Harry Styles Imagines

Remembering Us

to build a home by cinematic orchestra OR ghosts by james vincent mcmorrow (both if you can)

To whoever finds this,
We buried our child today. He or she is under the strawberry tree Harry planted for us. Even though there was nothing in the box, we still buried our baby.

I didn't talk to my husband for two weeks after finding out. He didn't look at me for one. We didn't blame each other, but we also didn't know how to comfort the other.

The third week, we cried together. The third week, we became husband and wife again.

To whoever finds this,
Fighting is so tiring. Yelling and crying is mentally exhausting. Our fights have been getting worse and worse.

I'm so tired

To whoever finds this,
I just slapped my boyfriend for making fun of me.

We had sex after.

And then I ignored him for twenty minutes.

Harry laughs reading all the entries. He's almost done with the book. Sleep isn't a thought to him, the words flowing from page to page are like a movie.

A movie about his life he can't remember. Glimpses of moments coming up, but not the full scene.

He flips the page and stops looking at the words noticing that they aren't the same as the others. No, she didn't write this. He did.

To my wife, to whoever finds this, to myself even
My name is Harry Styles. The man who has been mentioned this little book for the past twenty pages or so. I can only assume though, I haven't read any. I quite like having a life.

I have to make this quick as possible because my wife forgot her journal and doesn't know I'm doing this. But I must. I'm not going to sit here and write everything about her or write about my love (well maybe a little) but instead I'm going to write very briefly why the woman in the room next door will be my wife in approximately ten minutes.

Her eyes. Her lips. Her nose. Her hair. Her body. Her presence. Her soul. Her. It isn't one thing, it's all. She is my life. She is everything in one person.

She is-

To whoever finds this,
I'm going to kill him for writing in this.

P.s I haven't read it. I refuse to.

He flips the page to notice the last entry is the one he read first when finding this book. About him coming back to her. He sets the book down and breathes out looking at the ceiling. All her words floating around his head, all the glimpses mixing together. Everything. In a jumble.

The sounds of birds chirping. The sounds of his mother downstairs. The sound of wind outside. The sound of his wedding ring hitting the other rings.

He lifts up his hand and takes off the ring examining it. He sighs wishing that looking at this ring he could remember everything, something but nothing comes. The hope from remembering that one moment long gone. Now replaced with bitterness. Picking up his phone he calls the number without thinking.