Italy In The Spring [h.s]

11

Harry's P.O.V

Why does loving her feel like something I'm not allowed to do?

It's always felt like that from the very beginning. Like I'll never be able to truly call her mine. Like she'll never truly be mine. She's always been just out of reach. There one second, and then slipping through my fingers the next.

Kind of like flowers. Thriving and alive for a few weeks before their petals begin to wilt and fall as if something beautiful had never been there to begin with. As if our love was all a fake gimmick and it never should've happened, and it never will again.

Seeing her with him makes my blood fucking boil. All I see is red when he looks at her with those lovesick eyes that he wears 24/7. It's almost like it's all an act for him. Loving her is some sick fucking game he likes to play until he'll grow tired of it and leave her broken and wondering where she went wrong.

Her Principe. The prince she needed, where I was just her knight in shining armor that's not so shiny anymore. Insignificant. Just a pawn in the movie that eventually leads her to the main character.

The blank space of my bedroom ceiling taunts me. The other side of the bed is cold and empty, anger and jealousy flooding through me at the thought of him taking up the space beside her.

He gets to hold her to his chest while they sleep. He gets to kiss her first thing when he wakes up. He gets to tell her he loves her anytime he wants. He gets to slow dance with her and call her beautiful. He gets to feel what it feels like to be loved by her.

I should've kissed her in the kitchen. I had every intention of doing it until her words broke me out of the trance I had fallen under. The fear in her eyes stopped me in my tracks. Fucking fear. Of me kissing her. And all to stay loyal to him.

Maybe I should've stayed away for as long as possible. I didn't have to come weeks in advance. I could've shown up three days before the wedding and been just fine. Then I wouldn't have to watch them together for the next three fucking weeks. Wouldn't have to worry about seeing him kiss her every spare chance he gets just to rub it in my face that he gets her all to himself. God, that guy pisses me the fuck off.

I run my hands down my face and roll over onto my stomach, burying my face into my pillow and imagining that it's her. Instead of smelling fresh sheets, I'm smelling flowers and honey, and feeling her chest rise and fall as her heart beats steadily against her ribcage. What I wouldn't do to be able to hold her like she's mine again. To be able to tell her all of the things I never said before and keep her pressed into me for eternity.

"I wish you were here," I whisper the words I know only I can hear. "I wish you weren't in love with someone else."

What a pathetic, pitiful man I've become. Longing for someone I doubt will ever be mine again. Longing to be loved by her and no one else. Whispering to myself at 4 a.m. and wishing my words could somehow miraculously be heard by the person they're meant for.

Sleep never comes easily to me anymore. It hasn't since that night she left me without saying goodbye. It's as if my body sees sleep as a punishment now. If I had never fallen asleep, maybe she never would have left and things would be different. I shouldn't have fallen asleep.

But it was impossible not to with her smell surrounding me and her hands on my skin. It was the first time my body had felt at peace in a year. What a fucking sick feeling that had been. Waking up to an empty bed when I had been expecting her to be right there.

She hadn't been. And now it feels like she never will be again.

A soft knock on my door sets me on edge and I sit up straight in bed, wondering if maybe it was a figment of my imagination. But then another quiet knock follows seconds afterward and I'm out of my bed before I know it.