Bittersweet

Two

“Let’s go.” He started off and I followed him. “So, what’s your name?”

“Alice Greenfield. What’s yours?”

“Hm, Alice.” He hummed. It made me smile. “My name’s Harry Styles and I am 21.”

“I’m 20. I’ll turn 21 soon, so I can drink alcohol legally.” I grinned.

“I see. So you’re the kind of… alcohol-lover girl?” He wiggled his eyebrows and I burst into laughter.

“No!” I protested intensely. “Turn left.” I instructed him. “I’m not a drinker. That’s the bottom line. People always enhance drinking when adulthood comes to talk. I think it’s kind of idiotic.” I admitted.

“You’re right, I agree.” At the moment he nodded, there was a huge thunder.

I jumped a bit, and my eyes began to water a bit. In my whole life I could be easily scared, and here I am; almost 21 and have morbid fear of storms.

“Hey, take it easy! It’s only a storm.” He tried to comfort me with his hands on the top of my back. His touch felt like an electric shock.

“Nobody understands. I think I have an astraphobia.” I stated with an unemotional face.

“What’s that?” He asked in a British accent.

“Fear of stor-“ And there was a thunder, then a lightning. Good job, keep it up! “I think we should hurry. You’ll get a cold; you won’t be able to show your magical voice to the ladies.” I laughed while staring at his smirk.

“I don’t really care about ‘ladies’,” He drew apostrophes in the air. “I care about myself and I think it’s the way it has to be. I have plenty of time to fall in love, and even if I won’t, books are there for me.”

“You spoke from my heart. Really.” I flipped my brunette hair over my shoulder.

“And, what do you spend your free time with?” He thrust his hands into his pockets.

“I like reading and painting for most of the time. What about you?”

“Painting, really? That’s a good thing. Well, I like reading, just like you. And writing. That’s my favourite free time activity, actually. You know, just forget about the world, and put your thoughts on the paper.” He said in his raspy voice.

“Yes, that’s the same about me. Painting and writing are almost the same thing, you can say. Both of them are self-expressions.” I felt a raindrop falling on my skin. And another.

 “True. But why are we talking about things like this?” He wondered and looked at me.

“Maybe because we’re into them in similar ways.” I said and he nodded.

For a couple of minutes we walked in awkward silence. The sound of the rainfall was the only thing I heard, until my conscience told me to speak.

“Um, where do you live?”

“At the suburb.” He answered. He was tired, I could tell from his voice.

“Oh, that’s far from here. You shouldn’t have came with me, I mean it’s 10 kilometres.”

“Tell me about it. I’ve already walked way too much more than 10 kilometres.” He coughed.

 “I’ll take you there with my car. It’s about 10 minutes. A lot better, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it is.”

I noticed that the atmosphere became a bit frosty.

“Is there anything wrong?” I asked him.