A Dreamers Dream

I'm missing half of me, when we're apart. Chicago, illinois. USA

Harry's perspective.

I dive almost headfirst into the back seat of the sleek black minivan with the dark tinted windows which, as always, was patiently waiting for me behind the back exit of the United Centre in Chicago where I have just finished another gig. Just six more stops to go and then two nights at the Forum in LA and that'll be it, my very first solo tour will be over. A small shudder runs down my spine at the thought. I adore touring, it is now and always has been, one of my favourite parts of my job – if you can call this a job – and the idea of finishing up not only this leg but the entire experience of travelling the world singing my first solo album in full almost every night will be over, and I'm not entirely sure what the fuck I am going to do with myself when it is. Especially now.

I nod a quick hello to Stuart who is driving the van tonight and click my seatbelt into place as he weaves his way smoothly into the late-night traffic, Leaning down towards the footwell, I retrieve my trusty Gucci bag and start rummaging around inside to locate my phone figuring I'll get a head start on the to-do list email I always send myself each evening to remind me what I need to do the following day. That way, I can just crash out when I get back to my room, which is all I wanna do. I haven't been sleeping well this past week or so. Urgh, who am I kidding? I haven't been sleeping well since it's been just me alone in the huge king size beds in the various hotel rooms up and down the country. At least once every night, I wake up confused, having reached over to wrap my arms around my girl only to find air and cool empty sheets. The disappointment never fails to overwhelm me every single time, and I end up laying in the darkness, contemplating where it all went wrong until my tired brain finally drifts back into unconsciousness. 

Every day since Stuart told me that Maddie had come to see me in New York, I've been sending her poetry, nothing that I've written myself, I'm not that brave. As much as I like to dabble in writing the odd verse, I know my talents lie elsewhere, so I rely on the greats to put my point across for me, to try and explain what I am feeling, to try and show her how much I miss her, how much I wish she was here with me still. It's the best I can manage until the tour is over and I can go and see her in person. I send out each package first thing in the morning, right after breakfast, along with a carefully tied bunch of wildflowers and overnight them to LA, to the hotel room which is the only address that I have for Maddie, hoping and praying that she's still there and that she is receiving them. As I haven't had any kind of reply or acknowledgement to a single one, I can't be sure. But something in my gut tells me that she does, and I can't help but sit and wonder what she is thinking when she gets them. Does she bring the flowers to her cute button nose to inhale the fresh scent of the stems of bluebells, coneflowers and the many others that I can't name? Or does she toss them straight in the bin without a second thought letting them wilt away to nothing but brown dust? Does she curl up on her hotel bed and read the poems that I painstakingly handwrite for her in my clumsy scrawl as I try and hold back the tears that threaten to spill over my eyelids and ruin the pages? Or does she screw up the unopened envelopes and discard them without ever reading a word?

I'm desperate to find out. At least twice a day I sit with my phone in my hand, index finger hovering over the 'call' button next to her name in my contacts list, but for some reason, I can't quite bring myself to press it. The whole time we aren't communicating, there is a slither of hope. I can, sometimes, manage to convince myself that as much as we aren't together right now, as much as it feels like we couldn't be any further apart, she hasn't told me to stop sending them, and that means that there is still hope for us. If I pick up the phone and hear her voice, that beautiful, soft British accent that instantly reminds me of home and sends a warm fluttering through my stomach, and she tells me once and for all that it's over, that I have to leave her alone, that she doesn't love me anymore... Well, I just don't think I can handle that right now. So like the coward I am, I don't press the button. I just stare at her name for a few minutes before begrudgingly shoving my phone back in my pocket and trying to distract myself with the mundane tasks of the day.