Still The One

Eighteen

Expectation is the root of all heartache. – William Shakespeare

◌◌◌◌◌

Eighteen
Two years ago – March 23, 2016

“It’s official. I’m in love with Summer.” As a montage of Summer raced through the screen, Tom’s narration continued, “I love her smile. I love her hair. I love her knees. I love how she licks her lips before she talks. I love her heart-shaped birthmark on her neck. I love it when she sleeps.”

I listened in admiration, as did Niall and Liam and Harry. I was always in awe when catching someone talking about a loved one. There was something about the way their voice was caught in their throat, trying their hardest to convey their emotions through words. And how their eyes lit up with wondrous felicity, trying to narrow down their favorite traits. But it was alluring and entrancing altogether – getting to know a person at the hand of another’s thoughts and beliefs. And I silently wondered how Harry described me to people.

The film (500) Days of Summer was our choice for the evening. Niall and Liam had decided to join us not too long ago. They brought over some beer and a few pizzas. Ordinarily, couples would have been sore with an interruption during their alone time. But Harry and I weren’t an ordinary couple. It was always a pleasure abiding in our lively friends’ company.

I stretched my fair-skinned legs atop our coffee table, careful as to not spill our drinks, and felt all in all relaxed with our contented movie night. On screen, Tom had kissed Summer, which resulted in Harry’s coy raised eyebrow. I arched mine in response, with contemplation at his cheekiness. He pulled me in closer and peppered my face and neck with his hearty pecks.

Liam showily coughed, ahem. I laughed and pushed him off, embarrassed by our undesired displays of affection.

Niall objected, “Hey kids, we’re trying to watch the movie.”

“His fault.” I pointed at my affectionate boyfriend.

Harry was holding his hands up in defeat, backing away from me. “Blame Al. She’s all over me.”

I threw the couch pillow but he dodged it. And all at once, his phone loudly vibrated in his sweatshirt pocket.

“Come on!” Niall groaned obnoxiously, fed up with all of our distractions. From the corner of my eye, I was watching Harry checking who was calling, but clicking the Reject button right after.

“Who was that, babe?” I questioned.

He cleared his throat, then diverted his sight back onto the tube. “No one important.”

I understood, and we proceeded to finish the rest of the sentimental flick. But I was tired. The crest of my neck was cramping, regarding the sudden jerks I was conveying to avoid falling asleep. It was getting harder to keep my eyes open. Harry brought me into his chest, and I could feel the rhythm of his heartbeat that steadied me into a drowsier state; my own treasured metronome. I was drifting away, slowly but surely.