REDAMANCY [h.s. au]

13

*mentions of poor mental health

"People have a hard time letting go of their suffering. Out of fear of the unknown, they
prefer suffering that is familiar."
- Thich Nhat Hanh

⭑Holland⭑

Waking up, the first thing I do is chug the water that sits on my bedside table like it's nectar of the gods-which to a hungover person, it practically is.

But then, all at once like a freight train, the memories of who put that water there last night hit me full force.

Harry was here.

Pieces come back to me in a blur-the club, meeting Nathan, going back to his flat, all the shots, the unease I felt from him and his friends, calling Harry, Harry showing up, washing my face, talking about his ex wife, and then sleep overtook me. For how much I drank last night, I oddly remember a good deal, even if some of the details are a little fuzzy.

I finally drag myself out of bed, feeding Cherry first because she won't stop the incessant meowing. Then I head to the bathroom, deciding on a shower. Turning the knob almost to the point of scalding-it's going to be one of those showers. The kind where you stand there, boiling hot water pouring down and turning your skin bright pink, scrubbing away all the bad decisions but still somehow feeling dirty after your skin is raw. The kind where you try to outrun your thoughts but you've got nothing else to do but let them simmer in your mind. One of those.

Between washing my hair and letting the hair mask sit, I'm trying to remember as much as I can about my encounter with Harry.

It was the right decision calling someone-calling him. I have a pit in my stomach just thinking about what could have transpired if I hadn't got the fuck out of there. Harry came when I needed someone.

I can dislike him all I want, but he did help me. And for that, I'm extremely thankful.

But, in my stupid drunkenness, I let my guard down a bit. The second I opened that door and he stood there, worry etched into the lines on his forehead with a dangling curl draped perfectly over his eyebrow, almost all the walls came crumbling down. His embrace felt warm and safe and I relished it. So tight and secure.

I hate myself for feeling that while wrapped in the arms of someone who ruined me. It's like looking for solace in the knife that cut you-stupid and inevitably going to end in tragedy.

I am so fucking confused.

I don't know who to blame. I blame myself for calling him and letting my guard down. I blame him for coming back into my life and destroying the semblance of normalcy that I created for myself in his absence. I blame the universe for sending him my way like some vile joke that I'm the butt of.

I want to crawl into a hole and only come out when life has sorted itself out.

Instead, I wash the remaining product out of my hair and turn the water off, shivering in the chilliness of my flat without the heat of the hot water. Wrapping a fluffy baby blue towel around me, I walk into the kitchen to get some coffee started that I am in desperate need of.

Like he knew the first place I'd go to in the morning is the coffee machine, a note sits right in front of it. Placed perfectly against the coffee pot. Gingerly picking it up, I contemplate on if I should read it or not.

I guess it won't hurt me to glance at it, right?

In handwriting that I haven't seen in ages, but looks exactly the same as it did years ago, I read what Harry wrote.

Holland,

I hope you aren't feeling too terrible tomorrow morning when you're reading this. Please please please text me once you find this to let me know you're alive and okay. You never have to talk to me ever again after that, but I really want to make sure you're doing alright. And drink that water I left you! Hope you have a good day :)

p.s. if you ever need anything, you know I'm just
a phone call away, okay?

- H

There's nothing particularly crazy about it, just him wanting to make sure I'm okay which is a totally normal and rational thing to want to do after what he witnessed. I can't help but feel there's an undertone of something else running through it-something that reeks of hope and romance.

And that's something I can't have happening.

I type out a multitude of messages to him while I wait for my coffee to finish brewing, just to let him know I'm alive and well, nothing more. I can't have him mistaking it for interest. It has to be polite, concise, and too the point-no extra language or flowery words that can be taken out of context.

Of course, he deserves to be properly thanked for up and leaving whatever he was doing to help me. But I'm finding it incredibly difficult to send him a message. Like if I do, I might break this fragile, invisible line that separates me from a place I don't want to go.

It's all so conflicting.

Without the haze of alcohol tainting my decisions and the tender, bruised part of my heart iced over once again, I realize I can't allow myself to do it.

I have to try to get back to the place I was at before he barged in and ruined everything.

And if that means being a little cruel and cold, then so be it. It's kept my heart from re-shattering for all these years. I know it works. It's fail-proof.

That's the life I'm imprisoned to, which I've already accepted as my fate. Alone, never to be married or have kids. No one to love me. But that means no one to hurt me. And that's my goal.

I remember when I thought I'd be the one marrying Harry-the lucky one who got the title of Mrs Styles. And when I imagined having a family with him. Little curly haired babies running around and all the love that would encompass us.

These memories have been suppressed for so long they feel like the sharpest of knives cutting my chest open.

This is what Harry being around has done.

I hate it. I hate him for it.

I don't want to remember these things. Or see him and only be able to see what my future could have been. All of the what ifs.

Sitting on the sofa and drinking my coffee, I turn the TV on, hoping that'll extract the thoughts that haunt me and replace them with literally anything else. Flipping through different channels, like a punch to an open wound, Harry's favorite movie is on-The Notebook.

Sometimes it really does feel like everything is conspiring against me. Of all the movies that could be on television, it has to be that one. It'd be comical if it wasn't so pitiful, really.

I refuse to believe the alternative-that the universe thrust us back into each others lives for more than just cruel and unusual punishment.

That can't be it.

But what if it is?

sorry this chapter is so short!
just wanted you to see what's going through
hollands head after everything!
next one will be more exciting :)