One Direction Imagines

The Fault in Our Silver Linings (Harry Styles)

Dear Harry,

Thank you. For giving me the best meaning of love. The idea of falling in love with someone you couldn’t survive with. By the time you read this, the almost pathetic nineteen-year-old body of mine would be two, maybe three feet under the ground. And, believe me, I try not to be cliche for the whole letter. We hate cliche, remember?

You were attending the Brits when I started an unusual pain on my hips. Being the cancer-survivor me for two years, my mind still haunted by the thought of having it again. So I lied to you by saying I was having girls night with Perrie, I’m sorry about that. You remembered when I told you my doctor, Dr. Paula? We actually never broken our contact. She still asked my condition every so often, because it was a rare case for someone to survive osteosarcoma without having a side effect of it. Like having a limp amputated, or in the worst case, having it spread like a wild fire. To which possibilities, I have Dr. Paula on the line within second. And she knew, she just knew, it wouldn’t be a good news. So she told me to get to the hospital, my usual hospital, the first place I met Rochester to my Jane Eyre, you.

Even though you’d think I’d love that place because my osteosarcoma was the thing that met us, you’re wrong. I despise it. Three long, bloody—literally bloody—years of having yourself locked up in a big, white plain room was not a nice thing to have as your teenage memories. So when I got in the same room I’d grown to known, I couldn’t help but feeling sad at myself. All I thought was, so God this is why you put me in Harry’s life, only to be a grenade in his life?

When the PTE scan was done, and the result came out, all I could say to Dr. Paula was to paint my usual room in muted orange, yours and my favorite color. She agreed, of course. Cancer Perks.

I knew I couldn’t hide the fact forever, that it would be a break even point at some time. A week after you and the boys won Global Success, you took me to a date, our typical date. Having he apartment building rooftop to ourselves, and having you cooked me my favorite food. It wasn’t too cold, because we were inside the green house, and having its door ajar. But you had your suspicion when I borrow your thickest, warmest hoodie that night. Then having me slightly distracted at some points when you were telling me new jokes, or some news. It ended when you furrowed your eyebrows in a disapproving way. And you touched my forehead, with such gentle, having a quick comparation to your own temperature. I was almost out of the night when you carried me back to the building, and with no words, drove me to Pacifics, the hospital, with such speed I’d never felt.

I knew you were holding all in to yourself. I knew the thing about not wanting the people you care suffer more by seeing you breakdown. So you just give them blank stare, or vacant stare, or maybe avoiding gaze—which I assume you did as I lost my consciousness. The next morning when I woke, I was in my room, painted in muted orange as I requested, and you were sitting next to my hospital bed. Seeing the cancer blood pumped out of various places that you didn’t notice I had woken up.

When you did, you weren’t crying or wailing. Instead, you gave me the half-crooked smile I’ve always loved, and kissed my forehead. You never let go of my hand that night, even when my parents, who came after Dr. Paula called after I got in, came to the room. My dad really likes you, you know. He said and I quote “Harry is such a nice man. Are you sure he’s the same age as you? I mean, I would be glad to give you to him one day down the aisles.” Ha. I guess you really did use your ‘almost-did-not-impress-me charm’ over my parents.

When I told you that full of crying night one Sunday that I would survive this. I would survive for you, I would stay alive for you, all my brain that sucked at being brain told me was “liar”.

I felt like a douchebag, more than any The Wanted member would be, when I told you that until you were convinced. You left for tour with such faith of me getting better everyday. I felt like dying when you told everyone happily that I will stay alive for forever. But maybe… the forever we have was within a month. Never thought I would be this cruel, you know. Having you as my star-crossed lover, my literally dying wish, the one person I swear to God on people’s lives I would never hurt was hurt. Wounded.

“That’s the thing about pain. It demands to be felt.” It’s a line from An Imperial Affliction. The novel you’d always carry with you just because I told you to read it, which you did, and still do, I assume.

So go on, let it all out after or during this—reading my crappy handwritten letter—and then mourn me, or having your grief for a week, then move on. I want you to be happy. I need you to be happy. Find a woman you know you’ll see your future in her with. Tell her everyday you love her, like you did to me. Cherish the days, hours, minutes you have with her, like you did with me. Send her bouquet of her favorite flower to her when you’re on tour, like you always did to me. Make her fall in love with you all over again and again until she thinks nothing’s ever enough, like you made me feel that way.

I’m not going to teach you about love, because I know the definition of which, is not a foreign thing to you. I know you’re angry. To me. To yourself, for believing my words so quickly. But mostly, to yourself. But I want to tell you, it’s not your fault. It’s not the Cancer’s fault, because it wanted to live, too. And as much as I want to tell you it’s my fault, I can’t. Because it’s not. It’s probably the fault of our silver linings. The fault of our happiness.

Maybe we met in such a wrong life. A wrong time. A wrong place. A wrong Wish, for starters. And do not think I regretted the decision to spent my Wish to meet a very handsome, kind-hearted man I adore. Don’t. And I did not regret for allowing you to steal my heart. Because that day when you visited me for the 10th time, I actually have the courage to survive the battle. I actually realized I finally have the reason to live. You.

I love you always, Harry. Remember that. And if you miss me at some point in your life… please do not hesitate to read my blue velvet notebook I’ve always forbidden you to even touch it. Now you’ll know why I never allowed you to read it. It contains every cheesy thing I happened to write everytime you made me happy, which in my case, on daily basis.

With so much love,

Yours… [Y/N]

p.s. I’m sorry for my crappy writing. I hope it’s still readable .xx

Third Point of View

Harry cries every night on his sleep right after the funeral. It was a beautiful funeral, really. So many people gathered and actually shed tears for the loss. [Y/N] was a truly lovable person. Even though she didn’t love wider, she loved deeper. She noticed things, and that’s what made her a better person. The best person he’d ever known.

The closest people of him on tour never say a thing about his habit—crying to sleep. With one arm covers his red, swollen eyes in a weird gesture, and the other clutching to a blue velvet notebook. Securing it with a tight grip. He mumbles “you’re lying, you say it’ll only take a week, you’re lying” every so often in his sleeps. They—the boys, Lou, basically everyone in the tour bus—knew what he means. They’ve read the beautiful letter when Harry accidentally dropped it when he was asleep.

It took, one, five, twelve months for him to finally stop crying himself to sleep. And when he did, he caught a glimpse of [Y/N] in their favorite cafe. No, not [Y/N], but a girl very similar to her. The almost similar beautiful hair, and the oh-so-breathtaking eyes, and a pretty smile sat across from his and [Y/N]’s usual table. She was reading [Y/N]’s favorite novel, The Fault in Our Stars.

And he realized, just then, he saw his future flashes right in front of him. With her. The girl [Y/N], at any rate, meant to him in her letter. 

-ANON