The rose and the sunflower.
The girl with the golden eyes and the boy with a golden heart.
The girl that believed love was just a fairytale and the boy that believed fairytales are just stories waiting to come true.
'I used to think love was a point...
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March, 2012
I jump out of my bed abruptly, gasping for air. Why can't I breathe? I squeeze my eyes shut and then open them widely, trying to rid myself of the pain spreading through my skull.
What time is it? My phone is next to me on the bedside table. I reach out for it and see the time as well as the date. March 2nd, 2012. 4:07am.
Everything comes back in flashes, the nightmare I just had, why I couldn't breathe a minute ago. I was reliving it, the worst day of my life. It happens every single year on this very day without fail.
Images of my mother crying to the point where she was shaking and my dad trying to stay strong to comfort her, but failing, always flash through my mind. I was so young when it happened yet I remember so vividly the exact moment they told me. I broke.
I'm staying with Harry and Louis, so at least I'm not alone. I decide to get out of bed and make my way to their kitchen to get myself some water and try to compose myself.
I go over to the sink and fill my cup with water, completely ignoring the fact that I hate tap water. Right now I don't care. But my hands are so shaky that the cup slips and the glass breaks in the sink.
"Shit." I curse under my breath.
I try to clean the glass from the sink and into the garbage when I feel a hand on my shoulder. I almost jumped out of my skin just now, not expecting anyone else to be awake at this hour.
"Jesus Christ." I turn around and see Harry standing behind me in the dim lighting.
"What are you-" he cuts himself off when I look at him fully. "Why are you crying?" he asks quickly out of worry.
I'm crying?
"What?" I then sniffle and bring a hand up to my eyes to wipe away whatever tears are there. "Shit." I curse again because I don't know what else to say.
"What happened?" he asks softly, holding on to my arms just below my shoulders.
"Why are you up it's four in the morning?" I ask, ignoring his question.
"I went to the bathroom and heard someone down here. Why are you up?" He tries to make eye contact with me but I refuse to look at him.
"I was thirsty."
"Then why are you crying?" I look up at him for a second and immediately look back down.
"I- I don't really want to talk about it." I say to him so quietly that I'm not even sure whether he heard me speak or not.
I don't want to talk about it though. I never talk about my sister. I never talk about how I feel about her passing. At just eight years old I learned the art of bottling your feelings up. Now that I think about it, it probably isn't good for my mental health to keep something like this and not talk about it for ten years. But, I had to convince myself and everyone around me that I was fine. The worst part of that is, everyone believed me.
