Tying You To Me

Just Thinking About You: A Tying You To Me Extra

January/February 2019

Harry didn't know what hurt worse. The pounding in his head or the ache in his chest that had been his permanent companion since July.

He rolled over and looked at the clock. It was just after three in the morning. At least he got five hours of sleep under his belt. He'd learned over the past several months that once he woke, it was hard to drift back off thanks to his racing mind.

He'd been trying different methods of relaxing over the weeks – meditation, long walks, yoga, fresh air, calling his mom – but the remedy he'd chosen last night had been alcohol, accepting shot after shot from some friends of a friend who'd dragged him from bar to bar. He figured it would knock him out cold, but instead he found himself wide awake and alarmingly clear-headed. He sighed as he rolled over in bed, cringing when he landed on the cool side of the sheets. The usually refreshing sensation just reminded him of how alone he was.

It had been about six months since he'd last spoken to Quinn as she'd left his house, crying over pain he'd needlessly inflicted on her. He'd been the one that was responsible, but had done nothing to comfort her and just let her walk away. It seemed like the right decision at the time, but he regretted it daily.

He sat up and grabbed his phone, flicking his thumb across the screen to unlock the device and navigate to his chain of messages with Quinn. It was always at the top of the thread thanks to the near daily texts he sent her. He looked at the most recent ones.

Happy New Year, Agent Q. Hope you're well. I miss you.

Tried a new type of candy today. You'd probably like it. It tasted like Skittles.

Caught some sketches from last night. The show was great.

Would you want to catch up sometime?

The last message had been sent just hours earlier at the peak of his intoxication. He hated how pitiful he sounded, even months after their break up. He picked at a loose piece of skin on his thumb as he scrolled further and further back, taking in the transition from his pleading messages to the terse ones they shared during his time on tour. With the benefit of hindsight, it was plain to see that something was wrong, but his head had been so far up his own ass at that point that he'd thought they were fine. He continued to pick at his finger as he read over the words, wincing when he pulled a large chunk of skin off. He pulled his thumb to his mouth, sucking away the droplet of blood that had formed.

Tears pricked at the corner of his eyes and he tried to tell himself that he was crying due to the pain in his finger, but he couldn't lie to himself. He laughed bitterly at the situation: he was quite literally a grown man sitting in a hotel room crying while he sucked his thumb. If only Quinn could see him now. Maybe she was better off without him. 

The tears fell harder as he kept scrolling, reading through the light banter they'd exchanged early on and taking in just how much Quinn cared about him. All of those early messages had asked after him. How are you? How was the flight? Are you getting over that cold? Feeling nervous about the show tonight? It was only as he read them with fresh eyes that he realized I'd rarely returned the favor, so caught up in his own life and own shit that he never thought to think of her.

Reaching the very beginning of their chat history he closed out of their messages and opened the Photos app just two squares over, now an act of muscle memory after making it part of his nightly routine. He knew exactly where to look, cycling past snapshots of his recent travels to find the three measly pictures they'd taken during their time together.

One was a screenshot he'd taken during one of their many FaceTime calls, each of them bundled up in their respective beds, and another was a shot of the two of them from his final show at the Forum. He hated that one. Quinn's eyes looked so sad. His favorite was from one of the first times he'd made an effort to visit her, when he was in town to play Radio City. It was a selfie in bed, taken the morning after his show. Quinn had pulled the sheets up to her neck and was trying to hide from the camera, turning her face into Harry's neck. She'd never looked more beautiful.