summer love ∞ h. s.

0.5

i'm actually super duper surprised that this has gotten over twenty reads in like day LOL. thank you guys so much! please remember to vote when you finish a chapter and i'll love you even more than i already do ♫

love,
wishie

∞

jasmine

When I closed the front door and locked it, I pressed my back against it, letting out a breath I'd been holding in all evening.

Renee, who had obviously passed out on the sofa, sat up, turning the lamp on. "Where the hell have you been? What happened to your makeup?"

I ignored her. I hadn't forgotten the text she'd sent me, calling me a bitch. That had stung. I didn't want to talk to her. Without so much as a glance in her direction, I took my shoes off and stormed down the hall to my room.

"Oh, real mature, Jasmine!" she yelled after me.

I didn't care if I was being immature. For Christ's sake, just because I'd lost my parents didn't mean I didn't get to be a child. I was still seventeen. I was still a kid. Sometimes, I wanted to act to like one. If only Renee would let me.

I tossed my shoes into the floor of my closet, slamming my door closed and throwing myself onto my bed. I always did this. After a rough day, I'd lie out on my bed and stare at the ceiling. My childhood was filled with memories of my ceiling.

Tonight, I had met Harry Styles. I'd caused his beautiful green eyes to fill to the brim with pain.

That's just what I did, huh? I always hurt people. I hurt Renee by simply existing. I hurt my grandmother by reminding her too much of my late mother. I hurt myself. Not physically, no, I'd never been that depressed. Emotionally.

I always told myself their death was my fault. They were on the way to my piano recital, after all. Renee had told me once or twice that it was my fault too. She'd apologized eventually, but the words still hung in the air, no matter what came after them.

I remembered the call. I was in the middle of playing The Notorious Pirate when my piano teacher, Mrs. Pierce, who had been on the phone, tapped me on the shoulder. "Jasmine. . . Jasmine, come with me." She took me into the foyer of her home, ignoring the strange looks we received. "There's, um. . . There's been an accident. Your mother is in the hospital."

I just remember. . .fear. I had already been terribly nervous before the recital because this was the first time I was playing a piece by memory for an entire audience. At that point, I don't know how I managed to keep from vomiting. My stomach was in so many knots and filled to the brim with furious butterflies. My throat felt swollen; I could barely breathe. Heat was rising from my neck to my ears and cheeks.

I simply blinked. "What about Dad?"

Her cracked lips pressed into a thin line. I could see the pain and struggle in her gray eyes. I already knew the answer before she spoke it. "There was a collision. He didn't make it, Jasmine."

And an hour later, my mother had passed in the operating room.

I hadn't touched a piano since that night.

At some point, in my silent tears, I'd fallen asleep. I suppose I was exhausted enough that I could comfortably pass out on top of the covers, still in my clothes from the concert. My sleep was empty, dark, and cold. I rarely dreamed anymore, and when I did, they were always nightmares.

The next morning was a struggle. My eyes were embarrassingly swollen from all the crying I'd done, and my neck ached because I hadn't slept on my pillow. As I showered and washed away all the pain from the previous night, my mind was empty and numb. I did not think of Harry. I did not think of Sierra. But best of all, I did not think of Renee or anyone else who'd attacked me on Twitter.

Standing in the steamy bathroom, I stared into the large mirror. Though it was fogged up, I could still see my figure, my curves and my small chest. I'd always been made fun of at school for having the smallest boobs in class. They were just barely B cups. Sierra would tell me that my curves made up for it, but no one else said that. No one.

Pursing my lips, I threw on my fluffy pink bathrobe, grabbed the washcloth I'd used in the shower, and walked back into my room, pressing the washcloth against my eyes.

All my life, if I cried, my eyes would get puffy. To make the swelling go down, I'd have to put a wet washcloth over them for a while. My mother had taught me that.

I tried to ignore the constant buzzing of my phone as I waited for the swelling to decrease. I could only hope it was positive tweets, but I highly doubted that.

Finally, though, I set the washcloth on the end table, rubbed my eyes, and checked my phone.

Hundreds of tweets and DMs. Oh, so some of the hate had been from people I was following? My heart ached a little.

They were all. . .apologies. Everyone was telling me how sorry they were for blindly attacking me.

And then I saw it; I saw him.

Harry Styles had followed me on Twitter.

I almost laughed when I realized I hadn't been following him before. I didn't follow any celebrities, though. I only followed people I actually knew. Maybe that was why I only had 21 followers.

"Holy shit." I couldn't help but swear when I saw how many followers I had now; 2046. Two thousand and forty-six followers!

I was smiling like an idiot, and although I probably should've made a tweet about the situation last night, I didn't. I closed out the app and went to my texts.

Good morning, I hope you slept well. I'd love if you could come to our hotel room when you wake up. It's room 239 at the Hilton on University.

I couldn't move. I wasn't breathing. Was my heart even beating? I didn't know.

Harry fucking Styles had just invited me to his hotel room.