him (short story)

i

The only one;
Lucy could only think of Harry. Lucy would only think of Harry. She wanted to remember his scent, his lips and his warmth. She wanted to forget he left and wanted him to come back and tell her it was all okay.

It was just a fight, she thought, he'll come back.

So she waited for hours and hours until she grabbed the phone and dialled the number she knew by heart. After a few rings she finally heard the voice she had been longing to hear.

"Harry?" Her voice trembled as she gripped on to her phone tightly, "please come back."

"I can't, Lucy. I'm so sorry," He said through the phone.

"Why?" She yells through the phone.

"I've loved you as a bestfriend and I always will. I'm sorry I didn't realise this earlier," he says and then cuts the phone.

It's all wrong in her head. All she thinks of is the fight about picking which restaurant to go to and him cheating on her and loving someone else.

She sat back on the couch, letting the feeling of loneliness sink back in her system after a long time. She sat there for hours, staring at the white wall in front of her, just trying to grasp onto to the fact that Harry's not here anymore. It's not Harry and Lucy. It's just Lucy.

Her mind drifted to her safe place, in her house under blankets with Harry with a flashlight on and reading her older sister's diary. Harry was twelve and Lucy was almost twelve. She remembered the foolish giggles that slipped out of their mouths as they read about Ivory's first kiss. They looked up for a moment and looked into each others eyes and the giggling stopped. It was just silence, until Harry said he needed to pee.

At sixteen, they became the most cutest couple in the grade. With Harry, she felt invincible. Without any doubts or fights, they fell into the ocean of love. They went to New York to study and live together at the age of nineteen. Living together meant more fights, more tears and more pain. Harry broke and gave up, but she just couldn't find the heart to give up on Harry.

Lucy doesn't want to pick up her ringing her phone because she knows it's her mom who calls her everyday at noon and she can't tell her mom. She can't tell anyone. She doesn't want to talk to anyone. She just wants to cry, even though she knows crying won't help. She wipes her tears from her pale face and brushes her hands through her curly, black hair. She stares at her hands, watching them tremble. She walks to her toilet and washes her hands to stop her shaking hands. She washes it harder. It shakes more. She cries more. She looks into the mirror, and stares into her red eyes, which seem so dull.

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