Ecstasy [h.s.]

42

Scarlett Thatcher.

May 31, 2023

Two days.

Two days.

It's been two fucking days since Harry and I last talked. Two days of awkwardness, avoiding each other. We made a quick stop in Dallas, did a concert, and then went back on the road until we hit Houston earlier this morning. 

And now, here I am, in my stupid penthouse room with the stupid balcony and the stupid concert music blaring from the venue across the street. I'm sitting on a chair on the balcony, my knees tucked up against my chest. I can hear Harry's voice singing from the venue below on the street, the lights strobing in the gaps of the arena. 

I roll my eyes; I can't help being a little annoyed after I had spent my whole night taking care of him and he was such a bitch to me the morning after. And more than annoyed, I felt hurt. Why did he have to say that? Say that he wanted me gone, to leave.

I slip my pack of Chesterfield Blue out of my pocket alongside my lighter. I stick the cigarette in between my lips and light it. I inhale slightly, then pull the cigarette out, and exhale.

The music grows to a close, and I stand up to look down at all the people wandering the streets. I can feel the cool metal railing beneath my fingertips, overlooking the bustling streets. The city sprawls out below, a lively tapestry of lights and movement. The hum of urban life rises to meet me, a symphony of car horns and distant laughter weaving through the city's pulse.

The cityscape stretches endlessly, a maze of towering buildings and neon signs that paint the night with a vibrant glow. I watch as people weave through the sidewalks like ants on a mission, each with their own story, their own destination. The streets are alive with energy, a constant ebb and flow that captivates me.

A gentle breeze ruffles my hair as I lean forward, drawn to the rhythmic dance of traffic below. Headlights trace elegant arcs, taillights leaving a fleeting trail of red. 

From this vantage point, I catch glimpses of life's narratives unfolding. A couple walks hand in hand, lost in conversation. As I watch, a group of friends spills out of a nearby bar, their laughter carrying up to me like a joyful breeze. A street performer captivates a small crowd with the melodic strumming of a guitar. The distant aroma of street food wafts up.

And me, moping in my room.

As I look down onto the street, I spot an odd figure standing in the middle of the street. I cock my head, squinting down. The figure's dressed all in black, their face shaded in darkness. The dim glow of the streetlights casts long shadows, making it difficult to discern the person's features.

Intrigued, I continue to observe from my vantage point, my curiosity piqued. The figure seems to exude an aura of quiet confidence. Pedestrians hurry past, oblivious to the character in their midst.

A sudden gust of wind rustles through the nearby trees, causing the figure's black attire to flutter ever so slightly. I strain my eyes to catch any movement or detail that might reveal more about this mysterious individual. But nothing.

My vision is suddenly distracted as I see the band running out of the back of the stadium below, their guards surrounding them as they hurry to beat the rush of girls and enter our building. I look back to the middle of the street, but the figure is gone. I turn back at everyone in the group. Well, everyone except for Harry, who leaves last behind the group. He walks at an annoyingly slow pace, a cigarette between his fingers. I look down at my own fingers at my cigarette. I immediately stub it out.