oh, anna [-hs]

arms unfolding

a/n this is the end. there will be an epilogue though.

74.

The graveyard feels fitting. It's dark and cool. The damp grass rubs against my ankles and makes me itchy. The sky is black and empty. The stars are hiding from the streetlights we shine at them.

Nothing is familiar anymore. I'm searching desperately for that tree I saw earlier. In the sunset it looked like a great place to take a nap. Now it seems like a great place for an existential crisis.

I half-trip over a root in the ground and give up, sitting where I am, leaning against the gravestone to my right. It's frigid against my skin. I press my temple into it and sigh, running my finger along the rough rock.

He hates me.

Did he even see me?

This was such a stupid idea. It took me so long to find a place where I was comfortable without him, where I felt some semblance of happiness. I finally carved it out for myself. 

Coming here made me realize that any happiness I had was a carefully constructed illusion. I convinced myself that I was fine. It was a daze. Of course I was happy, I had forgotten what it really felt like to be in a room with him. Feeling his songs, his presence, how can I go home and just be okay again?

Tonight was vulnerable in a way that I've never experienced before. Hearing my voice over those speakers, and the way the crowd sang out the lyrics I had written, it was raw. I feel beaten and bruised and tender. Like I'm a pear someone squeezed a little too tightly. But I'm not upset. I'm exhausted. I also feel weirdly clean.

It's become blaringly obvious to me how desperate I am to be by his side. If he'll have me, there's nothing I want more than him. And it's not a lonliness thing. I'm not running from anything. If anything, I'm running away from the dullness life contains when he's not standing before me.

I am hopelessly desperate for him. I see him at the end of the tunnel, silhouetted in brightness.

Everything else is so dark compared to his brightness. I felt it across an entire stadium, sitting behind the glass of the sound booth.

The sound booth.

I left my purse on the floor of the sound booth.

"Fuck," I grit my teeth and toss my head back. I don't want to go back and feel that electricity again, knowing that I'll be left without it when I walk to my empty hotel room. Reluctantly, I stand up and march back in the direction of The Forum.

The noise gets louder as I get closer. No more music, just a bubbly, satisfied crowd. They filter out of the entrance in a massive mob. I slip in through the backstage entrance again, making a beeline for the stairs to the booth. I take them two at a time, my shoes slamming against the metal gridding.

And then I whip open the door.

Melanie is sitting in the same spot. Harry is standing next to her.

I freeze.

"Quinn," he rolls his tongue over his lip.

He's changed into a pale yellow shirt. It hangs loosely from his frame. He's put on black shorts too, the tattoo on his thigh peeking out from beneath the hem. Just like mine.

My heart plummets to my stomach. Butterflies erupt and flutter through my chest. I take a shaky breath, eyes wide in panic.

"Hey."

Melanie makes a strained noise. It comes from the back of her throat. I don't think it was voluntary. She stands up and stiffly exits the room.

I duck down and grab my strap. "I forgot my purse."