SIX YEARS LATER || HS ✔️

four

Tea has never been my favourite drink nor is it something I would ever have as one. My mum loves it, absolutely craves it, while I tend to barely can stand the smell. And, as always, someone would invite me over to exactly have a cup of tea, which resulted in me grabbing a soda from their fridge, water, or a glass of milk. Tea has well, never been my cup of tea.

Perhaps Harry should've known that years back, but things change, and our minds are getting older and older at this very minute. I did want to come in his house, though, for my curiosity has been bugging me ever since our reunion two months ago. And, it's not because of the fact that I want back into his life, although it does seem that way; I've been terribly needing to see through my own eyes on how he has been making it on his own, with being on a break with the band and living in a large city.

The large expanse of his back is put towards me as he starts the kettle, and it surprises me greatly that he knows how to do so. Considering that he's always had the lifestyle of having things practically made for him, my mind automatically thinks that, but I believe after these months of living on his own, Harry learns new things each, and every day.

"Do you want any cream?"

My eyes snap upwards toward his back, which is still on full display towards me, and I watch as his hand is hesitant towards grabbing the glass jar beside it. It's strange on how he hasn't been speaking to me with eye contact, but perhaps that's to cure the awkwardness or tension. After all, he did almost take off my bumper, which is in the back of my trunk with the help of Harry's.

"Harry, I don't want any tea because I don't drink it," the decision of telling him has already been set, and by the way he quickly turns around with his hand held on his chest (about where his heart would be), he's quite shocked.

Rosy lips parted in a horrified expression, his breathing seems to be more harsher, and I feel as if this is all an exaggeration. Harry's dark eyebrows are pushed together slightly, adding more of a dramatic effect to his appearance, and the fact that the kettle's spouting isn't helping the situation whatsoever with the loud, screeching noise.

"How the fuck dare you?" He mutters in an amusing question, his long fingers tapping in an inpatient way on the counter top.

And I genuinely laugh, for the first time I've been with this curly-haired man ever since the tragic accident. What a peculiar thing to think; ex-lovers being again, once reunited, having a normal conversation in Harry's house, and I never thought I'd see this day come. It's almost as if we are back to the past days, where Harry and I would share beverages with each other and taste-testing the nastiest drinks possible. But, this moment only involved one simple item; tea.

"Not a fan," my side-comment gives Harry's full attention, and he grabs the small china cup in his large hand to drag over to the wooden table I'm seated at. It's across from my bottle of water I grabbed moments ago, approximately positioned parallel to me.

"Anyways," he sighs loudly, dismissing our banter of drinks and plops his lanky body into the wooden chair. It creaks to the point of making my ears want to envelope themselves into their own little hole, and for a moment, I cringe every so slightly. Harry doesn't seem to notice as he rids the eye contact with me, his wondering eyes beginning to be painted around the messy room. "I'll pay for it all, obviously. Nothing illegal to do with the situation, but, there might've been a bug in my car, and I was attempting to swat the damned this out of the window."

Another joke to bring back the memoirs; that isn't what I need. There shouldn't be heartbreak with this conversation, as well as the pain deep inside my chest. Emotional pain is utterly different from physical; it hurts way more, although I can't truly feel it on the outside. Emotional is only on the inside, and if I did happen to be run over by a car, nothing could beat the suffering.

Physically, after thinking about the former times, I force myself a laugh. Harry seems proud of himself with the smug look wrapped on his face, and he leans into his chair to cross his arms.

"That's fine with me."

"Another strange thing is that you agreed without a fight. Goodness gracious, oh my. You truly have changed, Brooklyn Young."

"Yeah," I waver off. The dialogue has the impression of being cut short, for one, my gaze lands on the floor to not look into the deceiving eyes. My hand shakes slightly as it reaches to grab the water bottle and twist the top, taking the action of my lips to not tremble. Why am I even on the verge of crying?

"Look," Harry starts, his large hand coming in contact with the top of the wooden table. It's drawing near my beverage. "I know you don't want to speak about it, but I want you to hear me out."

"He doesn't love me as much as Harry used to, and it hurts like hell. Because that is the only thing that used to make me laugh and smile, and I don't want to leave him behind after all this time. He just didn't make an effort, and for some reason, I'm talking as if I'm still in the relationship. How silly of me."

"It wasn't healthy, was it? Mr. Styles stressed you out way too much, but you still-,"

"Loved him, yeah," I finish the sentence for my shrink, depicting upon whether to continue or not. And, I do. "I guess that time is not a measure of love. Six years we were together, and I predict that he felt nothing."

My tranquility is a note Harry takes to continue with his rant. The flashback ended times ago, but it still haunts me as I look at my ex-lover every few seconds. There are more, more than enough to let my eyes come across, but with him sitting in front of me with the viridescent eyes, it takes my mind completely off of the daring memories.

"It's been such a while since you left, and I wish I could say I'm over it. But sometimes, it feels like I have a growing hole in my heart and I can't get the missing piece back. No matter how many girls I kiss or how much vodka I drink, you took something from me that I will never get back. I was never quite good at letting go, so I'm sorry that I still love you."

"It's the other way around, in my opinion, Harry," my hands are frantic to grip my purse lying by my side. "And this is my cue to leave because I can't hear it anymore. I've heard it all since you've ever came here, and I just-I can't."

My stride is longer than normal, desperate to leave the untidied house. And behind mine is the heartbreaker.

"I know you still care, and please, if you still do, Brooklyn, meet me at the club tomorrow. Although it sounds utterly cliche, I can't understand why I want to keep coming back, but I do. I need to know. And if you don't, well, you can figure out the next part."

No more steps are heard, and no more flashbacks come.