Lost

Chapter 12

     What's better than waking up to the sound of chirping birds singing exquisitely in the most perfect rythm similar to your heartbeat as the daylight brushes your skin? A wonderful aroma of freshly prepared maple waffles is overspreading all over the house making me drool.

      A combination of thoughts and fears keeps racking quickly back and forth about today's date by the time I finish brushing my teeth and exit the bathroom. My eyes are about to ball out of their sockets when I take in account that it's already 3pm and I haven't started getting ready yet.

      In a rush, I fill myself with the mouthwatering waffles, clearing up my plate. Afterwards I fly towards my messy room figuring out what to wear. Out of question if this wasn't to put a smile on mum's face, I wouldn't have even bothered to go on that date. Admisting all of my anger, I start having on a rose coloured  oddly flattering loose dress in little black ribbons dotted all over it's smooth fabric leaving my hair to hang messily in long beachy waves.

            

   Harry's POV.

     Overthinking. The word which pretty much sums up my state in the last few hours. My emotions kept drifting uncontrolably from anger to sadness to regret, the same cycle being repeated for atleast a billion times.

      Needless to say, I couldn't have cared less about the four luxurious ideal suits tucked faultlessly in my wardrobe.I just take one of them. After grabbing a granola bar, I slip in some random brown leather shoes . Pushing through the mahogony doors in that wealthy mansion,I rush to the cab hurriedly.

     The beautiful echo of peacefully singing sirens in the background fails to relax me that I might blow up from the nerve wracking mess inside of my head.

   Kaitlyn's POV.

     I penetrate the restaurant, it's greatly extensive and fanciful. There are 3 jazz players on a high, brown, well-polished stage, playing jazz melodies so professionally.

    "Madame? Tu a registere une table?" A burly waiter with a black mustache affirms with a foreign language that I believe is French.

    "Huh?"

   "A reserved table?"

   "Yea, I think so, a guy called Harry reserved one."

   "Monsieur Harry Styles? Pardon Madame! Your table is number 2 on the right, should I show you where is it?"

     Pardon is the only word I can get, which is sorry. Why is he even apologizing?

    "I'm fine, I'll find it myself." I tell him , hoping he would undestand me.

      It's just a few metres so I can meet him, what if he is mean? Or a player? I can clearly distinguish the table and I can markedly distinct a well-built guy sitting at the table numbered *2*. He's a guy with light brown curls and is wearing a black, glistening suit. He is surely a good-looking, elegant guy. I just keep approaching to him, feeling that my steps aren't ending that I just want to turn and run away.

   Harry's POV.

     I can obviously hear clincking of heels coming close to me. Is she here ? Yea , I think so. I just don't want to turn around. I can bear a soft hand patting on my shoulder repeatedly, followed by a softer squeak.

    "Are you Harry?" The girl says.

      I am just turning around , not evening finishing my turn when I realise that I've seen this angel-made-gorgeous face before. Where have I seen her before?