ripped jeans | hes

eighty nine

a random and probably unwanted piece of advice for new writers: take your time with your stories! the most fun part about writing is the build up---creating the foundation of deep, realistic and beautifully intricate relationships through a surplus of events. You don't need to rush, the more you rush, the less meaningful the "dramatic" events/plot twists  will seem :) 

Ok also my story was randomly deleted for a few hours but *obviously* it's back and better than ever! Sorry if it frustrated anybody-it frustrated me, too! Thank you guys for being patient.

-Gigi

I heard the bountiful crash and ringing of the glass bottle shattering against the kitchen tiles, followed by a groaned curse. I wiped my eyes with my thumb.

I shakily stepped off the couch and ran into the kitchen, finding Harry staring intensely at the glass pieces that sprinkled the tiled floor, blood curling down his fingers.

"Harry..." I gawked. "Why are you throwing fucking glass?"

"Because I'm pissed off!" He carded his hands through his hair. "You piss me off!"

"Then instead of throwing fucking glass," I screamed at him. I never screamed at him, not like this, not at the top of my lungs, my throat scratchy as it reached it maximum and my lungs out of breath. "Use your fucking words!"

"Don't. Addison. I'm already pissed off." Harry jabbed a bloody finger at me, his lips curling. "Don't you fucking scream at me."

"So, you're just going to break up with me?!" I screamed again, pushing him.

"Don't step in the fucking glass! Addison! You're going to get hurt!" He gestured at the glass that I was carelessly stepping on. "Addison!"

"I said," I pushed him again, rougher this time. "I said I was sorry! I said it was a mistake! I said I would make sure we worked out!" I shoved him again. "And you're not even going to try? You're just going to break up with me because it's easier than to try? You coward! You fucking coward! You're a fucking coward, Harry Styles!" I gave him one last shove, his back slamming against the fridge. My screams became hysterical as I began to cry again. "Say something! Say something!"

I was surprised that he let me shove him around for so long. He was like a rag doll, just letting me push him around as I expressed my anger.

"I don't want to do long distance!" Harry suddenly woke up, his chest puffing out and his hoarse voice booming.

I took a step back.

"I want to wake up everyday with you laying on me! I want to drive you crazy every waking moment and kiss you whenever I want! I want to see you laugh at my jokes! I know I'd still be leaving for tour, but at least we would've had three months together until I left! We have three weeks! Three fucking weeks and you're gone! Just like that-just like that you're leaving me!" He leaned against the fridge, as if he were going to fall over.

He shut his eyes for a moment, taking a shallow breath through his noise, before looking up at me again, his eyes bloodshot. His voice was different this time, it was quiet, it was shy. "But I want you to be happy. And if writing in Philadelphia makes you happy, just fucking do it."

I looked at him wistfully, tears streaming down my cheeks and onto the glass-covered floor.

He sighed. "You're a fucking adult. It's a free country. Do whatever the fuck you want."

I bit my bottom lip harshly and sniffed before grabbing the First Aid kit from the pantry closet and opening it. We were both quiet as I took out cleansing wipes and a bandaid.