Daytona Baby [N.H]

51

Niall Horan

When someone pictures the moon reflecting off the water, waves gently lapping at the shore, and soft sand falling through your fingers, they might feel calm, tranquil, a sense of serenity; peace of mind. But as I sit here in the Miami sand, all I can feel is the battle raging in my mind. Inner turmoil, regret over the things I've done—most of the things I've done. Words I said that can't ever be taken back. All the people I've hurt.

One in particular.

Why did I even come here? I must like the pain. It's been six months and she's still all around me, yet never close enough.

I wonder where she is now, if she's home in North Carolina or maybe she moved to the West coast. She could be in another country for all I know. Maybe she's in England or Italy or Australia. I could've had Liam track her down, I'm sure, but I forbid myself from ever asking. I'd fall down the rabbit hole and turn into a madman, needing to know her whereabouts, who she's with, where she works, what she's doing on the weekends. Just so I could hold onto one more little thing that connects me to her, when in reality, it wouldn't at all. Just so I could feel close to her again even though we're probably thousands of miles apart.

I often wonder if she found someone new. If he treats her right and would sacrifice the whole world for her. If he calls her baby and says she reminds him of summer. I wonder if she falls asleep in another man's t-shirt and wakes up in his arms.

Wherever she is, I hope she's doing better than me.

I hope her smile still lights up a room. I hope she goes out dancing with her friends. I hope she likes to drive fast on winding roads with her hand out the window and the breeze in her hair. I hope she's still stubborn as hell, never taking shit from anyone.

I hope I didn't ruin her idea of love.

I'd be lying if I said things have gotten easier with time. The only thing that's gotten any easier is my ability to hide the pain.

Drinking myself to death at night, alone in my hotel room, quickly became transparent—my broken heart on display in a glass case for everyone to see. But I found a better rhythm soon after, partially reverting to my old ways. Not as a means to have fun, but to cope with the hurt. We'd go to bars every night or throw parties filled with people who only want to take advantage of our fame; girls hoping to brag about drinking from the same bottle of vodka I had my lips on. Because that's as close to my lips as they would ever get.

The guys are convinced I'm insane, dodging every girl to come my way, shutting down every attempt at flirting. Liam tried to tell me the other day that my dick is probably dried up now and if I don't get back out there on my own he'll send a hooker to my room.

That earned him a black eye. And he's lucky that's all.

I'll move on when I'm ready. If I'm ready. And at this rate I never will be. Not when I listen to her playlists in the car, not when I can't stop writing songs that are always about her, and not when I'm sitting here on the same sand we ran in while it poured, before we jumped into the ocean and into each other's arms.

Like I said: apparently I like the pain.

I stood up, brushing the sand off my jeans and allowed myself to stare into the ocean void for one more minute before tearing myself away. It's almost midnight now and after a travel day I just want to shower and go to bed. Then I'll have three weeks over Christmas and New Year's to relax before we fly to London to kick off our European tour.

Malikai said he'll be out of the country for a few weeks, too, but he didn't say why. Maybe he's taking a holiday like a normal human being. But I doubt it. All I know is that he'll be unavailable, and in turn, out of my hair. I'll try my best to enjoy it. Of course, he could pop up at any moment with some daunting task for us, but for now I get to explore what it feels like to be free. It might be the closest thing to freedom I'll ever experience.