Scars. [Harry Styles]

Chapter 2

Dear Harry,

You were right. I was a little concerned when I read the address at the top of your letter. Here's a tip for you - the more you tell people you're not crazy, the crazier you sound, so don't mention it again. Maybe I'm the crazy one for doing so, but I believe you. You don't sound like a psychopath to me. You just sound like you've been dealt some rough cards, I guess. 

I should introduce myself as well. I'm Coralie. I won't tell you my last name because I don't really like the sound of your dad finding me either. (Sorry, that was a little inappropriate). I just turned 22 yesterday. My boyfriend, Max, threw me this big surprise party, which annoyed me because I hate surprises, but it turned out be alright. All of my family and friends from university came. I just finished my degree a few weeks ago. I studied chemistry, in case you were wondering, and it wasn't as boring as it sounds. Only problem is, I don't know what to do with it. Lots of my friends have got technician jobs, or chemical analyst positions, but I don't think I want to do that. I think I want to do some more studying, but my boyfriend doesn't think so. He wants me to get a job so we can buy a bigger place and start settling down. I thought that was what I wanted too, but now I'm not so sure. 

Anyway. That's all boring stuff. Nothing compared to what you've been through. I'm glad you enjoyed living in Leeds when you were younger. I've had a good life here too. Which school did you go to? I went to Gregor Grove High, the big one near the shopping centre. I don't know if you've heard of it. Still, what a twist of fate it would be if we had gone to the same school, right?

I'm glad you chose my address to write to, and I want to thank you for being so honest in a letter to a stranger. Feel free to write to me whenever you wish. I'd love to know more about you. 

Yours,

Coralie. 

Before I could change my mind, I folded up the letter, shoved it inside an envelope and scribbled down the address. Ramming my slippers on my feet, I darted out of the apartment and down the stairs onto the street. It was raining, as it usually did in the middle of July in England, but I didn't mind. As I reached the postbox at the end of my street and slid the letter through the slot, I felt a rush of adrenaline pulsing through my fingers. For a moment, I almost forgot how desperately hungover I was. This was the first out of the ordinary thing I had ever done, and it felt good.

"Coralie, where have you been?" 

When I returned to the flat, Max had awoken. He was stood in the living room, his hair looking as absurd as mine did, still wearing the shirt he had worn to my party last night, squinting at me through weary eyes. 

"Oh," I said. I was about to tell him about the letter, all about Harry and how he found our address on a map and was in need of a friend, but just as I opened my mouth, I stopped myself. Max and I shared everything, from food to bills to childhood memories to our deepest darkest secrets, but something told me I should keep this to myself. If I told Max, he would tell me Harry was dangerous and I shouldn't have replied, and then we'd probably end up arguing, and I didn't have the effort. Not today. "I just went out for a walk," I said. It wasn't exactly a lie, I had just walked down the street and back again after all. "It's too stuffy in here, and my head was hurting." 

"Ugh, join the club." Max yawned, and I breathed a sigh of relief. He had believed me. 

The day continued as any other Friday did. We both got dressed and went grocery shopping, then had lunch, and in the afternoon I answered some emails, called my mother and began looking for jobs online, whilst Max marathoned The Walking Dead on Netflix. At six, Max stuffed his work apron in his backpack and left for a dinner shift at Gio's. The apartment was always oddly quiet without him, but for some reason, that evening it didn't feel so lonely. I sat at my desk and opened my laptop, and for the first time, instead of looking for jobs, I typed in 'Silver Palms' into the search bar. I was immediately taken to a pristine looking web page for the psychiatric hospital in London, which showed photographs of smiling people stood outside a large, white building, surrounded by trees, none of which were palms. After a while, I had become engrossed in reading all about the patient's daily schedules (their days are planned to military precision), the types of mental disorders they treated (pretty much all of them) and how much it cost to be treated there (a lot). My only interruption was the sound of my phone ringing. It was my older sister, Nicola.