Infinite [h.s.]

1. don't wanna be alone

"Fuck," I swear, quickly pulling my hand back from the paper and shoving my finger straight into my mouth to curb the sudden bleeding.

The metallic taste of the blood coats my tongue and I scrunch my face up at the taste.

"How in the hell did you get a paper cut from flipping a freaking page?" Mitch calls out, walking into the living room of my loft. I remove my finger from my mouth, turning in his direction.

The usual quiet space seems to echo with his unusually loud voice, bouncing off the walls. It's rare that I'm here in New York City, but I needed a change of scenery after being on the road for so long.

I absolutely love California, but after being in the spotlight with the tour I've been on in these past few months, it's hard flying under the radar, even for me, back in California. It's much easier to be incognito here in New York.

There's nothing I love more than performing and being on that stage, sharing the energy with the fans all in one big room; but, doing it almost every other night for months on end takes an extreme toll on me and my state of mind. I value my privacy extremely, and spending large amounts of time in the limelight like that makes me weary.

Mitch's long hair is tied up into a ponytail and he shakes his head as he approaches where I've been seated at the kitchen island all afternoon.

"Have I told you how glad I am that you're heading back home tomorrow?" I say, causing Mitch to roll his eyes as he claps me on the shoulder.

"Yeah, yeah...don't say that to Sarah, though, she'll be upset with you," he replies, leaning over my shoulder to steal a look at the crumpled up piece of paper.

"I never said anything about Sarah, I just meant you. You've been up my ass these past few weeks," I retort, but Mitch only ignores me as he snatches the paper from my hands, resulting in a sigh escaping my lips.

"What's this?"

He's been visiting me here in New York for the past few weeks, just catching up with me since we haven't seen each other in a while. I know the real reason that he came across the country in the first place, though — I know he's dying for me to start writing music again.

We've taken trips down to Montauk for a few weekends at a time since he's been here, trying to get into a headspace for me to write. We usually have a process; holing ourselves up in a little space like that and just spend hours upon hours jotting down mindless lyrics and strumming baseless melodies on our guitars.

It hasn't been working lately, though. Truth be told, I just haven't been inspired or had anything that I truly wanted to write about.

Those weekend trips to Montauk proved unproductive and pointless, and just consisted of Mitch and I getting drunk and singing along to the karoake machine he brought with him; no songwriting was done there.

These past few days, however, my subconscious must have finally conjured up something useful. I tear the paper from Mitch's hands, looking down at the one lyric I've had written on it.

I don't wanna be alone.

"Is this a cry for help, dude, or are you finally starting to write?" Mitch asks, and when I roll my eyes again, a slow smile creeps up onto his face.

God, here we go.

"Fuck off," I mutter, folding the paper and shoving it into the pocket of my pants.

I don't know why that one lyric came to me — no, I know exactly why. I've just been pushing it aside and avoiding it.

I have felt lonely in the past year. My last relationship ended horribly, and I know it's partially because of the fast-paced life I live. There wasn't much trust on either side, and she tore my heart in two when she ended things after I told her I loved her.

It's been a year since then and I'm completely over it, but that doesn't mean I don't crave company. Even aimless hook-ups and one night stands don't appeal to me, anymore; I want something more.

I desire something greater than meaningless sex or short-lived relationships. But with the life I live, unfortunately, I've been wondering lately if that'll ever even be possible for me.

Maybe I'm just destined to be alone, but I don't want to be.

"Harry Fucking Styles," Mitch says, pulling me from my thoughts as he claps me hard on the shoulder again. I grit my teeth. For a usually quiet guy, he sure is heavy handed.

"You son of a bitch! You're writing again!"

"It's just one line, Mitch," I reply, rolling my eyes for what feels like the millionth time in the past ten minutes.

One line with no direction; I have no idea what else to make of it. It'll probably just end up scrapped, like so many other lyrics in the past. I don't know why Mitch is getting so worked up over it.

"That's one line more than what we had just two weeks ago," Mitch points out, grinning like a damn fool at me.

I squint my eyes, surveying him. "Are you drunk or something? You're being awfully positive, more so than usual."

This time, my friend rolls his eyes. "And you're being disgustingly negative. I'm not drunk yet, at least. This calls for celebration."

I snort. "What, you not being drunk?"

Mitch suddenly slaps the back of my head, and I whip around on my stool as a slew of swear words escape my mouth. "What the hell was that for?!"

"'You not being drunk?'" Mitch mocks me, lowering his voice a few octaves lower as he mimics an absolute shit-sounding English accent. "We're going to go celebrate you finally crawling out of that fucking hole, you dipshit. You finally decided to write!"

I groan, shaking my head. "It's 11:30 p.m., Mitch."

He looks at me as though to say, so what?

I sigh, already knowing just how hard it is to win a battle against Mitch when he has his bloody mind set up. Looks like we'll be going out tonight, no matter how much I try to argue with him.

"Come on, Harry. Let's go find you some inspiration."