[ temporarily on hold ]
𝗚𝗥𝗔𝗣𝗘𝗝𝗨𝗜𝗖𝗘 ! ✿⎯⎯
𝒊𝒏 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒄𝒉 he meets the most
perfect person he's ever had
the chance to be acquainted
with and yet fate keeps
playing it's game with them.
𝐎𝐑
𝒊𝒏 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒄𝒉 harry styles meets
darlene wi...
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𝕯arlene quietly unlocks the door and enters, Harry anxiously following behind her.
She makes it a point to not turn around and face him just yet, because honestly she has absolutely no idea why she asked him to come up.
It's stupid really but there was this little moment of doubt right before she could exit the car and there was this screaming voice inside her head telling her to turn back and say, 'I love you, can we please get back together?'.
She meant to say it too, she really did but the thing is . . . . these past few months, Darlene's been a shell of her real self.
She doesn't feel like herself anymore. The old Darlene would've said fuck it, you only live once and smashed her lips against his begging for him to take her back.
But this Darlene is scared. She's scared that he's never going to forgive her, she's scared that if they do somehow end up back together she'll fuck it up again because that's what she does.
She runs from intimacy, she always has which is why real life and something as sweet as love from anyone who hasn't been in her life since well, foreveris terrifying to her.
So instead of 'professing her love for him', she asked him up to her apartment hoping she'd find something to say in the time it took for them to get inside and actually sit down to talk.
But there's just no words left anymore, is there?
"Do you, uhm . . . . do you want something to drink?", she drums her fingers against the kitchen countertop, barely glancing at him as he takes a seat on one of the barstools lined close to her.
"What do you have?".
"I . . . .", she glances back at the fridge in an attempt to delay making eye contact with him.
"There's wine. Water. Coffee. Tea".
He gently coughs into his fist, "Water's fine, thanks".
Nodding she moves to fill a glass with water, allowing the sound of liquid pouring into the confines of the glass to deafen her thoughts, fill the silent apartment.
She slides the glass over to him and sits down on the stool right beside him, as if that gesture alone could convey all her thoughts to the nervous brunet gulping down the water as if it were whiskey.
"Harry".
He reluctantly glances up, waiting for her to continue.
"I . . . read the Rolling Stone article", is all she manages to say.
A flash of disappointment floods through the virescent of his eyes which he quickly covers up by clearing his throat.
