two | h.s. - t.c.

51

Harry's pov

when i first woke up today i reached for my phone—as always—wanting to check the time. i assumed it to be around nine, for that was when my body always woke up. sometimes i'd refuse to open my eyes and just stay in bed until the time read ten—regardless, it was a habit of mine to check the time.

my eyes half open, i felt the flat surface of the night stand beside me instead of my phone, causing me to let out an annoyed sigh as i forced my eyes fully open. instead of my phone, a small piece of paper was under my hand.

i sat up, my feet touching the wood floor as i was now on the edge of the bed, unfolding the piece of paper, trying to read the words written. everything was still blurry—just blobs of different shades of gray, so i rubbed my eyes as i let out a yawn, bringing it closer to my face.

i smiled, looking at all of the doodles that covered the paper. the blobs of gray were in fact just that, regardless of how blurry my vision might've been. i knew it was from jenny before i even saw the little "-J" neighboring a heart at the bottom right corner.

she was the kind of person to make the first efforts into fixing things. i told her everything that was on my mind yesterday on the balcony: how i didn't want her to get herself more involved into the rooftop situation, in which she responded "i'm already involved, so let me be apart of things."

i told her "no, please just drop it jen. you're getting yourself into more trouble."

i knew she wouldn't drop it until timothée told her to—he had his way with words, and he'd be so blunt with her to the point where'd she'd listen. i don't know how he did it.

we didn't fight yesterday, yet she still left this note on my nightstand. maybe she thought i was mad, i don't know.

the words "guess who?" obviously didn't mean to guess who left the note, hence the J in the corner. she was asking me to guess who the artist was. the style she doodled in all around the small folded paper. i recognized the style as soon as i saw it.

matisse.

i looked around for my phone before i brushed my teeth, and by the time i finished the task, i guessed she had taken it. while i showered, i was certain she took it. maybe it was her way of forcing me to talk to her. i'd talk to her regardless, so i found it funny.

i got dressed quicker than i normally would, putting on the first shirt i could find—which happened to be a black graphic t-shirt with the faded words new york city in white. i think it was one of those things you buy at the airport, i remember a fan had tossed it on stage during our last tour.

i stepped into my black jeans, looking in the mirror as i zipped them up. the cut on my lip had basically healed, the redness of my temple already faint. even the bruises were no longer blue—instead a yellow-like green tint. i was relieved they were starting to go away, not enjoying the look of it at all. though timothée told me i looked badass, in which i replied with a heavy eye roll.