Harry Styles.

Only Angel

Sunlight beamed through stained-glass windows, illuminating the church in brilliant shades of red, green, and blue. Dew trickled down a carving of Jesus, from the corner of his eye to his jaw, as He watched over the communion, arms outstretching toward His followers. One in particular sat in the back with long legs spread wide and white-knuckled fingers interlaced between them. His face was concentrated, and his closed eyes suggested this concentration was fixated on something beyond the confinements of St. Joseph's Cathedral. He listened as the choir began its final hymn. Sopranos and altos rose in harmony; with them rose the listener's heartbeat. He recalled the night before, amid the haze of drunken stupor. A silhouetted curvaceous woman flashed in highlight reels. His eyes zipped back and forth behind clenched lids. He bit his bottom lip until he drew blood. Unable to contain himself, he—

"Harry?" asked the priest, shaken by the man's abrupt movement. "Is everything all right?"

Harry stood in the aisle, clutching a Holy Bible against the fastidious rise and fall of his chest. His shoulder-length curls were a disheveled heap. The choir had ceased; all eyes analyzed Harry's tall figure, leaving him vulnerable to their scrutiny and judgment. He cleared his throat.

"I saw this angel."

"Why, yes, I'm sure you have. We see them every—"

"No." Harry grunted, running ring-clad fingers through his mane. "I really saw an angel."

"Would you like to share your experience with us?"

Dropping the bible, Harry rushed through the double doors. He dialed your phone number and bit his thumb nail while awaiting an answer.

"Hi. You've reached Y/N. I obviously didn't answer, so you should leave a message. Kisses."

"Hey, Y/N. It's me. Let's meet tonight. Same place as before, yeah?"

Harry's Ford Capri revved to life. He sped onto the roadway, top down, stereo blasting, long curls running wild in the wind. The midmorning air was crisp, untouched by impending humidity. It aerated Harry's pours. He felt alive, but it was a different sort. He couldn't pinpoint it—something between worldly existence and immortality.

A stoplight approached. Yellow fluorescents buzzed. Lowering his sunglasses, Harry gripped the steering wheel and accelerated. Pedestrians glared, wide-eyed. Surrounding drivers stepped on their brakes; a few even honked. The light turned red. Adrenaline coursed through Harry like the panacea of God. Intersecting cars lurched to a halt. Harry weaved tire marks in asphalt the way you carved markings in his skin.

Exhaling, Harry beat his fist against the dashboard and laughed. He drove this way for miles, invigorated by dopamine and the thought of you.

A convenience store appeared on the horizon. Harry pulled into the lot, perfectly centering his car in a front spot. He meandered up and down aisles, grabbing evening essentials: popcorn, condoms, cheap booze, a bouquet of wildflowers. He contemplated purchasing chocolate, but he wasn't sure what type you preferred (mini candies filled with chocolate? chocolate bars? and if it were chocolate bars, what filling? caramel? nougat? peanuts? and what about the type of chocolate? white? milk? dark?). Actually, he didn't know if you even liked chocolate. It didn't matter to him anyhow. No need for sweets when he was happy getting you stuck in between his teeth.

Realizing chocolate was overrated, he chose shortbread cookies instead.

"Hi, dearie," said a middle-aged woman at the register. "How're you today?"

"I'm fi–oh for fuck's sake." Harry patted his jeans and rummaged through his jacket pockets. "I seem to have forgotten my wallet. Could you hold on to these? I'll be back in a tick."

The woman smiled and nodded, setting aside the products as Harry exited. Halting in the doorway, he threw his arms in the air.

"Shit on a chav," he said, examining the front tire. "You gotta be fucking kidding." He kicked the flattened rubber and spat in the opposite direction. There was no spare in the trunk; he'd lent it to a stranded stranger a few months prior and hadn't replaced it. He wasn't entirely a believer of karma, but a fleeting thought told him he should be granted good fortune. The church taught him there was no need for fortune when someone had God. Every thread of his being wished to believe it.

Maybe someday, but not this day.

Unlocking the car, he searched for change and came out short. He leaned against the hood and attempted to call you.

"Hi. You've reached Y/N. I obviously didn't ans—"

Click.

Harry's house wasn't far: a mile or so down the lane. He ditched his jacket in the car, tossed his curls in a bun, slid on his sunglasses, and carried on.

Westward clouds rolled in, rumbling every few minutes. It seemed meteorologists were wrong again when they predicted no rain for the entire week. Harry increased his stride. He texted you, knowing you were busy but hoping you'd soon reply. He didn't love you (at least he thought) and he knew you didn't love him; he was the only one who'd ever truly done that. Not in a narcissistic way, but in the way people are supposed to love themselves—with respect and dignity and knowledge of self-worth. Ironically, when it pertained to you, Harry lost cognizance of that. You were his angel.

His only angel.

Rain soaked into his shirt and blurred his lenses. He started running. Goosebumps rose along his arms and neck before an increasing heartbeat warmed him. Surroundings grew fuzzy as he sprinted. He blew past stop signs and took necessary shortcuts; he splashed through puddles, careless of how drenched he was; he slipped on slick pavement and stumbled, cutting his palms; he breathed heavily on his hands and knees, exhaling remnants of stupor. Blinking away water, he found himself at the steps of your dormitory.

     He shivered on the way in. Windows reflected a blue-lipped, hapless man. He wheezed with each step. When he reached you, he practically broke a finger knocking on your bedroom door. You answered after five knocks. Harry crashed into you, mouth hungry for something only you could satiate. He lifted your hips and clung to you for warmth. You were taken aback but quickly igniting.

     The rest of the evening was a whirlwind of devils in between sheets. And there was nothing you could do about it.