Vice-Verse (A Harry Styles Fan-Fiction)

Eleven

During a concussion you are not allowed to use a comptuter. I have been having prolonged symptoms and this is extremely over due. 

I was in Seattle for the holidays and was again astonished with its beauty. I wrote this on a processor I am not used to so please excuse faults. Enjoy. 

Days.

The amount of time it took see Harry was days after that night.

I am a busy girl, there has never been time for me to think about anything about other peoples problems and how to help them in conjunction with my extensive studies. This was the first time in my life where I had sat in my swivel chair, the springs changing taughtness with my every movement, aimlessly thinking about a single factor.

To say the least, this scared me.

Frightened me to death.

My fifteen years of age gave me more experiences with hardships than the average teen. And I am well aware that I am the one that exposes myself to them, which why I can cope with them. But one thing I have never experienced before was this feeling in the bottom of my tummy. An uneasy feeling like that of one  you would experience downhill skiing. Except this was more exhilarating as well as more unsettling.

I knew what this was. But was afraid to admit it.

Along with the horrid knot in my insides, there was a feeling of immaturity in my head. Why did I feel so lost with a single being not being with me. How could I, of all people, be this apt to falling into this mental state to the point where it hinders my vision of more important things. Things that matter.

The springs were relieved as I stood up and headed into Tea’s room wrapped in a blanket.

“What is wrong darling?” Tea questions me in a groggy state, peering at my silhouette over her sheets.

I putter over to the side of the large bed where she is not laying and flop down. Speachless.

We lay there for moments, on our backs, looking into the abyss. Finally her voices cuts through the silence.

“Are you thinking about them?” Her voice contains a diminuendo.

“No.” I whisper, trying to contain the abrubt wash of emotion that came over me at her statement.

“I wasn’t, at least, not then.”

Silence.

“May.” Her heated hand grasps mine. “They are so proud of you. “

A squeeze.

“I am proud of you.”

The pressure now is on my single side as I respond, returning her gesture with my cold fingers.

“As I am proud of you.”

Two of our senses are cut off in the dark silence as we drift into a sleep.

I was out the door before anyone rose from their beds. The sun was still playing hide and seek, delaying its light from gracing Seattle when I closed the front door; soccer ball in hand and sneakers of my feet.

Those shoes had the route to the park broken into them and by the time I arrived they had my ball bouncing between the two shoes.

I hummed The High Road by the Broken Bells as the lower part of my body engaged in activity and the upper half.

“I had an inkling I might find you here.”

The ball kissed the ground.

His hands were shoved into the depths of his slouchy pants, hair pulled into a olive beanie.