Remembering Sunday *Harry Styles Love Story*

  Chapter One

I sat at the edge of the dock. It was 5am, and it was getting bright. It wasn’t warm, but these days nothing is. When I think of warmth, the words ‘safe’ and ‘happy’ spring to mind. I hadn’t felt warm in a long time.

                I went there almost every morning, I had for about a year. Just sat at the edge, close enough to fall in, and watched the sun rise. I’d thought about falling in, on more than one occasion. Just ending it all. But I’m too much of a coward. Maybe in a way, that’s a good thing. I looked down at my arms, at the red lines that marked my wrists. I had never intended to start cutting. I don’t think anybody really does. It was just a spur-of-the-moment kind of thing. I don’t even remember making a conscious decision to pick up the knife and drag the sharp blade across my skin, but somehow, that’s what I did. Again, and again, and again. In a really whacked up way, it made me feel better. Taking things out on myself was easier than confronting other people. They say sticks and stones may break your bones but words will never hurt you, but that’s not true. In some ways, words cut deeper than any knife, because if you think too much about what other people think of you, it ultimately changes what you think of yourself. And you can have no bigger enemy than your own mind.

                I had the knife with me right now, inside my cardigan. I had to carry it around at all times. I don’t want to think about what would happen if my parents ever found it. Right now, holding the knife was the only purpose my cardigan was serving. The light, flimsy material didn’t shelter my skin from the cold at all. I pulled the knife out of the big pocket and just stared at the shiny surface of the blade. I always washed it after I used it. I had always been a bit of a neat-freak. I absentmindedly relaxed my vision, looking at my wrist as I shakily pulled the knife across it. Looking, but not really seeing in a way. I couldn’t feel anything at all; if I wasn’t watching, I probably wouldn’t have realized I was doing anything at all.

                “Wait!” a deep voice shouted. “Don’t move, please!”

                I whipped my head around to see what was going on, the wind blowing some of my hair in my face. I placed the knife carefully on my lap, resting it on my skinny jeans, and pushed the brunette locks back. A few feet away stood a tall boy with thick, dark curly hair that was falling over his own face. I could see that he was panting, his breath making shapes in the air. I frowned in confusion. “What?”

                “I’m going to come over to you, okay? Please, whatever it is you’re thinking about doing, just…don’t.”

                I continued to stare as he walked over to me, taking long strides, but he had a cautious look on his face. I swallowed hard, almost scared. Nobody ever seemed to come here, I was always alone. Also, this was the first time in a very long time that someone spoke to me without insulting me. Most people I knew would encourage me to plunge into the icy depths of the water, which was lapping at the stone wall of the ledge I was sitting on. He was a few steps away when he held up his hands. “It’s okay. I’m not gonna hurt you,” he assured me. “I come unarmed. You can trust me.”

                I scoffed. “I can’t trust anyone,” I whispered. I don’t think he heard, but he didn’t press me to repeat myself.

                “What’s your name?” he asked me.

                “I really don’t think you want to know…” I mumbled. I hated my name; I always had. I was bullied about it when I was younger. Nothing nearly as bad as the bullying I go through these days, though.