Carolina and The Fan Non-fiction | H.S

Nineteen

H A R R Y

My hands shake as I put my phone down beside me. My thoughts run a mile, joined by my heart going manic against my chest. I don't think I can do it. I don't think she remembers. Or if that is too strong of a claim, I don't think she wants to do anything with me.

But I thought about the lengths that I took today to find any way to connect to her. It doesn't feel right to chicken out now that I'm at the end course.

I had been in UK for about over a week now, celebrating my birthday with my family in a peaceful break over at Manchester. Three days ago, I came here in London to check on my Hampstead home and gather some things I wanted to bring with me to America. And also, to finally have this day to myself to do anything I wished to do alone. Usually, I'd be at Sillons and then Barbican like I always do just to relax. Today, I went to find her.

I drove to Bloomsbury, back to Sillons, disappointed to not find her in the table I first saw her in, or in any table there at all. Then I drove to Chandler House, where the landlord threatened to call the cops for my insistent request to get even just contact information. I've been told Vivien moved out and was denied any answer as to where she went.

The landlord was a tall burly man, probably in his 50s. He had very obvious lines in his forehead making me think he was always an angry man. He had a teenage boy with him who was kind enough to go through data files, slipping me a tiny piece of paper where Vivien's number was scribbled on. I gave him a smile as I walked out from his, I suppose, father ranting about my presence.

My Audi broke down a few blocks away from my house, having not used it for months. With it towed, I walked home, not minding the few residents who have peered at my presence.

And now, here I am, scared to call her, stopping before I got the chance to be received.

I couldn't get her out of my mind even if I tried. I thought that after having met tons of new people and having new things to do at Los Angeles, it would slip off me eventually but my subconscious knew better. I was distracted with Dunkirk and album preparations but I always drifted back to her in moments I'm not. I couldn't seem to take the things that happened between us in one night with a grain of salt.

I couldn't escape her even in LA, where I imagined what it would be like if she did study in UCLA and we could see each other the whole time. Everywhere I look, the damn palm trees weren't just palm trees to me anymore. They take me back to Barbican. When my recording team decided to take a quick break by watching a movie, we watched The Notebook and I found myself waiting for the 'they were crazy about each other' line and relive finishing her sentence.

I told Mitch, my new co-writer, producer, and guitarist about her, about what we did. He called me cheesy. "In general," he clarified, "and not just in the part where you pretended to be Prince Eric." I told him Vivien called me cheesy, too. He said he liked that. He asked me if he'll ever get to meet her. I told him I'm asking the same thing.

I thought that expelling all that to him will allow me to let go of that night and treat it as simply a story that was meant to be told. But then I kept thinking about how Vivien made an impression on Mitch and yet it was only through my narration that he knew about her. She is that kind of person. She is that special.

And because she's special, I take my phone again. I dial the number as my heartrate soared way beyond normal. My palms sweat as I wait with bated breath for her to answer.

"Hello?"

I was struck. The dulcet tone of her voice embraced my ears. It was delicate, honeyed, and like summer. It was comforting but there was so much trepidation all over my body that I couldn't bring myself to speak. I didn't know what to say. I regretted not practicing a speech. After all, I was planning to come back into her life after long months of nothing. I had to have something.

"Hello?"

She repeated. I could hear her eagerness to hear me, the caller. I open my mouth, only a low 'uh' making it out. It was too muffled for her to hear.

"Um, hello?"

She repeated again, this time with a hint of infuriation. At this point, my worry had completely rendered my tongue silent. I couldn't bring myself to start speaking now that she's was growing annoyed. So I waited. I waited until she hung up.

Then I stood from the couch, pacing around the living room like a total fool, frustrated of my own doing, cursing myself under my breath. Fuck, fuck, fuck. That was my chance and I blew it. If I call again, she'll probably block me out of precaution and annoyance.

I'll give it a few hours. I'll call when I'm in New York. I am bound to fly out there tomorrow. I'll call from the hotel and I'll actually speak.

a/n:

Our Harry's getting a lil shy. Missed his presence in the story so here he is :>

and omg this story ranked 32 in the harrystyles tag today at 1k + reads? I'm not sure how the watty algorithm works but thank you???

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