Underneath

I make it home and a whole week passes in a cloud of dreary misery.

Mia and Katy are appalled with me of course. “He was always going to break your heart! you may as well have had an amazing time with him in L.A first!” They’re probably right.

Of course I don't delete his number as instructed. I write it down…then delete it. Then panic that I may have written it down wrong. Then I put it back in my phone as ‘Harry’ then change it to ‘dickhead…’

…but no matter how hard I try, I can’t hate him and I certainly can’t forget him. I Google him an absurd number of times a day. The photos of his 23rd birthday kill me. He looks happy, relaxed, like he’s over it, finished with the whole thing. Typically there’s a mystery blonde and a mystery brunette to torture me further. I know I have to get used to this. I’m now just another girl like Sam was. ‘Pussy is pussy.’

At some stage in the week, I buy a pink bobble hat. Somehow I feel safer with it pulled low on my brow, less like my brains are going to explode out my forehead at any moment…and fuck me the moments are long. Some very long moments, minutes, hours, days. Just waiting for time to click by, waiting for the hurt to heal.

By the weekend everyones had it with my miserable face. I take myself off to mooch round the shops alone. Crowds of people throng Regent Street, pushing past me, places to go, people to see. I do little more than ride between them, drifting along wherever they take me, nowhere to go, no-one to see.

The throng eventually spits me into a book shop. I start flicking through a magazine. A ‘Heart throb Harry Styles,’ headline holds my attention for a second…then I give up and drop it back in the rack. I have to stop torturing myself like this. Its unhealthy! its -

- my phone beeps with a text…“Come to my apartment”

Typically this was a day I felt strong enough to delete him from my phone. But it’s him, I know it is. Static crackles through my body as I read and re-read it. He must be back? I weigh up the options of replying. I should really say no. Correction! I should absolutely tell him to get lost and leave me the hell alone!

Suddenly, I notice I’m automatically walking towards his place. Lets face it, I’m not going to tell him to get lost, so there’s no point pretending. Maybe he just wants to apologise again? make sure I’m OK? No, guys never do that! It’s something else…

Another text beeps in to land… ‘please? I have to see you.’…

…I break into a run. I know this is totally the wrong thing to do but I have no control anymore. I have to see him too, I have to!

I smash through a group of girls, nearly bowling them into the road. “Sorry!” I shout over my shoulder as I speed up. I’m at least 10 minutes away! I seriously doubt if I can sprint for 10 minutes…but then again, if Harry Styles is waiting for you at the finish line, it’s amazing what you can do.

I keep running, lungs beginning to burn. The bobble on my hat flying crazily around. I must look like a total nutter. People stop to watch me fling myself across busy roads. At one point I hurdle a babies pram!

Then, a car horn sounds behind me. I must be running in the road! I skip up the kerb and keep going…but, so does the car horn. Exasperated, I turn to see what the problem is.

A sleek car with blacked out windows, edges alongside me. The back door swings open a little. It can only be him…

Ⓒ SphinxWriter13 2017

Notes