Living with Styles

twenty-four

*Bella's POV*

You know how I said things were getting better with Harry?

I take it back.

He's a despicable human being.

He left his own mother, who needed his help, because he was scared.

News flash! I've been scared my entire life. Did I leave? No. Because I'm not a wuss and I actually thought about how it would have an affect on my mother. She would start drinking, again. She only stopped because she knew she needed to clean up if she had to take care of me alone. Dad's death hit her so hard. When Harry left, it was too much for her.

But she cleaned up her act and put on a smile. I always loved her smile, even if it was fake.

-

"Isabella?" Harry says through my bedroom door.

We haven't spoke in a week.

I don't answer and continue looking through the old family photographs of the times when we were actually happy. And a family.

"Isabella, I need to talk to you." He persists.

"You're talking to me right now." I snap back.

He sighs and mumbles, "At least that's a start." And I'm pretty sure I hear him walk away.

I blow air of my nose and pick up a picture, studying it.

It's one I haven't seen before and looks fairly new, which is odd because I'm almost positive I know all 300+ pictures in this box.

It's a picture of me in a teal dress. I'm talking to a taller, curly haired boy.

I turn it over. In neat handwriting, it says: The Styles, May 8, 2014. Isabella's 15th birthday.

Who took this? One of the boys? Was it Perrie? I'm not sure and frankly, I don't really care. I like the picture. It's really nice. I'm smiling up at Harry and he's smiling down at me.

It's how I wish our relationship could be. But we're both so stubborn and unforgiving, it's never going to happen.

I set the picture inside my vanity mirror, just because I think it's cute.

We are siblings after all. No matter how much I hate Harold Edward Styles, he's still my brother.

"Isabella Whatever-Your-Middle-Name-Is Styles!" Harry bangs on the door. "We need to talk."

"I don't want to talk." I huff. "And it's Emelaine."

"What?"

"My middle name is Emelaine, you imbecile." I snap.

"Oh, that's pretty." His voice gets softer. "Can we please talk?" He sighs.

"No, Harold. I'm not talking to you." I cross my arms.

"You're talking to me right now." I can hear the smirk in his voice as he speaks through the door.

"Well, that's gonna stop." I say. "Goodbye, Harold." I lay back on my bed and close my eyes.

-

"Isabella Emelaine Styles, it's time to get up!!" I hear a deep, British voice say through my bedroom door.

I groan and pull the pillow over my head. I should of never told him my middle name. Ugh.

"No." I say into my pillow.

"Yes, Bell." A different voice says.

"Louis?" My head perks up.

"And me!" Says an Irish voice.