Harry Styles.

Two Ghosts

A knock at Harry's door startled him from slumber. He'd fallen asleep on the couch after swimming round a few bottles of Mourvèdre. Knuckling rheum from his eyes, he shuffled to the foyer. Your shadow cast itself on the side panels visible through the window. Harry's heart would've halted if it hadn't already forgotten how to beat.

He walked to the kitchen, opened the fridge, sighed into its emptiness, and grabbed the bottle of scotch you'd gifted him, the one he'd been afraid to open. It sat on his countertop, gathering dust, haunting his addiction the way you haunted his nightmares. With a swig of alcohol, he attempted to cleanse himself of you; but there you were, moon dancing over your good side as you reapplied red lipstick.

You looked so real.

Soreal.

Surreal.

"Still wearing the same white shirt, Ι see."

Harry joined you at the kitchen table and stomached another swig.

"You remember when Ι'd wash it and wear it so you could never forget my scent?"

Harry nodded. Lavender and honey filled his senses, somehow more intoxicating than the liquor. He peeled off the garment and tossed it in the overflowing garbage can.

"You got a couple more tattoos?" you said, tracing the eagle on his forearm. He tried to remove your hand but couldn't touch what he saw.

"Why are you here?"

"I️ want to be like we used to be."

Harry stood and scoffed. He grabbed a glass of ice and filled it, mind buzzing from the cocktail of alcohol and your overwhelming presence. He thought there'd be solace in bed, but you were there, too, blanketed by his silken sheets. Laying above the covers, Harry balanced the half-empty glass atop his desolate ribcage.

"This was all we used to need," you murmured, inching closer.

"We're not who we used to be." The ice clanked against the glass with Harry's hoarse words. "You're not you, and Ι'm not me."

"Then who are we?"

Harry turned to face you. Only a ticking clock on the side table returned his vacant stare, vaguely reminding him of a heartbeat. He rolled over, placed the glass in your illusory imprint, and spent the rest of the night listening to the clock's pulse, pretending it was coming from his chest.