Flicker 》Harry Styles x Kennedy Walsh {COMPLETED}

32: Harry Styles Detox

So I . . . I'm stepping away.

The recording ends, and only then do I understand that silence is the loudest thing you could hear. There's no ringing in my ears, the traffic outside is suddenly muted, and I can't even hear the thumping of my pulse. I sit there, the ache from my stomach forgotten when an even bigger pain overshadows it.

Harry had made his decision, just like that, and I convince myself that it shouldn't come as a surprise—I saw this coming, didn't I? Saw past the giggles and small touches and expected the pain and humiliation. But nothing, nothing in this world could've prepared me for it.

Just as I feel tears about to escape from my eyes, Dev breathes, a low and sarcastic 'wow' in reaction to his message. I become aware of my audience. Had I really stupidly played that while they were here?

I swallow past the burning in my throat, feeling like a red-hot branding iron had been shoved down it every time I try to keep myself from crying. Shamed, I avoid their eyes in fear of breaking down when I do.

"I'd like to be alone please," I mutter, hating it when my voice breaks midway.

I didn't need to look up to know their gazes were on me, pity and sadness in them. I couldn't take it. That message was meant for me only, they shouldn't have heard it, shouldn't have dipped a toe into our separation, but I had unknowingly given them permission to.

"I don't think you should be left alone, Kennedy," Mom says, her voice hinting that the others should agree.

I don't give them the chance to. Staring at the blank wall, I tell them to go, leaving no argument in my tone. One by one, they stand up, each of them hesitant but when I don't weaken my resolve, they move towards me, squeezing my arm and pecking a kiss on the top of my head. Mom was the last to say goodbye, her hug careful yet lingering around me, and once again, I feel the burn in my throat.

"Call us if you need anything," she whispers before pressing her cheek against mine.

She looks at me for a short while before walking away. When she has her back turned, only then do I let the waterfall go. Drop after drop runs down my face, staining my top when they drip from my chin and onto the fabric.

This is ridiculous. I knew this would happen, why the fuck am I crying about it?

The masochistic part of me reaches over and plays the recording again, needing the fact that he was letting me go to sink in further into my bones. When it cuts off, I press play again. Then again. Then again. On and on until I feel like I've memorized where his voice breaks and where he showed reverence.

I wanted you so much, I still do, Kennedy.

Apparently, not enough to fight for this.

There's a bitter taste in my mouth—one that is screaming at his cowardice and weeping at his vulnerability. Perhaps this was why he didn't promise to not hurt me. The thought makes me chuckle wryly. He always knew he eventually would.

And I . . . look at what I've done to you.

I know what you've done to me, Harry—I've anticipated it before you went ahead and did it. But you're wrong. You weren't standing between me and the skies, the sun, and all the good things . . . you were all that.

You were so much better than all the sunsets I'd seen, your smile so much brighter than a thousand suns combined, and you were every good thing I could think of. And losing you like this—