Harry Styles Imagines

15) I don't need your closure

It was predictable that with the hiatus announced, there was no eighteen months. That was it. They had the time they had left and that’s all they had to give. I’d known it since Harry had told me almost two years ago. Telling me about the idea they’d drawn up after years of nonstop working, the twinkle in his eye showed more than excitement for a break, but for a new start.

I knew him like that. I knew when he was happy, or nervous. When he was beating himself internally after a shaky performance or he was trying to remain calm in the most intense situations. I could read Harry like the back of my hand. I knew him in and out. We’d stay up for hours talking and talking until we wanted to just about die from over sharing and opening wounds to each other we didn’t realize were there until we’d felt the comfort of confessing our truths to each other.

You realize a blanket of protection seems to wrap around yourself once you’re in such an emotionally trusting relationship. It’s subconscious yet dangerous. You forget why you even had walls put up so strong and forget how to catch yourself when you fall.

I always knew that with the break, permanent or now, whatever Harry had convinced himself, there would be changes in our lives.

How naïve I was to believe it would be good. Such a fool to have thought I would be there to grow and change with him. How blissfully unaware I was that Harry had fallen so far into the wonderful newness of a fresh start that he forgot to love the one thing he’d always had.

I dedicated six years of my life to him. Having been asked out by the curly headed boy just weeks before his audition. The blush evident on his cheeks and the nervousness projecting through his bleeding cuticles and his bitten lips. I still had the, “We believe Harry has the X-Factor” t-shirt folded neatly at the bottom of one of my drawers.

And how invested I had become through his career. Helping him on the nights where it just all seemed too much for a teenage boy to be dealing with. When he felt neglected or abused, forgotten by his old friends or exploited by the tabloids so young, I had been the one to pick him up and work him through it. Sleeping pressed against his body in his tour bus so tightly we joked I would leave an indent in his side.

So, when he began to start his new album, and planned to fly far away to get into the right headspace, I couldn’t have imagined he had wanted me away from him. Always being told I was his biggest muse for everything he had done, I was blind sighted by everything he’d done.

It was cruel, and twisted the way I could have poured my everything into someone just for them to leave me dry and bleeding out.

The knowledge that he had this wonderful new start, a new success and dropped the one thing that stayed through his lowest points was like picking the scab over and over and watching it bleed.

It made me wish I hadn’t spent so much time devoted to him.

I was happy for him when the album was a success. It was obvious when he’d left me I still rubbed some final inspiration onto his work. His songs, ‘Only Angel’ and ‘Two Ghosts’ perfectly depicting situations only we’d been through. The way his fans practically ran to his aid after finding out about our separation almost made me even more angry. How quickly they were able to victimize him and coddle him made me sick.

What about me? What about the woman you’d welcomed into the fandom family with open arms so long ago. The woman who you’d stop on the streets for photos with and tell all about you day to? What about me, who was suffering in this all alone. So support from anyone. All my friends, were his. When we split, it only made sense for them to drift from me. I was a loose end meant to be severed.

So all alone, for a year or two, I watched him tour and bask in his new success, while I watched farther than ever before, selfishly wishing he would crumble under the pressure and fall face first. And even in my pity party, I couldn’t find a single piece of me that could hate him.

Sometimes he sent letters. I got them. All decorated with fancy boarders and sparkling wording that swooped and swirled in beautiful cursive letters. Invitations to house parties and shows nearby. Tickets prepaid, and VIP passes sent in the envelope.

Him and his constant need to leave no traces of bad blood in his life. His persistence in trying to be friends again. Trying to have a relationship together. He longed to have that stability he once had in his life.

Sure, we’d both dated around. Him, a tall brunette I didn’t recognize for a month and me, a few dates here and there. None ever stuck though. That knowing that someone was out there that I’d trusted enough to confess my deepest, most twisted confessions to had the ability to just walk out and have no care for the wreckage they’d left behind ruined everything I once adored. I grew trust issues. I found it hard to confide in even my closest friends, even if they’d done nothing wrong to lose it.

But, if that closure was what he wanted from me. If being friends would iron it out so nice for him, then I didn’t want it. It was like he was reaching out across a sea he had put between him and me. Trying to fix the distance he had purposefully placed when he left my life for the first and last time.

I missed him. I missed his vanilla cologne and his sweet kiss pressing across my face on the lazy mornings. I missed his hands in my hair and our drunken giggles. I miss him, still. All the time I think about how our family could’ve grown. How we could’ve been parents with little copy’s of each other running around. How we could’ve laid in the cozy live room arguing on if they looked more like him or me and eventually swooning over the features they got from each of us. I imagined I would say, “He has your eyes” and he would tell me our son had my smile.

But those daydreams could eventually drift away. I would continue to heal the longer I spent away from him. I would continue to grow and learn to trust and I would marry. I would find someone who could treat me the way I wished Harry had and I would forget about the man who ripped out my heart and made me forget how to breathe.

I would move on, and the letters will stop. If he really cares, he could come to me and beg on his knees. If he wanted to, he could. But he doesn’t so he doesn’t deserve what I could give him.

Yes, I got your letter. Yes, I’m doing better. I know that it’s over. I don’t need your closure.

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Credits to grapejuicestyless