For the First Time | n.h.

For the First Time (A Niall Horan Love Story)

[a/n: hello, I just wanted to let you know that this story is currently going through a (very) slow editing process. I wrote this over a year ago now and I'm sure there are plenty of errors that need to be corrected, although I tried my best to edit beforehand; I rushed at some points, however, and admittedly did not do the best job editing. Anyway, if you spot any mistakes I apologize and will be getting to them as soon as possible. Thank you so much ily]

MEGAN’S POV:

The cold wind running through the dark streets of Dublin chills me to the bone. I pull my jacket tighter around my body and pick up the pace, trying my best not to stumble over my treacherously high heels. The tears on my cheeks are still hot, however, as they flow candidly from my eyes. I try wiping them away with the back of my mitten but it’s pointless; more come to take their place.

When my apartment building finally comes into sight I walk even quicker to reach it. My hands are trembling as I shove the key into the lock and take refuge in the warm foyer. Taking a minute to catch my breath, I eye the staircase; steep, cement steps with a crappy wooden hand rail as compensation. With a long, exasperated sigh I pull these stupid high-heel shoes off and head up to our flat in just my stocking-covered feet.

I unlock the door and head inside to find everything just the way I left it. The sink is still full of dishes I have yet to wash and Niall’s jersey is hanging off the armrest of the sofa. That’s more of him than I’ve felt around here for a long time; a fragment of what used to be. This is Niall’s and my flat but, at this point, I might as well refer to it as mine. He’s never home anyway. I sniffle a little at the thought before tiredly shrugging off my jacket and dropping it on the floor.

I strip these fancy clothes off on the way to our bedroom; the ones I bought specifically for this occasion. I don’t even know why I bothered to dress up tonight. Perhaps I just wanted to look nice if I didn’t end up going through with it...but I did. A part of me wishes I didn’t but the other part of me insists that it was the right thing to do. I need to stand up for myself. Niall has spent a long time teaching me that.

As I pull on a pair of sweatpants and a jumper I find on the floor, I marvel at just how long it’s been. Niall and I have known each other forever; who’d have thought we’d end up here? I sigh and look at myself in the mirror. My ivory skin is smooth and clean of bruises. I see no cuts or scrapes, only rings of black mascara under my eyes from crying. Niall has never hit me and I’m sure he never will; in that instance he’s better than most of the men in my life. Only, Niall has hurt me in another way. It makes my stomach sick and my eyes watery to think about. How is it that this feels so much worse than a smack in the face? Sometimes I miss hiding bruises instead of heartache.

I shake my head as I remember Niall’s reaction to my words tonight. He really doesn’t get it, does he? Perhaps I owe him a better explanation than the one I offered. After all, he is my best friend.

I rummage through my desk and retrieve a pen and a few pieces of paper. Taking them back to the sofa, I curl up and turn on the little green lamp next to me. It takes me a while to think about how to start this letter...there’s so much I have to say, which, admittedly, is nothing new to me. What is new, however, is that this time I intend on actually saying them. After too much time spent contemplating, I just write...

Dear Niall,

You know how much I hate writing letters. I’m almost as bad at writing my feelings as I am at explaining them out loud, which is saying something. Anyway, this is probably going to sound like shit but it’s the only way I can think of to tell you everything. I'm a bit of a coward, you see, but I’ve tried talking and you won’t listen. Maybe if you read these words yourself you’ll understand what I tried to tell you tonight.