Baby Honey - H.S.

22

Harry

One fucking week.

It's been seven days, 168 hours, 10080 minutes, 604800 seconds without her and I'm fucking sick of it.

I'm sick of not being allowed to see her. I'm sick of people telling me what to do. I'm sick of having to sit back and watch her slip through my hands. And most importantly I'm sick of feeling useless.

For the past week, I haven't been able to do anything. When I say anything, I mean it. We were supposed to have a show two days ago and I had to cancel it. I told management I was sick because they don't need to know everything that's happening in my private life.

I felt shitty having to cancel on all those people but once I'm back with Rosie we'll reschedule these concerts and I'll give them a show that's worth their wait and money.

My main focus now is my girlfriend and her only. For a week I've been a shitty son, a shitty brother, a shitty friend — basically everything you can list off but I don't seem to care. I only care about getting her back.

One week I've been sitting back, unable to do anything. One week without seeing her.

Her plane left back to Hungary yesterday early in the morning and I couldn't be there to say goodbye or stand next to her as we wave the band, Bobby and Niall goodbye for now.

Because this goodbye is temporary.

It's not a goodbye, it's a see you soon and I'll make sure that's the truth. I'm getting her back if that's what she truly wants as well.

I've had plenty of time to think during these miserable seven days that I had to spend away from her. Sometimes I caved and drove to her house only to be sent away by Bobby or Niall.

I was hurt. I felt absolutely numb to every feeling for the first two days. 48 hours I spent in my room, not bothering to talk to anyone, eat or sleep. I couldn't close my eyes and not see her. See us.

On the third day, I let Mitch into my room when he knocked with breakfast. He was trying to bring me food every single day and just placed it on my dresser by the door without coming in because I didn't want anyone near me.

That day I asked him to stay.

"How are you feeling, H," was his first question. I didn't know how to answer it at first but the deeper I thought about my reply the more I understood what I had to do.

"I need a plan," I replied confidently. It was not the answer he expected. He thought I was going to say I feel miserable, that I want the pain to be gone, that I want her back, that my heart is broken and nothing can help me.

And it's all true. My heart is broken but it's not in my chest as of right now. It's with Rosie and she's taking good care of it. And if I don't see her my heart will never return to my body.

Poetic, I know. I'm a songwriter for a reason.

After talking to Mitch about possible plans — multiple of them, Plan A, Plan B, Plan C — it was just about waiting. I tried to see her but she didn't want to see me. I thought Bobby and Niall would hate me for what I did to her but they were only worried. Not just about her but about me as well.

I look like I've been dragged through hell, to be honest, and I feel like it as well. My eyes are red from crying and exhaustion, my dark circles are prominent features on my face. My cheeks are hollow, my posture is slumped, my hair is extra messy from not being brushed in days and I have a full beard going on.

I look like a homeless person.

On the third day, I took a shower. I sat on the floor of the shower cabin, letting the water pour down on me and wash away everything. All of my hurt, all of my regrets.