Beneath Your Beautiful

Beneath Your Beautiful

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WpMetadataNoticeLast published Sun, Jan 11, 2015
Blake Ryan is on her way to being a professional dancer, so she hopes. She's finally left her harsh family and crazy ex behind and moved onto bigger and better things. London is a new start for her, a new life, a new, improved, stronger, and better her. She's sworn off relationships and people who just walk all over her. And she cetainly wants to swear off a certain world-wide famous popstar, not even really wanting to be friends at first. Harry Styles swore off relationships after the last time, he didn't want another hearbreak, at least not for a very long time. And when Blake walks right into his life, winning over his friends, he kinda sorta hates her. He's blocked off and not wanting to be set up with anyone, let alone the American dancer that no one could possibly ever hate. *My first published on the internet story*
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† 𝔩𝔦π”ͺ𝔒𝔯𝔒𝔫𝔠𝔒 /Λˆπ”©Ιͺπ”ͺə𝔯ə𝔫𝔰/ π”žπ”‘π”§π”’π” π”±π”¦π”³π”’: π”ž 𝔣𝔒𝔳𝔒𝔯𝔒𝔑 π”°π”±π”žπ”±π”’ 𝔬𝔣 π”ͺ𝔦𝔫𝔑 π”Ÿπ”¬π”―π”« 𝔬𝔣 𝔯𝔬π”ͺπ”žπ”«π”±π”¦π”  π”£π”¦π”΅π”žπ”±π”¦π”¬π”«; π”ͺπ”žπ”―π”¨π”’π”‘ π”Ÿπ”Ά π”¬π”Ÿπ”°π”’π”°π”°π”¦π”³π”’ 𝔱π”₯𝔬𝔲𝔀π”₯𝔱𝔰, 𝔩𝔬𝔫𝔀𝔦𝔫𝔀 𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔒π”ͺπ”¬π”±π”¦π”¬π”«π”žπ”© 𝔯𝔒𝔠𝔦𝔭𝔯𝔬𝔠𝔦𝔱𝔢, π”žπ”«π”‘ π”žπ”« π”žπ” π”₯𝔦𝔫𝔀 𝔑𝔒𝔭𝔒𝔫𝔑𝔒𝔫𝔠𝔢; ∴ 𝔑𝔒𝔳𝔬𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫 𝔑𝔯𝔒𝔰𝔰𝔒𝔑 𝔦𝔫 𝔑𝔒𝔩𝔲𝔰𝔦𝔬𝔫 † "Then tell me," I rasp. "Tell me and I'll deal with it. I'll handle it. Just-don't shut me out." "I can't," she says again, voice breaking. "I can't tell you. I can't be with you. And I can't stand here and watch you break and know that I'm the reason." She swallows hard, her throat moving. "Please don't make me explain it. Please just... stop." I take a step toward her anyway, rain dripping from my eyelashes, my chest hollow. "I don't care if it kills me," I say, and it's not bravado; it's a man with nothing left to barter. "If that's the price, fine. At least then I get to be with you before it ends." She makes a small sound, half sob, half laugh, and it's the most human thing I've ever heard from her. "Don't say that," she whispers, almost fierce. "Don't ever say that." She holds my eyes for one last beat, lips parted like she might say something else - something that could undo all of this, something that could make the rain stop mattering. But she doesn't. Instead, she exhales, low and unsteady, and shakes her head. "I'm sorry," she says again, softer now, like a confession. Then she turns. And that's it.

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