Letters to Lou *Larry Stylinson*

Not Scared of Love

When Harry wakes up, the other side of the bed is cold, and his arms grasp for an embrace that is met with thin air. It takes a moment to realise the soreness in the corners of his mouth is from smiling, and the stinging sticky skin by his eyes is from tears. In the silence, Harry feels as if he could hear the sun rising outside his window, waking up the world with its drips of soft sunlight. A patch of the white light slips through his window blinds, settling warmly on the exposed skin of his shoulder.

It's one of those mornings where Harry wakes up with his body in the right bed but his mind in the wrong world. It's where he feels as if he didn't sleep a wink the night before, yet his muscles are relaxed as ever. It's a typical morning after a dream, where everything in his head is a blurry haze, slowly surfacing throughout the day by the oddest of triggers.

Harry sweeps the sheets off to the side, the cold morning air biting his bare skin. Goosebumps ruffle up his arms as he anxiously searches for the pair of sweats and the t-shirt he tossed aside the night before. He finds them shoved in the corner of the small armchair, wondering how long it has been since he last washed them. Harry has always thought himself to be quite neat, but he's been feeling rather lost these past few months, and the cluster in his head has apparently spread to his surroundings. It isn't as if the house has completely turned over, but mugs sit with stains in the sink, recycling and garbage both mix together in the waste basket, and clothes are shoved crumpled up into his dresser. The house could possibly be considered in tip top shape by some people (particularly Harry's college roommate) but to Harry, everything was all in a slight disarray.

Harry tugs the sweats on, before shuffling from the fuzzy worn carpet of his bedroom to the waxy cold hardwood floor of the kitchen. Since the two kitchen windows behind the breakfast table faced the other side of the house, barely any light flood in. Harry chuckles, as stray memories of his dream solidify. Harry wasn't sure if it was just him, but his dreams were always filled with the same images of his workplace, his bedroom, the kitchen-all the familiar places were there, but mixed with odd whimsical details here and there. For instance, if Harry remembers correctly, the refrigerator in his dream was a walk in, revealing a whole icy cavern of shelves upon shelves of food. Somehow, it all made sense in his dream. Now it just seems bizarre.

Harry starts the kettle and leans against the stove as he always does while preparing his morning tea. His eyes drift to the empty mugs that sit in the sink, some overturned and others stacked. He lets out a sigh, before pushing away from the stove and to the sink, turning on the tap water and cupping his hands underneath, waiting for the cool water to steadily warm up. His eyes drift over the mugs, and he feels a tug of familiarity in his gut. Harry's mind swarms with the memory of warmth against his back, and a hot mug clasped between his hands. Warm milk, Harry thinks, it was warm milk. Harry scrunched his brows at the thought of warm milk. He's always despised milk for it's pungent fatty flavor. The only reason why there was ever milk in the fridge was for tea, since-

No, Harry thinks, Forget him. Forget him.

Once the water has heated up, Harry dips a soapy sponge under the faucet, targeting the first mug to scrub. All the while, the haze in his mind slowly clears up, as images from last night's dream slowly draw back.

Harry remembers only traces of sensations: the warmth of a body tucked in his embrace, wetness seeping into the collar of his shirt, the itchy burn of carpet as he crawled on his knees, the rustle as scraps of white paper fluttered everywhere-so many sensations as clear as day and strong enough to make him cry, laugh, and smile, yet Harry just can't seem to piece them together.

Once the sink is clear of mugs and the kettle whistles loud and clear, Harry pours himself a hot cup of tea, mixing in a spoonful of sugar, as he unashamedly hums a certain Mary Poppins tune. It is a Saturday, meaning no work and a quiet morning all to himself. Usually he would read one of the books that are always piled on the breakfast table, but his mind is a constant buzz, and his eyes would only glide meaninglessly across the page if he did pick one up. Instead, Harry pulls out a napkin from the dispenser, and uncaps a stray blue pen lying on the table.