The rose and the sunflower.
The girl with the golden eyes and the boy with a golden heart.
The girl that believed love was just a fairytale and the boy that believed fairytales are just stories waiting to come true.
'I used to think love was a point...
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Present day, May 13th, 2017
The drive to his house doesn't usually take this long, but because I'm filming today I took a longer route. My sudden craving for the burn of whiskey down my throat is increasing by the second ever since I hung up the phone call with Niall. And the last few minutes of this car ride go painfully slow as I drive in silence because I was just forced to turn off the radio. As if the universe didn't hate me enough, not one, not two, but four different radio stations tried to punish me.
"...Harry Styles' debut album..."
"...released yesterday by Harry Styles..."
"...Harry Styles has finally..."
"...Sign Of The Times by Harry-"
As I'm getting out of my car, I grab the container of cinnamon rolls but leave my half-empty cup of coffee. Catching sight of my knuckles, I see how they've regained their colour after turning white from gripping my steering wheel so hard. However, every single muscle in my body is still rigid.
I can feel the heat of tears in my eyes as I walk up to his door, not daring to let a single drop spill until I'm at least inside. I knock three times, as always, and only wait for five counted seconds before I'm met with those beautiful blue eyes. He's wearing a smile and pushing a hand through his blonde curls as he steps aside and lets me in.
"Hey," he says from behind me.
Skipping my greeting, I instead ask him, "Do you have any whiskey?" even though I already know he does.
I'm comfortably walking through his house, knowing exactly what part of his bar he keeps the aged whiskey I enjoy so much.
"Are you alright?" He inquires and I halt in my tracks but avoid looking behind me. The tears are already trying to escape but I try to hold out a little while longer. If I look at him, I know for a fact I'll break down.
"No." I state simply, honestly.
I never used to be one to enjoy a glass of whiskey. But ever since, I'd say four months ago, I quit smoking and this has become my new fix. I'm reaching for his decanter of fifty year old whiskey when I realise I'm still gripping the dish of baked treats I made this morning to distract myself from this growing anxiety for tonight. I look up to see if he's standing there so I can give it to him, but it turns out he wasn't following me in here.
Resting the container on the counter next to me, I take a glass and pour a small amount of the golden brown liquid. I put the top back on the decanter and place it right back where I found it before I pick up the glass and swish the contents around. I don't know why but I like the smell of whiskey as well as the taste. I take a sip and it goes down my throat soothingly.
