Tunes | Harry Styles

Someone's City

The next morning, when the sun rose and the seagulls wailed, Louisa's eyes awoken from the detached dream she'd had with Harry. The heavy duvet weighed her down on the mattress, gluing her back on the unknown sheets.

As her sight clears, her heart was still heavy from the night before of her torturing thoughts. Everything felt unfamiliar to her, everything felt different. From the hallows sunlight of the sun beaming the room, the white washed walls, the feeling of detachment from your own flesh of confusion pilling up with stacks that you shall sell to feel better and free.

One thing was clear to Louisa today, she didn't want to be forgotten. And as she turned over, her sight falls to Harry. With a simple look, a fast glimpse of an eye, this was the only thing that didn't feel different to her. With the morning sun inviting themselves through the thin threads of curtains, peppering over Harry's face to wake him from his dream with Louisa, he finally opens his eyes.

When Harry opened his eyes, it was like opening a book. An untouched, brand new, unknown book. That was Louisa. And every time he opened her, Louisa allowing him in, he was careful to not caress the thin pages, careful to not tear her apart. It was beautiful, and he knows this. Her pages could be empty, her pages could be nothing but paper, and he would still find any word, any reason to stay, he'd still flip every emptied page and read every fiber and texture he sees if that's what it takes to read her even though he didn't understand anymore. To him, that was Louisa. A book, an intriguing and beautiful one with or without cover, with or without words written, with or without summary. She didn't need to have anything for Harry to love bits of her.

That proves how much Harry adored Louisa.

They both laid there. No words exchanged. They weren't sure why they weren't speaking, why they weren't moving a muscle. Perhaps the moment was too delicate with their strong gaze, they feared a breath could cut it.

Harry searches her eyes. It's there. Right on his. And his, right on theirs. But he was seeking for more through those honey glazed irises. He was thinking. And thinking. Looking and searching through the minds of her skull. Till finally, it comes to him — a picture. A drained, faded, eutrophic picture.

He was imagining —

It was cold, the once greened tress now white from the fresh flakes of a snowflake. Everything was white, everything was clear as air. He imagined him and Louisa in the wooden cabin by the mountains, the soft crackling sound of the fire heard — a song gently playing by the vanity. He imagined running his fingertips through her silk hair, tenderly and powerful - light as feather. She stood by the windows of this house, watching the light snow drifting away that soon will melt as thought they never existed. He could almost smell her faded scent from this imagination, he could see the corner of her eyes as she inches back over her shoulder to look at him.

And when she finally does look at him, not everything was white anymore.

Everything felt warmer, he thought.

Honeyed eyes, bringing him home. In this cold, dark, lonely walls — her eyes made it balmy. I felt safer, he wondered.

Harry flutters his eyelids open, those same imagination of a gaze of hers settled on his eyes. Right here and then, Harry realized he didn't have to imagine further when she's right here in front of him.

But she isn't his to touch.
She isn't his to hold.
She isn't his to feel.
She isn't his.
But why does it feel like she is?

And that's what hurts them.

That is what blinds them.

When the clouds approached, they went back home with their discarded clothes that night from the sea. They were normal, they were the same. They didn't want to burden their mind with what would happen next or what could've happened.