Imagine
You and Ed got in a terrible fight. It ends with him screaming and slamming the front door behind him. Now, an hour later, you’re tearing things apart, yelling, screaming. You can believe you let this happen again. Everything was falling apart. Fighting became normal but it never got this bad. You run into your shared bedroom, ready to take his shit and pack it for him. You begin to fling open drawers wildly. You grab the handle of your bedside table and you pull on it with such force it comes out of the table. The contents spill out around you and the bed. You scream in frustration and begin to pick up the papers. You stop when you glance at a picture in your hand. It’s a small Polaroid of Ed, sitting on the bed. He’s mid sentence, talking about something eagerly. Through the angry tears you smile a little. In your hand writing, “babe” is simply written at an awkward angle. You realize you’re still smiling. You throw the picture back in the drawer, wanting to be mad, to let it out. You pick up a couple more odds and ends and find another picture. You try not to look at it, but you stop. This time the caption reads “makin’ music” in the same awkward scrawl. You stop and sit with your back against the bed, and grab the other picture. Both are a happy Ed. You want that Ed back. The one who didn’t get annoyed or angry at everything. Suddenly you hear the front door open and shut quickly. He calls your name, in a close to panicking tone. He comes rushing in, and he notices the pictures. He just smiles. It’s a genuine smile. Like in the Polaroids. You stand up, and wipe the tears from your eyes.
“Why do we always fight?” You ask quietly.
He shakes his head. “I wish I knew why.”
“I love you too much to let this go.” You hold up the two Polaroids. “I want it like this again. I want to hear your laughter. Your music. I want this.” You say, nearly pleading. 
He takes the pictures from your shaking hands. “I can’t promise that everything will be fixed soon.” He pulls you in and hugs you tight, resting his chin on your head “I want it back too.” Ed whispers. 
You move you head to look up. “I’m sorry.” You say, barely audible.
He squeezes you tighter as if he’s afraid you’ll vanish. “Me too.”

Imagine
You and Ed got in a terrible fight. It ends with him screaming and slamming the front door behind him. Now, an hour later, you’re tearing things apart, yelling, screaming. You can believe you let this happen again. Everything was falling apart. Fighting became normal but it never got this bad. You run into your shared bedroom, ready to take his shit and pack it for him. You begin to fling open drawers wildly. You grab the handle of your bedside table and you pull on it with such force it comes out of the table. The contents spill out around you and the bed. You scream in frustration and begin to pick up the papers. You stop when you glance at a picture in your hand. It’s a small Polaroid of Ed, sitting on the bed. He’s mid sentence, talking about something eagerly. Through the angry tears you smile a little. In your hand writing, “babe” is simply written at an awkward angle. You realize you’re still smiling. You throw the picture back in the drawer, wanting to be mad, to let it out. You pick up a couple more odds and ends and find another picture. You try not to look at it, but you stop. This time the caption reads “makin’ music” in the same awkward scrawl. You stop and sit with your back against the bed, and grab the other picture. Both are a happy Ed. You want that Ed back. The one who didn’t get annoyed or angry at everything. Suddenly you hear the front door open and shut quickly. He calls your name, in a close to panicking tone. He comes rushing in, and he notices the pictures. He just smiles. It’s a genuine smile. Like in the Polaroids. You stand up, and wipe the tears from your eyes.
“Why do we always fight?” You ask quietly.
He shakes his head. “I wish I knew why.”
“I love you too much to let this go.” You hold up the two Polaroids. “I want it like this again. I want to hear your laughter. Your music. I want this.” You say, nearly pleading.
He takes the pictures from your shaking hands. “I can’t promise that everything will be fixed soon.” He pulls you in and hugs you tight, resting his chin on your head “I want it back too.” Ed whispers.
You move you head to look up. “I’m sorry.” You say, barely audible.
He squeezes you tighter as if he’s afraid you’ll vanish. “Me too.”

ed sheeranteddy sheeraned sheeran imaginesed sheerna one shotsone shotimaginescode gingeredsheeraneditginger jesusmine!
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