Know: A Harry Styles Fan Fiction
I Can't Change
"If you cut deep then I might learn. If you scar and leave me like a sunburn" - Ed Sheeran
• • • • •
This morning when I wake up next to someone, it's not so bizarre.
Harry's face is breathing distance from mine when I open my eyes. He's still asleep, his expression so peaceful that it's almost angelic. I've never noticed how many freckles are smattered on his jaw and continue to trail along his neck and collarbone. But they're so faint and tiny, it would be impossible to see if you were more than an inch away.
His one arm is draped over my waist under the covers while his other arm lays between us, hand tucked under the pillow. I study the tattoos on his wrist, the lock, the key, the doodle of the cloverleaf, and the somewhat enigmatic phrase, "I can't change."
I hope you never do, I think fondly to myself.
I begin to slowly sit up on the bed, careful not to wake him as I gingerly lift his arm from me. The pale morning light leaks through small spaces between the shutters. There's a half open laptop sitting on a mahogany desk, band posters tacked on the wall, a couple belts and a lone sock lying on the floor. Everything in his room looks like a typical guy's room, everything apart from the scented candles. I also spot our messy heap of clothes on the floor and flush with a smile at the memory it sparks.
I cautiously slip out of bed and throw on the tee that I borrowed from Harry last night. It still smells distinctly of him and I inhale the scent with a delightful sigh. After tiptoeing to find the bathroom, my hand reaches to where my toothbrush would normally be, only to realize this isn't my bathroom. It's not even my apartment. I laugh, and promptly slap a hand over my mouth to muffle it. If only Harry was awake to witness that. He'd probably say something like, "Don't spend nights out much, do you?" to which I'd slap his arm because my comebacks are always weak or nonexistent. And, truthfully, because he'd be right.
My stomach grumpily purrs to be fed. I suppose I could ask him for a spare toothbrush later, so I stroll into the kitchen to fix up some food in the meantime. For its size, Harry's kitchen is impressively well-stocked---with baking supplies, that is. There's probably too many bags of flour, vanilla extract and nonstick spray in ratio to the real food, but I manage to gather enough ingredients to prepare a full English breakfast for us both.
While quietly searching for plates from the cabinets, I jump back in surprise at a shrill sound shattering the silence in the apartment. It's his home phone, sitting at the end of the counter. I poke my head into Harry's bedroom and find that his face is still beautifully serene. The phone continues to ring obnoxiously but he's nestled under the comforter as still as ever, without so much as a flinch.
After the fourth ring, I hear his voice on the answering machine.
"Hi, you've reached Harry. Unless you're a telemarketer, then you haven't reached Harry... But if not, leave a message after the tone and I'll get back to you soon. Thank you!"
Beeeeep.
"Harry! Why haven't you been picking up your mobile?" yells a brash, female voice. "There's photos of you getting cozy with some random girl all over the papers and they're saying you've been going out for a while. You haven't been sneaking around behind your own girlfriend's back, have you?! You have a lot of explaining to do when I see you later at Louis' party! Ugh!"
Have you ever been kicked in the stomach, rolled in glass shards and then lit on fire? I haven't, but if I were to imagine how it feels, I don't know if would be anywhere near how I feel right now. I stand there, completely petrified, as the single, poisonous word repeats in a loop in my mind. Girlfriend, girlfriend, girlfriend, girlfriend, girlfriend, girlfriend, girlfriend.
Of, fucking, course. He has a girlfriend.
I glimpse at the freshly cooked food on the stove, unable to keep my focus on it for long. My former growling appetite has been replaced with subtle nausea. When I return to Harry's room, he's still in a deep slumber, breathing slowly. His voice faintly echoes in my head of the various promises he made. And the lies, the outright lies. They all bounce around my skull as if to mock me. He told me he was different. He told me he would prove it. All he's proved is that he's just like the rest.
"If it's too good to be true, it probably is," I used to tell myself. I wanted to be wrong. I had never wanted to be more wrong before in my life. It's never hurt this much to be right. These past few months have been a mistake, a waste of time. I want to take back every minute of it. I want him to give them all back to me. They don't belong to him anymore.
Harry shifts in his sleep and rolls over. The softest, most delicate moan escapes his lips. In my mind, I bitterly curse that moan. And those lips and eyes, and gleaming, heart-wrenching smile. They're decievers, they all are, although it doesn't make sense as to why. The more I stare at him, the less I understand.
His arm is lazily sprawled across the bed. The words I read earlier this morning now point to me, and I gaze upon it with a vaguely ironic feeling.
"I can't change," his wrist proclaims.
Instead of hoping he never does, I'm now wondering if he ever will.
• • • • •
This morning when I wake up next to someone, it's not so bizarre.
Harry's face is breathing distance from mine when I open my eyes. He's still asleep, his expression so peaceful that it's almost angelic. I've never noticed how many freckles are smattered on his jaw and continue to trail along his neck and collarbone. But they're so faint and tiny, it would be impossible to see if you were more than an inch away.
His one arm is draped over my waist under the covers while his other arm lays between us, hand tucked under the pillow. I study the tattoos on his wrist, the lock, the key, the doodle of the cloverleaf, and the somewhat enigmatic phrase, "I can't change."
I hope you never do, I think fondly to myself.
I begin to slowly sit up on the bed, careful not to wake him as I gingerly lift his arm from me. The pale morning light leaks through small spaces between the shutters. There's a half open laptop sitting on a mahogany desk, band posters tacked on the wall, a couple belts and a lone sock lying on the floor. Everything in his room looks like a typical guy's room, everything apart from the scented candles. I also spot our messy heap of clothes on the floor and flush with a smile at the memory it sparks.
I cautiously slip out of bed and throw on the tee that I borrowed from Harry last night. It still smells distinctly of him and I inhale the scent with a delightful sigh. After tiptoeing to find the bathroom, my hand reaches to where my toothbrush would normally be, only to realize this isn't my bathroom. It's not even my apartment. I laugh, and promptly slap a hand over my mouth to muffle it. If only Harry was awake to witness that. He'd probably say something like, "Don't spend nights out much, do you?" to which I'd slap his arm because my comebacks are always weak or nonexistent. And, truthfully, because he'd be right.
My stomach grumpily purrs to be fed. I suppose I could ask him for a spare toothbrush later, so I stroll into the kitchen to fix up some food in the meantime. For its size, Harry's kitchen is impressively well-stocked---with baking supplies, that is. There's probably too many bags of flour, vanilla extract and nonstick spray in ratio to the real food, but I manage to gather enough ingredients to prepare a full English breakfast for us both.
While quietly searching for plates from the cabinets, I jump back in surprise at a shrill sound shattering the silence in the apartment. It's his home phone, sitting at the end of the counter. I poke my head into Harry's bedroom and find that his face is still beautifully serene. The phone continues to ring obnoxiously but he's nestled under the comforter as still as ever, without so much as a flinch.
After the fourth ring, I hear his voice on the answering machine.
"Hi, you've reached Harry. Unless you're a telemarketer, then you haven't reached Harry... But if not, leave a message after the tone and I'll get back to you soon. Thank you!"
Beeeeep.
"Harry! Why haven't you been picking up your mobile?" yells a brash, female voice. "There's photos of you getting cozy with some random girl all over the papers and they're saying you've been going out for a while. You haven't been sneaking around behind your own girlfriend's back, have you?! You have a lot of explaining to do when I see you later at Louis' party! Ugh!"
Have you ever been kicked in the stomach, rolled in glass shards and then lit on fire? I haven't, but if I were to imagine how it feels, I don't know if would be anywhere near how I feel right now. I stand there, completely petrified, as the single, poisonous word repeats in a loop in my mind. Girlfriend, girlfriend, girlfriend, girlfriend, girlfriend, girlfriend, girlfriend.
Of, fucking, course. He has a girlfriend.
I glimpse at the freshly cooked food on the stove, unable to keep my focus on it for long. My former growling appetite has been replaced with subtle nausea. When I return to Harry's room, he's still in a deep slumber, breathing slowly. His voice faintly echoes in my head of the various promises he made. And the lies, the outright lies. They all bounce around my skull as if to mock me. He told me he was different. He told me he would prove it. All he's proved is that he's just like the rest.
"If it's too good to be true, it probably is," I used to tell myself. I wanted to be wrong. I had never wanted to be more wrong before in my life. It's never hurt this much to be right. These past few months have been a mistake, a waste of time. I want to take back every minute of it. I want him to give them all back to me. They don't belong to him anymore.
Harry shifts in his sleep and rolls over. The softest, most delicate moan escapes his lips. In my mind, I bitterly curse that moan. And those lips and eyes, and gleaming, heart-wrenching smile. They're decievers, they all are, although it doesn't make sense as to why. The more I stare at him, the less I understand.
His arm is lazily sprawled across the bed. The words I read earlier this morning now point to me, and I gaze upon it with a vaguely ironic feeling.
"I can't change," his wrist proclaims.
Instead of hoping he never does, I'm now wondering if he ever will.
Notes
THREE THINGS (I'll be quick, promise):1. Super short chapter, I know, I beg your forgiveness.
2. Last day for voting is today! [Clicky]
3. Happy early Halloween :)
@twelve
Thank you so much! Means a lot. xx
5/12/14