Background Noise [HS]

TWENTY-THREE

Violet was no stranger to missing someone. It happened first when she moved from daycare to pre-school, second when she moved from pre-school to the first grade, and every act of moving from place to place thereafter. These were small, trivial aches; nothing compared to the void created by the split of her parents. During the divorce, there came missing specific things. After, there was only missing the way things used to be.

Lessons had been taken from the great divide.

Violet learned from her mother that no one should ever settle for less than they deserve. She learned not to rush into things but to let the pieces fall where they may, or else they may not end up fitting together, in the end. Her mother Scarlett had all the pieces, just not the perfect picture.

It was through her father that Violet learned the art of manipulation and deceit. Having lived with someone who mastered the very trade and executed it well, she became skilled at detecting the good and the bad of a person's intentions. Something her mother failed to do, Violet vowed not to follow in her footsteps. Scarlett had missed the signs from the start.

It was an eye-opening experience for everyone involved.

The transformation Cyrus took terrified his daughter. Some days, when she would clean around the house, Violet would find herself sat on the floor surrounded by old albums, flipping through the sheets of photos. One would always be sat on her lap, the others scattered in messy disarray, though they made a line that she would reach the end of. Once she did, Violet would close the final leather book with a sigh, wondering where it all went wrong.

If she could put her finger on the very moment, maybe she could save herself from a fate so twisted.

Violet scrolled through her conversation with Harry, who she'd began to miss terribly in the few days that had passed since their parting. He kept in touch, checking in every now and again to see how she was doing. The texts always began on his end, making the interaction seem very one-sided, though she wanted it just as badly as he. Would have started some of the conversations, even, had he not beaten her to it.

There was a text with every sunrise and sunset, bidding her both goodmorning and goodnight. It was incredibly endearing, the way they arrived at the same hour every day, as if integrated into his schedule, somehow. Violet had certainly integrated it into hers, forming a habit of waking up just minutes after the first text of the day would be sent as well as staying up into the late hours of night when he would get home from a show.

At first glance, Harry came off as a man that never surrounded himself with women without taking one home. Violet's first impression wasn't just of him—it was of him drowning quite literally in a sea of girls. They lapped up at him like waves against a boat, knocking him this way and that, never leaving him to move steady alone. The very same girls that seemed to adore him so made the journey from the stage to the bathroom treacherous, and that was something Violet would never forget.

Whether he craved this attention or loathed every second of it, she wasn't sure.

Come to think of it, Violet had practically fallen stranger to Club 102. In her experience, there was always a struggle to the show. Harry was always a bit tipsy when he sang, drunk more so on the night that she went to his aid than others. The thought had her thinking. What did he look like now? Did he stand tall or bow weakly to the crowd? After the lights dimmed and the curtain metaphorically came to a close, would he stumble from the stage and onto the dance floor or escape out the back in a flurry of shadows?

Above all, was she the only girl he granted his attention?

Harry seemed like the most genuine man Violet had ever met. That may not have been saying much—the boys she knew in high school were less than decent. They traveled in packs like dogs sniffing out something delectable. Violet wanted no part in that, straying from any shot she had at a mediocre relationship throughout all four years at the public institution. Call her picky or selective—there was just no one she deemed worthy of giving her time, let alone herself.