destined. | h.s

13. home

Ariella’s P.O.V

Our bags and other travel things are already piled up in the car. We checked out of Manfred Hotel and is waiting for another van for those who can’t come in anymore in the car, you know, capacity problems.

Some had tears pricking their eyes saying they’ll miss London and that they wish their parents allow them to study here. It sure was a wicked fun being in London, but somehow it weirdly felt like home to me. Like I’ve been here before or it’s my homecoming. I don’t feel like sobbing even just one bit, I don’t like poignant moments anymore, I’ve had enough for the whole trip.

Then a black van honked–what’s the purpose of that again–stopping in front of us, doors automatically opening. We all went in and looked once more at the hotel that accommodated us, and went to Heathrow airport, and finally, home.

We reached an hour early before flight, so we had to sit for a few more minutes ‘til check in. I took a few pictures for souvenir–I’m a tourist, okay–and uploaded it while we’re still allowed to use phones.

“Are the boys coming?” Abi asks, the same exact question I have, too, which I wanted to ask, but I guess, I won’t be getting any answers. “Ariella?” Abi diverts my attention to her; unknowingly the question was for me to be answered. “Hmmph, oh yeah, I, uh, don’t know. Maybe not” I guess.

But my theory was pounded hard into thin pieces floating away with the air, when the boys came, luckily, with no cameras or fans swarming around. I tried looking away to search for photographers hiding under chairs or in different corners. And typical couple Abi and Liam hugged firstly, and then went to some place in the airport to talk or bid farewells. Niall, Louis and silent Zayn whom I never got the chance to really have a chat with got engage to conversation with Claire and Debbie, saying hi to us of course.

One thing, that I almost didn’t notice until Eric noticed is, “Where’s Harry?” and they all looked at me, with widened eyes, “What?”–which I may have said a little stern, sure I was fine with him having something significant to do, but I was a bit pissed, because you never know that once I studied here–or maybe if I do–I’ll never see him again, because of a busy pop star business. And my little unyielding question at their reaction was followed by a few mumble of, “nothing.”

Oh, forget it. I’m only going to miss the London air. Still, I’m curious what is he doing this time around?

“He’s uh, busy with the publicity stunt with Rebecca.” Now, Zayn can read my mind, even though we haven’t had one real conversation, except hi and hellos. I’d be lying if that didn’t hurt one single bit, maybe, 0.01 percent of pain.

I kept a smile that’s not tiring on, just so that I don’t get to be seen being sentimental about that or else they’ll think all of it in a different direction. And, that connects to what London changed in me, I got more conscious of what the public thinks, sees, or feels about me. That walk of shame in our ‘thank you’ group nigh out was dumb Ariella thinking.

Maybe, maybe there are a lot that are worth to be part of my hall of memories, but there are lot that should be trashed also. Like, those tears I shed, and the Harriella trending on twitter world freaking wide.

And I was thinking too deep, I haven’t notice he was waving his palm in front of my face that distracted me from my thoughts. “Are you okay, is something going on?” He spoke. I looked away from the greyish wall I’ve been staring for minutes, to see him, green eyes and dimpled smile. “Nah, I was playing staring game with the wall.”

It was as if I am examining his face that made me spot a lipstick on the side of his cheek, I decided to joke him by singing She Looks So Perfect while at the same time pointing at the stain, “Her lipstick stain is a work of art, you’ll get her name tattooed in an arrow heart, and I know now, you got a cozy day, hey, hey, hey–”