the journal - h.s.

27

[amber’s pov]

The memory of how those words had escaped his breath almost like a matter of course last night seemed to knock me over once again - here the following morning. I remembered so clearly how I had merely glanced at him - fighting the warm in my eyes, which told me tears were soon to betray me. I hadn’t known what to say - what to do. All I could see was him standing there, with a crooked half smile as if to say ‘not-much-to-do-about-it’. In his white holed t-shirt, how his shoulders had tensed a little as the words had escaped him, as a sign of how truly broken he really was. Beautifully broken.

It had surprised me though that I had the feeling, that him saying those words out loud had been a relief. To get them out in the open cold air had somehow lifted the burden on his shoulders with even just the weight of an atom.

He had noticed how speechless I had become and his sad smile had grown a little wider as he with a light shake on his head had stated a simple; I’m sorry.

He sighed as in disbelief over his own words, narrowed his eyes and faced the nightsky as if he felt uneasy. Finally he had looked back at me with those green eyes and told me; goodnight Amber.

I pulled the duvet over my head still feeling exhausted after the nightmare. I knew a bath would help to rinse of the feeling of nervousness, but all I could think of at the moment was Harry Styles - the writer of the journal, whom I had encountered last night against all the possible odds in the world.

My mind was overfloating with questions, theories, impressions, emotions but most of all - so very many questions. Here in the dark under the duvet they almost seemed to suffocate me, so I frustrated and with a groan threw the duvet off my head. That didn’t help much. The apartment was empty and in a strange dull light this morning, because of the lack of sunshine through the window. I threw my arms down the side of my body on top of the duvet in a despairing manner and felt something familiar touching the outside of my right hand. I lifted myself to my elbows and stared at the corner of a brown journal, which was half hidden under the duvet.

How had it ended up there? I frowned and slowly recalled the dim memory of how I in the middle of the night had woken - I had gotten up and walked half aware over to my bag where I had picked out the journal. All just to make sure it hadn’t been some crazy dream. Then I had brought it back to my bed and as my mind had drifted off into the sleep my fingers had loosen the tight grip of my only evidence, that he was real.

Harry Styles.

The name kept repeating itself over and over as a whisper in my mind. I was so sure I had heard the name Styles before - but with each time it was repeated in my subconscious the feeling of having heard it before disappeared. Instead I started believing the feeling of deja vu I felt every time I heard that name - was caused by the fact that I had heard the name repeated twice last night from Jenny.

I carefully picked up the journal and held it open in the air above me, while I lay flat on my back. Randomly I opened it on a page in the middle - I hadn’t gotten that far into it I knew. Except for that quote with the digits, which I had found at random too - the very first time I had looked in this.

The pages I ended up on were scattered with sentences of one-two lines length. They were one big mess going all different kinds of directions and tangled up together. Some made rapid turns when they reached the end of the page, or was about to collide with another sentence - others had letters which grew smaller and smaller from the lack of space. It was an uncontrollable mix, which reminded me of how my thoughts probably would be represented at the moment. One big tangled mess.

As I focused on one sentence however - the beauty of the mess shun through. I read each word carefully;

24.03 - Stars exist on the constant edge between explosion and implosion. You and me - babe we all consist of stardust.  

Too overwhelmed with everything that was merely connected with the beautiful mess being Harry Styles - I gave up. Head shaking in disbelief, that he was real. Throwing the journal carefully onto the duvet, I escaped out from the warm shelter and headed for the bathroom.

Coming out from the small bathroom, was like stepping out of a room packed with steam. The white towel tightly fastened around my body and another around my hair I welcomed the way colder temperature out here. That was the thing with living at a place, where only the pay of being a barista had to cover the costs; the air ventilation sucked. Just like the tap in the kitchen and the locking mechanism on the front door. I wondered what Harry would think of this place. I quickly shook the thought off.

As the steam turned into droplets on my bare skin at the difference in temperature, I suddenly noticed something which I didn’t knew I had been missing terribly. The music from my downstairs neighbor was crawling into my place yet again and filled it with sunshine.

The raw, raspy voice which I knew so well even though I had no idea who the artist was. I smiled, as that last nervous feeling from the nightmare dissolved and I quickly crossed the room heading for the window. Standing on the mattress I unhooked the smaller window and pushed it open - the music floated clearer and more beautiful than ever, as the freezing cold imeadiately created goosebumps up my arms and bare shoulders. I welcomed the stream of music and air though, which managed to clear out my clouded mind, while I got dressed and as I had finished I decided I had to go knock on the neighbor’s door and get the name of the singer. Even though I had sworn not to.

Since everything seemed to be going against the usual at the moment - I might as well tag along.

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