About (Harry Styles)

57.

Songs:

I'll Be Good - Jaymes Young

Only You - Matthew Perryman Jones

Harry's POV

"Harry?" A voice from beside me says cautiously. My eyes travel to hers in an instant, her gaze enough to guide me back to reality. And to be honest, I don't know whether to be more afraid or relieved that she's found me with my bracelet in my hand.

My bracelet?

It's her's now. It's no longer in my possession. I gave up that right when I precariously shoved this back in her face even though I probably hurt her enough.

She's not the only one who regrets what they said. My exchanging words weren't pleasant either. And it pains me to know that even after the things I've told her, after cheaply telling her I didn't have one sliver of respect for her, she still had the inclination to keep this. I imagined she would have thrown it away, and sometimes I wish she had. But would that stop me ever from wanting to run to her, from thinking about her?

Never.

Without another careless thought, I surge from the bed. I close the small, dwelling distance between us and constrict my arms around her. Her arms remain by her sides for a short moment before she brings them up. There's no doubt the comfort she provides as they wound their way around my back is enough as her soothing hands rub on my back. Holding her like this feels so right. The thought of her being held by someone else .. I don't ever want to lose her. Not again.

"What's wrong Harry?" She asks.

What's wrong? What's right is the question. What's the right thing to do. I don't even know anymore.

"What is it?" She expresses her concern again. "Please tell me."

"I'm sorry," I mumble in a low hush as my arms grasp onto her tighter.

"Sorry? About what?" She asks softly. I feel her trying to pull away, but I don't dare budge, hoping she understands that I want to hold her for a bit longer.

"I don't know," I pause, hoping the appropriate word comes to me, but it never does. When I'm distraught like this, I'm not any good with words. 

She chuckles, the sound somehow cramming me with guilt. "It's a little early to be drunk, Harry."

"I'm not drunk."

"You're not making any sense so I'm assuming you're drunk," she tells me lightheartedly. Her arms give me one final squeeze before she manages to pull away. The twinkle in her eyes disappears as she studies my face, her faded red lips curving into a frown. "What is it? Tell me."

"Everyone around me thinks I'm good. That I'm a good person," I sigh, picking my words with forethought. "What if I'm not?"

She looks at me, almost baffled. Hurt even that I would even question the goodness in me. I know everyone around us has been telling her the same thing over and over again - that I'm good. That I'm this good person. Nothing but the bloody word. I wish they wouldn't praise me so much, especially to her.

"You are good, Harry," she says to me, her delicate hands positioning themselves on my cheeks, forcing our eyes to collide. Her's filled with so much honesty and so much warmth. I close my eyes, and shake my head at her words, but she firmly argues, "You are. Not because so many people told me that you are. They don't need to tell me. I know you would never hurt anybody. Not on purpose. And I know you feel terrible for the things you said when you gave this back to me," she breaks away her gaze to look at the bracelet in my hands. "If it came from anyone else, I wouldn't have cared less. But it was you. I don't know why your opinion mattered so much to me. Even from the beginning. What I'm trying to say is, you can't be good all the time. But you're a good person. You wouldn't feel bad if you weren't. I wish you wouldn't be so hard on yourself."