26 Letters ( A Harry Styles AU )

B stands for Bed sheet

I wanted to post this one today, to make up for the short first one, even though it isn't very long either. But please, let me know what you think in the comments below, and vote, fan, whatever you feel like doing. :)

~Cat xx

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

B stands for bed sheet

The bedsheets don't smell like her anymore. They don't smell like them. Harry releases his tight hold on her pillow and puts it back next to his. “I hate this.” He thinks to himself. Harry is alone in the empty flat. The empty flat with the violet living room where the elephant picture hung, where the fat, lumpy couch sat, on which countless evenings had been spent watching old Doctor Who episodes on Netflix, and where various intimate acts had occured. The empty flat with the red-walled bedroom and the sun painted on the ceiling. The empty flat with the wooden floors that were covered by random carpets to block out the cold during winter. The empty flat with too many memories. Harry gets out of bed and stretches He looks at himself in the body-length mirror and shudders. That boy, that almost man, staring back at him is not Harry. He's hollow looking almost, his cheekbones are more prominent, and faintly, the edges of his hips can be seen through his sweatpants. Eat more. Harry makes a mental note to himself, even though he knows he won't. Right now, it feels that if someone was to walk into the room at that moment and merely whisper in his ear he would surely be swept away like a leaf in the wind. That isn't a feeling he liked, but he makes no move to fix it, he hasn't for the past month and a half. It has been 10 minutes Harry's been staring at his reflection, willing it to morph into his former self. But he doesn't believe it can happen, not without her.

No breakfast again this morning. Just staring blankly at the news reporters that were on his television screen. He waits for the words as he does every Sunday morning, even if he doesn't listen to them. Once he'd figured out they said the same thing each time he doesn't bother, it just causes even more emotions than necessary. The weather comes on, the celebrity gossip, the community happenings, etcetera.

Then....

“Now, we come back to the case of-”

Harry mashes his thumb down on the power button, abruptly ending the woman's voice as she tells again the last story he ever wants to hear.

Harry's feet pound on the steps as he runs up them. Near the top he stumbles and quickly grabs the railing to right himself. But he does not slow down. Tears stream furiously down his cheeks as he flings the door of the closet open and dives in. He seats himself between two boxes, one labeled “Records” and the other “Camera Stuff” He places his index finger against the R, tracing his way along the word. Harry is almost a grown man. He shouldn't be acting like this, he tells himself. But still, he sit in the closet full of her things and imagined she's still here. Her copper hair falling across her face as she cooked, only to be brushed aside in annoyance. Harry imagines she is yelling at him to get out of the shower, to stop wasting water. That she was reading in the breakfast nook, her schoolwork spread out across the table, still not put away from the night before. He thinks about dropping her off at university for her morning classes, coming back in the afternoon bearing some kind of treat from the local bakery. Even if it's going to make him more depressed, he lets himself think these things. For a moment, he even thinks he heard her footsteps coming up the stairs. But they stop, and he continues to cry.

“Harry?” A soft voice calls out. And Harry lets his brain go wild.

Looking up he sees it's only his mother., but he is happy for the familiar face. She leans into the closet and Harry screams. This is his place, even if is was his mother standing in front of him, he does not care. Nobody is allowed in the closet except for him. They could take something. Or make it smell different. Or....

His mother looks frightened. Her son's eyes are bloodshot and his cheeks wet. The edges of his flannel shirt are crumpled in is hands. She sits down outside of the closet and looks at him. Harry looks back. They stay there for a moment and suddenly, Harry lunges out of the closet towards his mother, wrapping his arms around her. She rubs his back as he sobs.

He shouldn't be acting like this, he is almost a grown man. He tells himself.