Harry styles imagines

A white house with a picket fence

*MerylStone is a made up town in Vermont, Woodstock*

The sky skirted itself on the horizon of nightfall, emitting glints of stars; beaming like mood lights wrapped around the headboard of a teenage bedroom. Even the mellowness of nature, couldn't halt the clamorous roars of the incessant debate over your son, Lincoln's curfew. "Lincoln, for the last time! You're only 18 years old! You don't need a midnight curfew." Harry shouted from across the couch. Lincoln huffed and stormed to his bedroom without saying another declaration. Harry plopped down, hands smacking into his face, his breath huffy and shaky. The faded ghosts of your husband's slipper marks bored a loud tense firmament throughout the living room.

"Why do kids think once they're 18, they're adults?" He sighed, "Don't they know how hard it is out there?" You swallowed gasps of breaths that you always held inside like gas in a balloon during tense engagements; something that you've learned in your youth. You squished next to Harry on the couch; almost on cue, started rubbing his shoulders and back. "He'll come around honey....it just takes time." 

"Yeah, well too much," A gulp escaped Harry's throat, "What's out there that we can't give here? I mean....we gave him so much freedom...what is it that he wants?" Even you had to shrug to that. "I don't know. Maybe he sees his friends with their own apartments, going to college, being away from their parents and...." You stopped yourself. "What, you think he's tired of us?" Harry's voice sprung more hostility than he wanted. "I think he just needs some space." A correction to your first thought is what Harry wanted to hear in this moment. You didn't want the thought to echo in your head for too long; Lincoln has his own job, money, he just saved up and bought a car and not to mention the legal status of his age had given him a birthright advantage.

It petrified you and you knew it did Harry as well; just the inkling of Lincoln's moving away from home, your only child stuck something unpleasant in you. All the time, energy, emotion and love that you invested into your best investment would now crave something more than the walls of his juvenile home; something better, better relationships, ones he would devote endless time to. Not even batting an eyelash to his parents, but to the friends who could only show him desire vs the worldly wisdom from his parents. The realization was gut wrenching in itself but the duplicitous fantasy that this was all stemmed for parental love ate away at the truth. 

You knew deep down, what haunted your thoughts, what made your blood run cold was the idea of Lincoln forgetting you and Harry; other relationships would cloud his mind, leaving nothing but hollow postcards of updates from his life. Picturing the unruffled but customarily greeting written in black cursive ink, with only a memo of his life so far with a picture flipped to the back of an older version of your son, black sweater, coffee cup, kids curling on his lap, wife positioned only slightly above his shoulders, would highlight a missing piece of his life; once forgotten and discarded like old news clippings with no purpose.

Little did you know, Lincoln had been listening to the conversation you were having with Harry. The boy's blood boiled, mind caviling at the thought of being chained here the rest of his life. Like a house arrest without an official seal of proof. Chafing at the lack of support for his own liberty, but aiding to their own selfish whims gritted Lincoln's teeth. Years of protesting to this very moment, to these years....were finally coming to an end. Tonight, Lincoln would self free from his sentence and he would finally grapple things differently. His foot moved patiently across the hallway, like he was in no hurry to challenge his stone locked mind. He had a car, money and the night to guide him through this plan.

Sitting at his desk was the first things his eyes scanned to. The desk lamp illuminated the circling dust particles that would land invisibly onto the grainy dark maple desk top. Lincoln's eyes stood for a long time at the the second drawer; neighboured bellow the first tall skinny one. It carried his notebooks, packs of pencils and unopened highlighters, varying in every color of yellow, pink, blue, green, orange and purple. He took shy steps towards his chair, carefully pulling on the fringes of it and sitting down in it, adjusting himself to a comfortable writing stature. Lincoln's fingers gripped around a pen, snagging a notebook from a drawer and inched only a few centimeters away from the page. Holding the pen in his thumb and pointer strictly, he wrote out a small introduction.