Always Have Paris

Chapter 1 • Carry You

"In all your blame
In all your pain
I will carry you always"

Carry You // Novo Amor

***

Me: ABBY ABBY ABBY 911 🚨🚑🚔😱‼️

Abs: Wtaf r u ok??

Me: Yes. Just wondering if ur coming over tonight for our movie/pizza thing.

Abs: You shithead I thought something happened.

Me: 💩 Sorry but you never reply if I don't do that.

Abs: My heart's still pounding and I always reply back in a timely manner.

Me: Sorry about ur pounding heart . . . *crickets chirping* are we still on?

Abs: Lol yes I'm leaving the pizza place rn.

Abs: And I'm sorry for calling you a shithead 😔 I feel bad.

Me: You should! 😝 Ok good and hey don't text and drive.

Abs: I never do that and you know it.

Abs: Oh yeah how did today go?

Me: 😳😬🤐 see you soon.

Abs: I hate u 😤

Me: I love me.

Me: *U love me 😑 bloody autocorrect.

Abs: 😂 that I do ❤️ u too.

Setting my phone on my nightstand, I smirk at the thought of Abby losing her shit over my first text. She's not an easy one to get so when it happens, I find it amusing.

Since she'll be here soon, I figure I should get out of bed and make myself look at least presentable. Groaning, I roll onto my back and rub my eyes. There's nothing like a four-hour nap, but I still feel tired.

It's our last year of uni and the fact that I probably won't be here to walk across the stage with Abby is killing me.

At least we had eighth grade and high school graduations together. Don't be so greedy, Harry.

The past few weeks have been crazy with my only music class that I've refused to drop and going to my appointments. It just feels like all the energy has been sucked out of me and I'm not used to feeling so weak.

Huffing out a frustrated breath, I roll myself out of bed and walk into the loo across the hall. After relieving myself, I wash my hands and I'm startled by my reflection.

Christ, I look awful.

I don't know why I'm surprised, though because I'm used to seeing bags underneath my eyes and hollow cheeks for months now.

Shaking my head in disgust, I grab my beanie from the counter and fit it over my bald and surgically scarred head. It's an interesting thing, really; I never cared for my brown curls until they started falling out.

"Still look handsome," I lie to my reflection, glancing down at my clothes and I shrug a shoulder.

There's no need to change out of my joggers and grey jumper and quite honestly, I'm too tired to change.

"And it's not a date," I tell myself while squeezing some toothpaste onto my toothbrush.

Abigail Judith Tucker and I have been best friends since her family moved down the street from me, my mum and older sister thirteen years ago in Holmes Chapel.