SIX YEARS LATER || HS ✔️

two

The sole idea of Harry asking me if I still loved him still is driving me mad. With many worries encased in my mind, I first think of if he loves me, or if that has dissipated as Harry did with Jamie in his affairs. But, have I truly moved on from him, or am I still in the death trap called love?

That's the only question I cannot find an answer to. I did not clearly tell Harry if I love him or not, which probably is making him think about my reply. Hell, I don't even know what I meant; the whole statement spluttered out of my mouth in a blur, and I don't know if it was from nervousness or out of the ordinary. But, in all honesty, it could have been the truth without one thought. My mind has moved on somewhat from Harry's sudden appearance, but cannot get the proposal of love with him.

I went home after the confronted situation, coming home to a loneliness and darkness. That's the usual every night thing, unless Bryan comes over for a visit or to spend the night. But, I've adapted to the idea of being lonely and would not mind it after all, since I lived with it for part of my long life. Currently, it's almost four in the morning, and my eyes are wide awake with memories flashing through them, once again.

My back lays against the cushioned bed, while my heart feels cold; cold from the weather as well as the emotions running in and out of me. Dyed blonde hair is wet from the previous shower I had hours before, clinging to the almost-dry sides of my face. But, my hands; they feel cold too, almost to the point of where they could freeze off, and not because of the weather, yet because of him. The places where he used to touch, they all are to the point of falling off or completely unused; my heart, my hands, almost every single damn thing.

How can just one human being mess up another mentally and physically?

Obviously, I do care deeply about the situation or else I would have already forgot about it. And it is obvious that I have not moved on from Harry. Hell, I am twenty-nine-years-old, in a relationship, and my mind is stuck on something that happened six years ago that was a big mistake. Well, actually, not a big mistake, but something that came to an abrupt end in a sad manner.

Blowing out a breath I seem to have been holding for a while, I turn over on my side quickly and grab my phone. Something needs to be solved, and although it might be a terrible decision, I am calling my ex-lover. It is a stupid idea, but I want to talk to him and have a decent conversation with him, as well as try to find out the truth.

I thought I deleted his contact ages ago, not wanting or daring to look at the name because it would bring me into this dark sadness. But, I am wrong when I see the name of Harry Styles listed, and my finger immediately taps the bold name to bring the phone up to my ear. After a couple rings, I think it is hopeless, but until I hear a loud sigh from the other end of the line, I know I have hit jackpot.

"Brooklyn? Is that you?"

He still has my number in his phone. His voice sounds the usual; husky and rough, but has changed over the lonely years into a more dry tone. My eyes close in victory as I open my mouth to speak.

"Yeah," my voice has the usual sleepiness spotted in it, as well as a slight shakiness. If Harry can hear it clearly, he will automatically know that I am nervous. "Sorry, I-um just couldn't-"

"It's four in the morning, I hope you know," he interrupts me and chuckles. "But, you know that little saying. People up at this time are either drunk, in love, or lonely. And I'm trying to figure out if I'm all of those or close."

Hell, he sure is right on that. Maybe I'm not drunk or in the motion of being in love, but I definitely lonely. I can almost picture the toothy grin of his face, while he is sitting up from this conversation. His dark eyes are probably vibrating off of the small moonlight and the dark ink from his bare chest is radiating. The covers are bundled around his waist from the slight movement of getting his phone and goosebumps line his upper body from the freezing weather of New York City. The long curls are most likely tangled and in the messy manner they always have the appearance to be.