my pictures. Telling me which ones he believed should be in their own gallery while making everyone chant ‘Babybell’ over and over again. A nickname given to me by the lead singer after catching me eating three of the cheese snacks in a row. A nickname I never imagined I would miss as much as I do. In the hours after midnight, spent coming down from the booze, he would demand I send him my favourite of the photographs so he could show them off on his Instagram. The other band members of ‘Rollies’ were the exact same. You could say they started my photography career off with a bang. Allowing me to capture moments of drugged up states as well as arguments over unwanted guitar riffs. I managed to get it all. Every single moment of an impure act sat happily within the lens of my camera. It all felt like everything I ever wanted. 

Now, I’m lost. Taking pictures of some of the biggest celebrities, for a magazine I once thought was iconic, only to be ridiculed when I failed to get a ‘good side.’ It was all a load of bull. A picture taken of a single eye closed by mistake would send half of them into an absolute fit. Completely the opposite of the band I once called my best friends, greatest muse. Although I tricked myself into thinking I only hurt Kenny with my departure; the boys had messaged me throughout their heartache upon hearing of my willingness to abandon them. 

It has been two years, yet the day of broken hearts doesn’t seem long ago at all.

“Kenny, I’m sorry. I didn’t want to tell you I interviewed for the job, you know, just in case I didn’t get it. There wouldn’t be any need to cause- to- I don’t know- hurt anyone. Please don’t be angry.” My voice was broken with all the begging. Kenny hasn’t said a word since I told him and I’m yet to discover whether that is bad or good. 

Instead, he stands hunched over a sink in the bus completely still and refusing to glance my way. My whole being feels as though it's burning in need of his approval, his support. Anything to ensure me I’ve made the right decision because right now the regret sinks deep into every cell of my body. 

“Babybell, I’m not angry.” Disappointment is laced within his quiet tone. His head lifts yet still he stays faced away from me. “I’m sad. I’m proud. I’m scared. I’m over the moon at the image of you succeeding- something you deserve more than anyone in this world. But…angry? My Belle, you could never make me angry.”

As much as I should feel relieved; I could sense the tears falling from his sky blue eyes without seeing his face. We both know a long-distance would never work for a rockstar and travelling photographer. No matter how hard we try we are only at the beginning of our careers. We have so much to experience, without each other. 

After that, we spent one last time in the bunk I once despised for its lack of space. A goodbye of sorts. Hours of nails piercing skin in a plea to never let go. We left each other with a kiss, wave and a sombre smile of appreciation. To never speak again. I’ve followed them on all their socials; sure to check out any new music. Sometimes, I would judge the odd angles their new photographer chose. Each time I write out a message to Kenny it’s erased the second the last period meets the box. Too many times a mutual friend has let me know of the several women he’s taken home. All deemed as one night stands. I don’t blame him, for I do the same. 

The amount of times I’ve thought of him just this week is pathetic so I’m giving in. I’m writing to him the same way I did all them years ago, a letter. A letter back then gifted me a job, best friends, adventure and love too intense for my younger self. So maybe, a letter could magically grant those same things that have become the most important want in my life. 

Dear Kenny, 

The feeling of terror I first felt when writing a letter to you has increased as I start one for a second time. I hope you’re well, the boys too. I’ve heard the new album and it’s incredible. My favourite song has to be ‘Lay With Me Tonight’ because you sing it like a lullaby, making any girl swoon. Not only that but Benji on bass sends shivers through me. 

The reason I’m writing is to apologise. 

I’m sorry.

I left you behind for something I thought I wanted. Something I once considered a success, a peak of my career. Turns out I had met my highest point years before a crappy magazine but fooled myself into believing otherwise. To lose a love so intense over pressure for a wealthy occupation was ridiculous of me. A massive blunder. 

I miss you. I miss your voice. Whether it’s teasing me for my inability to handle ale, or softly whispering sweet nothings when my cramps leave me teary-eyed. I miss your dance moves. No matter how awful, the 70’s kick-hop had me on the floor in hysterics within minutes. I miss your shirts, jumpers and head scarfs. You would playfully reprimand me for stealing any of them, but make sure to pack them in my case instead of yours. I miss the nights at the club. You, feeling me up any chance you had unbothered by the people watching. Myself, running away just to make you chase me through the dance floor. I miss your love. The unconditional, vulnerable, beautiful love. 

I made a mistake the day I left you. We both know it. 

I know why you wouldn’t stop me; just the idea of you ever stopping me from doing something I enjoy would turn you into a completely different man. A man you’ll never be. 

If you’ve gotten this far you’re probably wondering why I’ve chosen to write you a letter or even contact you at all. I hope you can forgive me for the hurt I caused both of us. 

Please, contact me. 

Love,

Isabella. 

A.k.a Babybell.