MAGNETIC [H.S.]

30. when we were young

Two weeks went by fast. The days were so long, but then I blinked and it was time. I was picking out a dress to wear to a funeral. I decided to wear black, not because I thought I had to, but because he liked that dress. He was with me when I bought it in college, he'd taken me out to lunch and shopping after a pretty nasty fight with Harry. It was a simple black dress, long-sleeved, really wide neckline that almost went off my shoulders, and it hugged me just right. He told me I looked grown up in that dress like I could handle anything. I needed that feeling.

I got dressed and got myself looking presentable. I put on my shoes, grabbed a small purse to hold as many tissues as possible, and stared at the small paper sitting on the bathroom counter. I needed to fold it and put it in the purse or in my pocket, I needed to bring it with me, but god I didn't want to. No part of me wanted to face that eulogy.

We agreed that we would all speak, just say a little something so that we paid him the respects that deserved. I wasn't sure that I was going to survive it, but if they all could do it, so could I. I would not be the one too weak to speak about him, I wouldn't let myself.

We drove to the venue in silence. Cora and Liam held hands in the front seats while the radio droned on, filling the car with mindless ramblings. Zayn rode with us, he didn't want me to be alone back here, so he sat and let me lay my head on his shoulder while he held my hand and stroked his thumb across my skin. It was nice, it was comforting, but he wasn't the person I needed.

When we got there, there were only a few cars, which I was grateful for. Somehow, Liam was able to remember to call Louis' parents and offer to send them his "ashes" himself. He told them that he wanted them to be able to throw a proper memorial for their son and a bunch of other bullshit to keep them off our backs and not suspicious of his whereabouts. He sent them an urn of unclaimed ashes from the veterinarian's office. They didn't deserve a piece of him anyway.

Zayn held the door for me and helped me out of the car and then he wrapped his long arm around my shoulders and pulled me into him. I wasn't sure which of us needed to lean on the other one more, but we made it inside together. It was warmly lit, it had a cozy feel to it that I liked. It was small, and old, but beautiful. There was a stained glass window that let in beautiful light, but not a cross to be seen. It wasn't a church, which was important to us. It was just a space. We had no priest in attendance, just a bunch of fuck-ups pretending to be adults, trying to mourn their friend.

We invited everyone from the shop, his friends from Vegas, and some other friends he'd made along the way. It was a small group of us, no more than 20 people total. I shouldn't have been surprised to see Harry when we walked in, but I was. He was talking to people, making them smile, introducing them, making everyone comfortable. The perfect charmer, just like he'd always been. It reminded me of when we were young.

I wasn't sure where Harry and I stood, we were kind of mid-argument when the world ended. I was unsure of almost everything really, my whole existence just felt wrong. But then, Harry turned and his eyes met mine, and they were so sad underneath the surface. They were so sad, but his shoulders relaxed when he saw me. They were sad, but he let out a breath. He looked at me and he felt like mine.

It was the same look that we'd shared across a room over and over again since we were teenagers. That tension, that pull, all releases. The magnets flip, even just for a second, and we're locked in. Everyone goes blurry around the edges like a movie, and it's what people write songs about, just him and me and our pain and our moment. And then it's over, and life continues, and he turns back to the group of people he was talking to, and I put one foot in front of the other and continue inside.

One of the artists at the tattoo shop was a writer or a poet of some kind, so he offered to speak for the majority of the service. He stood there up at a podium with a squeaky microphone and spoke some words that I'm sure were very touching, but I didn't hear any of them. I was just staring at the photograph behind him. It was a photo that I took one afternoon in the studio when Lou stopped by for lunch. I was testing the lighting for a client that was coming in that afternoon and I had just asked him to sit on the stool. It turned out to be a great picture of him, and now it was blown up on an easel with flowers along the base of it.