Whatever Chains (Sequel to Where Your Heart is - A Harry Styles fanfiction)

Part Three: I want to get over you sometimes.

December, 2015

My relationship with my father is, and always has been, a well-oiled machine that never malfunctioned. Not once in 21 years.

And the reason as to why we are blessed with such perfection is one, and one alone.

He never wants to know more than what I'm willing to share with him. Especially when it comes to matters of the heart.

In every other aspect of my life he knows absolutely everything. But regarding my relationships, whether it is because he trust me and respect my privacy, or he is far too uncomfortable with the idea of me actually having them, he simply listens to what I have to say but he never asks any questions other than 'are you okay' and 'do you want me to kick his ass'.

And my latest relationship, along with its consequent downfall, was not an exception.

So I guess I can't really blame him for what is about to happen right now. Resent him, sure. Blame him, not at all.

"Hey! Isn't he that lad you used to be obsessed with?" He says, chewing a mouthful from the sandwich I just brought him, and jerking his head towards the television in front of us.

He just came home for lunch and we were quietly watching the news before the anchorwoman started talking about Harry whilst a string of candid pictures of him begins to flash on the screen.

One second they are talking about a storm blowing from the east, and the next about Harry Styles and his latest party rally.

Talk about random.

I want to reach for the remote and change the channel and the subject along with it, but my reflexes are suddenly rendered useless at the sight of him.

"What?" I ask in annoyance when my dad nudges me to catch my attention. "Yes, that's him." I reply tersely, hoping that my feigned indifference isn't interpreted as such.

I just stay there like a statue, frozen in my spot with my eyes glued to the TV unable to tear them away.

This is the first time I lay eyes on him in months and nothing could have prepared me for it.

He is walking out of a bar, or a club, wearing his trade mark black jeans and a shirt that only he can pull off so effortlessly. His hair is longer than ever, washing down past his shoulders and in disarray from whatever he got himself into while inside that place.

He is surrounded by a lot of people I have never seen before. But only one of them manages to stir my attention away from him.

And it is not because she's the only female captured in the shot. Or because she is shockingly gorgeous.

I haven't been living under a rock, much to my dislike, so I have heard a few things here and there. Things about him being out and about more than usual; things about him doing so in different company each night, and things about said nights getting a bit wild.

But I managed to stay away from actually seeing those things. So as far as I was concerned, and because it was much easier for me to handle it that way, those things were probably lies or extremely embellished truths for the sake of yellow journalism.

And now it's here. Flashing before my eyes in an eloquent, irrefutable string of pictures. The evidence that everything I've heard is true.

And knowing that I have no right feeling the way that I do about seeing him holding hands with that girl, only makes it worse.

I start to feel my stomach churn; forcing me to drop the sandwich I had in my hands until now.

Once more, I tell myself I should change the channel. And once more, my brain fails to send the order.

"I honestly don't know what you saw in him." My father points out annoyingly and completely oblivious to the mayhem that is my mind. "I mean, if you ask me, he is oddly looking and he has chicken legs. And don't even get me started on that hair of his."

For the first time since he popped up on my television, I manage to rip my eyes off of him and I glance at my father.

"Well, I'm not asking and I won't get you started."

He quickly picks up on my frustrated, borderline angry mood and lifting his hands slightly above his head he silently surrenders.

And I am back to drive my full, undivided and apparently rebel attention to Harry.

Because it is like watching a train wreck as it unravels.

It shakes you to the core, and even though you know the images will haunt your dreams forever, you just can't look away.

Because there is a certain beauty to tragedy.

Because he is my personal tragedy. And his beauty, although it may not be so evident to my dad, to me it is absolutely and excruciatingly undeniable.

"Can we please watch something else?"

My mother's voice comes from behind me, startling me out of my stupor.

With a swift movement her arm brushes past me and reaches for the remote, making Harry's face vanish from the screen in the blink of an eye.

I look up at her and I give her a small, thankful smile. She returns the favor and her hand goes to tuck my hair behind my ear tenderly.

Goes without saying, everything my father doesn't know, my mother does.

"All right! This is my cue, then." Says my dad, standing up from the chair. "I'm going back to work where there are no women going at me for no reason."

He gives my mom a peck on the lips and squeezes my shoulder before heading out to the front door.

"Are you okay, darling?" She takes a seat on the chair my dad just left vacant, placing a hand on mine.

"It had to happen sometime. I should have known I wasn't going to be able to avoid him forever." I respond with a shrug and a defeated smile.

"I'm sorry." She mutters before leaning over to put a kiss on my forehead. "And if you ask me, that girl has nothing on you."

I try to laugh at his motherly comment, but I guess my wires are all messed up inside my head because what comes out of me is quite the opposite.

"I fucked everything up, didn't I?"

Ever since I left New York I would ask myself that question every so often. Some days I would convince myself that I did what I could with the cards I was dealt, and others, I would beat myself up mercilessly for making the worst of all mistakes.

Those days were almost impossible to live through, and I'd find myself desperately wanting to reach out to him and tell him I was wrong.

But I never did it, of course.

And now the natural order of things has been restored, and he is back living the life of a world known pop star, hopping from club to club with a model in his arms; and am I sitting at home watching it and crying about it.

~<<ø

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Song: Like A Funeral by Erik Jonasson.