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Chasing Angels - ON HOLD

The Attic

BEFORE YOU READ THIS, MAKE SURE YOU READ THE EDITED ENDING TO CHAPTER 16!!!! THIS CHAPTER WILL NOT MAKE SENSE OTHERWISE!!!!

After Harry left, I decided sitting on the porch would be too awkward. I walked into the house and directly to the kitchen, where I made a quadruple-decker PB&J and poured myself a glass of whole milk. Yes, whole milk. I believe that skim milk is an insult to cows everywhere. Which is probably the only thing I can remember. Unless that opinion just formed on its own right now. I don't have a clue.
I made my way up to my bedroom, but stopped halfway down the hallway that led to my room and looked up, seeing the attic emergency exit. I continued on down to the end of the hallway, past my bedroom door. I slowly grasped the oval doorknob in my hand and twisted it, opening the door. The steep, twisting wooden stairs looked a little scary, considering my balance was in question at the moment, but I went up them anyway, wanting to see my art.
I flicked a lightswitch and the bright light quickly illuminated the small attic. There were easels everywhere, and each one had a canvas covered in an off-white sheet to protect the artwork from dust. The first thing that caught my eye, however, was a bookshelf. On the shelves were sketchbooks. Lots of them. There had to be at least 100. I walked over and placed my sketchbook on the top, then squatted down and pulled one at random. I flipped it open, and there were sketches of almost everything. The Eiffel Tower, the London Eye, a park, a clearing in the trees, an alley, my house, another house that I didn't recognize, and Harry. Lots of sketches of Harry.
As I flipped through the sketchbooks, I found myself intrigued at what I've drawn. When I reached the last sketchbook on the bottom shelf, I saw how much more detailed these were. This sketchbook was only filled with charcoal drawings of Harry, though. Harry singing into a microphone, Harry singing with the other four guys, a computer screen with Harry's grinning face on it, which had my face in the bottom corner.
The last page, however, was different.
This one didn't have a sketch of anything.
Instead, it had words.

Today, I leave for America. Although I've always dreamed of being an artist here in London, I realize now that I can't. I have to leave. I'm leaving everything I've ever known behind. My family, my friends, Harry. I've tried to convince myself that he'll never forget me, even when he's on stage in front of thousands of screaming fans, but I can't seem to do it. I'm afraid of losing him, and I can't do it. So I've decided that the best possible thing is to leave. I can't hold him back from living his dream, although I'd be giving up mine in the process. Goodbye, London.

I threw the sketchbook on the floor and stood up angrily. I went around the cramped space, ripping sheets off of canvasses (I don't know if I spelled that right....) and pulling sketchbooks out of their place and throwing them on the floor, scattering them and leaving them open to where they fell. When every canvas was uncovered and every sketchbook on the floor, I stood in the middle of the room, taking in all my work. The paintings were detailed and elaborate, portraying scenery instead of faces. The one that caught my eye was the same outline of what I saw in that first sketchbook I had pulled off the shelf. The one with the clearing in the trees. Except this one was a bit different. On it was painted yellow dots strung from the trees, which I guessed were supposed to be fairy lights. In the middle of the clearing were lit candles, all a deep blue color that matched the sky. The candles were on a picnic blanket, the classic red-and-white checkered kind, and were sitting near an open picnic basket. The canvas was surrounded in a silver cloud, sort of like on TV when the person is daydreaming.
I fell to the floor in front of the easel the paiting was sitting on and buried my face in my hands.
What does this painting mean?
Why couldn't I remember anything?
Why me?
I was so busy pondering why life was so unfair and crying that I didn't hear the click of the door or the sound of people coming up the stairs. I didn't even realize anyone was in the room until someone picked me up, cradling me against his chest and setting me in his lap.
I opened my eyes to see Niall and three other familiar people. Zayn was walking around the attic, picking up the sketchbooks and leafing through them, closing them, and setting them on the top of the now empty bookself. Louis was holding the remainder of my sandwich eye level with himself and gawked at it. Liam was folding sheets and setting them under easels. And Niall was holding me, rocking back and forth on his bum, trying his best to calm me down.
I finally stopped crying, although I shuddered when I inhaled as a result of sobbing for too long. I was tired. So tired. "Thank you," I whispered.
"Anything for a friend," Niall whispered back, smiling slightly.
"How'd you know where I was?"
"You sounded like an elephant up here," he answered, attempting to lighten the mood with humor. I noticed that the others had gone back downstairs.
I was silent for a few minutes before another question popped into my head.
"Niall?" I asked.
"Hm?" he said absentmindedly, drawing circles on my forehead.
"Why did you come here?"
He stopped drawing circles for a moment before resuming his previous activity.
"Sometimes we all just need a friend."