The Breakup + Harry Styles

08

[the final tears and the end]

-

Harry never got a letter back from her. He expected that though. He knew she was never going to send anything back even if she had read the letter.

She really was too cruel. She could've sent something back—anything—at least. Or maybe her parents really did find the letter first and tossed it before she could even get the thing in her hands. Harry would never know, because he never heard from her again.

He stopped going to the café where she worked. He made sure that she was smiling on his last planned visit though, and she was. That was all he needed. But he knew he had to stop doing it, because it was only making things worse. It hurt him day by day, knowing that she had completely moved on and he hadn't. He was stuck and he couldn't get out.

He stopped looking for signs of her in his apartment, like sitting on his terrace and watching the parking lot below him as if she would drive in from her afternoon visits. Or when he would lay down in bed and stare at the bedroom door, as if she was going to walk in, dressed in her pajamas with a sleepy smile on her face. Because he knew—all too well—that she was never going to come back.

She was done with him, and he needed to put that through his stupid head.

After another month, his mom called and asked him if he wanted to move to the UK—where she lived and where he originally came from. She begged him, and he eventually agreed to it.

He emptied out his whole apartment and threw every single thing away, except for the box of her things. He hesitated when he held them in his arms, standing by the big open green garbage bin in the parking lot. It took him a lot of energy, and control, to finally lift his arms and let the box go.

The sound of the box and everything inside falling into the metal bin made him lose it. He got mad at himself for doing it and he regretted it. He got the urge to punch the bin, and he did. His knuckles bled a lot. It caused him more pain, but he was used to it, so he didn't even feel anything at all. The pain his hand felt was nothing compared to what he was feeling inside.

The day of his flight, he struggled to leave the apartment. That was the only thing he had left to remind him of her.

He had many memories inside that small space, but she filled those spaces. Everything they did together... could he really let it all go?

It was hard, but he closed the door behind him for the last time. He walked down the stairs, looked back to his window, hoping she was going to pull the curtain back and wave down at him.

She did. He saw her.

He saw her again, at his bedroom window, with a frown on her face. Her hair had tangled from her sleep, but that made her even more beautiful.

She raised her eyebrows at him, giving him the saddest look of emotions, begging him to come back up to her. He cracked a small smile, as he gripped the plane ticket in his hand.

He didn't do it. Instead, he let the last tears fall from his eyes as he squeezed them tight together. When he opened them again, she wasn't there. He was only imagining her. Of course he was. She hadn't been to his apartment in six months.

He swallowed hard and turned away. He walked off, his suitcase in one hand and his plane ticket in the other.

When he boarded the plane, he found her blue scarf in the pocket of his suitcase. He didn't even know he had put it there. He thought it had been thrown away with the rest of her things in that box. Except he didn't, and he was relieved.

He used the scarf to cover his face on the plane as he fell asleep. He dreamt about her, and what they could've been, and never was.

-

end

(written 2/22/14)