You ask if we can still be friends I explain how a honeybee does not dream of kissing the mouth of a flower and then settle for its leaves

"She was not for everyone, but she was for me."

Don't you call her baby. We're not talking lately. Don't you call her what you used to call me... A story in which a girl who writes songs falls in love with the boy who sings them. "Color...What a deep and mysterious language, the language of dreams." - Paul Gauguin. DO NOT PRINT MY BOOKS! *TW: story contains mature topics such as mental abuse, PTSD, minor drug usage, and minor sexual content.*

"So, what possessed you to spend your evening at this shitty party?" I asked, releasing the taste of my cigarette with my words. His gaze decidedly landed on my lips that were wrapped around my burning cigarette as he finally spoke. "I guess I'm a bit of a masochist." He shrugged and a sharp laugh escaped my throat at his words. "What's your excuse?" "Oh, I'm the one throwing this shitty party, so I guess I'm a bit of a sadist," I replied with a shrug of my own and his laugh was just as sharp as mine had been. All humor left his voice, however, when he said, "Yeah? Fuck, that's hot." //After a fateful meeting at a house party, Stevie never thought she would see Harry Styles again. However, a year later when a mutual friend tells her Harry's band is looking for a new bassist, she jumps at the opportunity. Much to Stevie's disappointment, Harry doesn't seem to remember her, or the night they shared, and he certainly has a darker side when he isn't trying to get into her pants.// Mature content warning// This story contains adult themes and explicit sexual content.