kalopsia [harry styles]

25

FALLON COLLINS

"You asked me why I'm so cold towards people yesterday" He begins dully, not looking up. He was immersed in the guitar lying on his lap, boring his eyes into it as his hand strummed the strings over and over, forming a melody that seemed to fill the silence between us.

It had taken me about an hour to calm down. All the feelings I'd been suppressing for months had finally been let go–at the hands of Harry. It had been like he'd set the first match on a dynamite stick and stepped back, waiting for it to detonate.

When it had finally imploded, it had been a few feet away from him, in his own guest room.

I wasn't really sure if he'd lit the dynamite stick on purpose. He always seemed to hover around my issues just like I seemed to hover around his.

Gratitude sprung in the bottom of my heart as I remembered when he'd hugged and comforted me. I was grateful that it had happened while it was with him. At least, this way I wasn't alone like all of the other times.

The moment I'd told him about Faith and what had been weighing inside me, a huge weight had been lifted off my shoulders. I knew instantly it was because I'd opened up to him and now–in some twisted way–he was carrying the weight with me.

I had to admit it was weird–for someone to know what I was thinking. I'd never been the type to tell people what I was feeling–not even Nadia knew what I was going through at times, so sharing my feelings with other people in general had been difficult.

Until Harry. With him everything came out of me so easily. Sometimes I wouldn't even realize I was talking about Faith or things about my past until it was too late. I didn't have a problem with it though, he always seemed to understand.

We'd been in his living room for about an hour and a half. He'd stayed still and comforted me while I cried, and when I'd finally calmed down he'd stood up from the couch and made me a warm cup of tea, got me some kleenex and a sweatshirt that was more comfortable than the sweater I'd had on previously.

I drank my tea silently, watching as he sat down beside me, the couch sinking with his weight.

I'd eyed him while he grabbed his guitar, his chipped black painted nails showing off against his tan skin. It looked like he was hesitating about something, but I couldn't really figure out what. It seemed to involve his guitar, so I assumed it was that maybe he wasn't comfortable writing or singing with me around.

It didn't bother me. Everyone had their own private things, so I wouldn't question it.

I sat back on the couch, huddled in Harry's sweater and surrounded by a fluffy blanket I'd found on a basket beside the couch. My hands surround the lukewarm cup of tea, and I hold it up to my mouth, taking small sips here and there as I calmed down from all the crying I'd been doing.

"Yeah?" I respond, curiosity inching in the back of my throat as I processed Harry's words.

His hair flops over his eyes as he looks down at his guitar. He stops strumming the strings to reach forward to the coffee table, where a fresh packet of cigarettes lies. He takes his time, opening the package and then pulling out a random cancer stick to place it in his mouth before putting the rest of the packet down on the table.

He holds it in his lips, not lighting it. It reminds me of Augustus Waters, who always held the cigarette in his mouth but never actually lit it.

He sighs, running a hand through his hair in a stressed manner, making it even messier.

"Part of the reason I'm rude to people is because of my father" He finally begins, still looking down at his guitar. His back is slightly hunched forward, I can see the muscles move on his arms as he tightens his hold on the instrument.