Stranded [harry styles] ✓

8

I feel a little childish asking Harry to turn away as I change out of my salty, sun crisped clothes and into something from the suitcases. He obliges politely and turns his body to face the sea with his arms folded across his tattooed chest. I'm well aware that Harry seeing me in the nude is completely irrelevant compared to the real challenges we're facing, but I'm determined to continue acting like my insecure young adult self. There's no way I'm allowing myself to evolve into Tom Hank's character in Cast Away. I'm not going to start talking to sports equipment. 

I pull my tattered shirt over my head; cringing at the blood stains on the left sleeve. The wound on my shoulder protests against the motion of the material sliding over it and I discard the fabric in the floral case laid out in front of me. It falls over the collection of bibs and petite velcro trainers like a safety blanket; shielding my eyes from the true horrors of its contents. I may have promised Harry positivity only, but it doesn't mean I will forget. I will never forget.

Despite feeling horribly exposed, the relief of taking off my bra is almost indescribable. Pools of sand fall around my feet as I release the clasps, revealing sore patches on my skin from where it has chafed. I feel a sudden urge to look up and confirm that Harry is still facing away. He is. 

My jeans are a challenge to get off. The denim has become stiff from its exposure to the sea water and I struggle to get the button undone. I almost cry with relief when it finally pops open and I wriggle out of them, the feeling of freedom almost overwhelming. I'm tempted to ban jeans from the rest of my life and kick them away from me as I slide out of my underwear.

From the pile of treasures that Harry and I managed to scavenge; I change into the swimsuit, the jersey shorts and one of the men's t-shirts. It's oversized and loose against my frame, despite the other garments a size smaller than I would usually purchase. I can't help thinking that if we continue on a diet of coconut chunks, these clothes will be a perfect fit anyway. I finish my incredibly stylish outfit with the floppy sunhat and suddenly feel incredibly reminiscent about a framed photograph in the front room of my home back in England. 

It's of my mother and I. I'm around the age of two, dressed in a particularly dashing pair of emerald dungarees and she's holding me above her head. We're both mid laughter; eyes twinkling and mouths wide. But my mind is focused on her head and the oversized floppy sunhat that adorns it. 

"You can turn around now." I call to Harry. He begins to head my way with a timid smile on his face, swallowing uncomfortably as he approaches. He's been like this since he finally released me from his iron grip. 

I want to tell him that he doesn't need to be embarrassed about being afraid. I want to reassure him that we are in this together and I know exactly how he's feeling. He doesn't need to put on a front or 'be a man'. 

But I can't tell him. Because I don't really know him and I don't want to undermine him. 

I would have told Addie in a heartbeat. I would have told Jules as soon as I realised. 

But with Harry, it isn't my place to say. 

"Nice outfit." He smirks once he's finally reached me. He's still wearing the canary shorts and I've finally persuaded him to wear the mauve bucket hut. 

He looks ridiculous. But so do I. 

"Thanks." I beam at him and perform a 360 spin like some sort of amateur model at a thrift store fashion show. He shakes his head. 

"Come on, I want to show you the water pool." He doesn't wait for my response, instead he begins gathering the water bottles and the empty sippee cups. I take some from him and follow his lead into the trees.