Ever since my awkward dream about Harry and I, my life with him has been rarely normal. Just the usual, me calling him dad, daddy. Him calling me love, darling, sweetheart. I still tell him that I love him, and he does the same.
Maybe, I didn't talk in my sleep.
"Mary-Jane!" He yells from downstairs.
"Yeah?" I say getting out of my bedroom and approaching the stairs to listen to him.
"My love, I'm going to the supermarket. Do you fancy something?" He's approaching the stairs as well.
You.
"No, thanks daddy." I smile at him and he smiles back, turning around and leaving the house.
What am I going to do? I'm foolishly and completely in love with him. And I can't be, it's weird, it's creepy. What would he think about this? He's a serious man, he thinks straight unlike me.
Besides, what makes me believe I'd have a chance with this gorgeous man? He's obviously surrounded by hundreds of beautiful women who want all of him.
I'm his daughter for God's sake! Well– technically, I'm not his daughter.
Mary-Jane 1 - Harry 0.
But, on the other hand, he raised me. He's my dad figure. And, I might not be his daughter, but, I'm his dead wife's daughter.
Mary-Jane 1 - Harry 1.
Or Harry 2.
I groan and lay on my bed. Why this has to be so difficult? Why can't he see me the way I see him? Why can't he daydream about me, and actually have dreams about me?
My phone buzzed on my bedside table, so I extend my arm to grab it.
Cameron: hey
Oh my God.
Cameron Dallas just texted me. My crush. My big crush. The only person that makes me actually want to go to school.
Me: hi Cam
Keep it casual. Don't freak him out.
A notification warns me that my phone is at 10% of battery.
I stand up and start looking for the charger, but I can't find it. I believe Harry took it, because we share it.
I go to his room. Everything is perfect and organized, just like him. I start looking around for the charger, but there's something that distracts me. His jacket hanging from his desk chair. My favorite jacket that he posesses. It's absolutely beautiful, and I saw him wearing it over the years.
It's a beige and brown jacket, perfect for winter. When is really cold and he's not home, I tend to wear it, until I hear him arrive. Of course if I would ask him to wear it, he would say yes, however I'd be too ashamed. To touch that old jacket with my bare hands is the most pleasurable feeling ever.
My eyes catch something on the desk that has always made me curious. His diary. Ever since I met him, I saw him writing down everything on that notebook. In the morning, in the evening, when he's about to sleep.
What could he possibly think so much? My mind has always asked me.
I touch the diary, and feel eager about reading his words, his thoughts. Would it be too bad to take a look? Would I regret it? It's better to regret something you did, other than to regret something you didn't do.
