I remember Harry Styles. I remember his massive, curly, brown hair and just how soft it was if you ran your hands through it the right way. His green eyes. His green eyes that shone like emeralds if you looked at them in the perfect angle of light. They went on forever. Endless tunnels.
He was my first everything. First dance, first love, first time, the list goes on.
He had to leave me. He had to go entertain the world with his beautiful voice, a voice that was only known by those close to him for the longest time. He started to express an interest in singing and music, and I knew he was a goner. He’d been sucked in to the unrealistic dream everyone gets every now and then.
He wanted to be a famous singer. It didn’t matter if he had to leave his friends and family back home; he wanted this more than anything. He did what anyone would do. Put in an application for The X-Factor, dumped his long-time girlfriend, and packed his suitcase to audition for a TV show, hoping for the best.
Then, the strangest thing happened. He got through. Suddenly, his worries floated away. I saw it week by week. He wasn’t allowed to contact anyone other than his family and tell them about what happened, but I saw his progress. They put him in a band. Before that, I saw him cry. I hadn’t seen that much emotion from him since he left.
He came crawling back to me after the show was over, of course. He wanted me back, and suddenly, this “I need to focus on my career,” turned into, “I’ve got a good career ahead of me now. I can get any girl I want, but taking you back seems right.”
Of course, I refused. He left me for fame, and since he got fame, he couldn’t have me.
I kept it up pretty well for roughly two years.
Then, he came back. His eyes were pleading. I cried. He cried. I realized how broken I was over those two years.
Did I want to take him back?
Do birds fly?
