Matilda | Harry Styles

FORTY-ONE

Had I really even tried? Or had I just decided it wasn't something I could do? I was getting angrier and angrier with myself; more and more frustrated. Did I really want him? I hadn't been acting like I did.

I didn't know what he saw in me. I offered him nothing, really, as much as I wanted to. He was stable, and kind, and generous, and selfless - he was good, and I was none of those things. I didn't understand why he wanted me, but I realised I didn't have to. I just had to decide that if I wanted him too, I couldn't be selfish with him.

I was so wrapped up in the mess I'd made with us, that my mother's repeated calls were slipping through the cracks of my mind. I couldn't even battle with that - why was she calling me again? So often? Was it to make another attempt at asking for money? I didn't know, and I didn't contemplate it. I was beating myself up far too much to rationalise anything that was going on. I'd already decided that answering another one of her calls was not an option, because mentally, I knew it would destroy me. Though it wasn't like I was doing any better, now, ignoring her.

I sat in the chair with my knees brought to my chest, wondering how to fix this. That was new. I remembered when Calvin had told me we were over, I'd had nothing to say in response, nor did I care to find anything. It had felt inevitable, and transactional; I felt nothing. I knew I was the problem, and I didn't think I had it in me to change it. I let him go so easily. Harry hadn't even done that, yet, but just the idea of him leaving me made me feel sick to my stomach. Harry and I were different - I couldn't just let him pass me by, knowing I could've done so, so much more.

We couldn't be like this; he was right. And I had to decide, then, between two choices; either I got ahold of myself, and started being honest - or I ended things, and I got on the next flight home.

I had to tell him the truth.

I wasn't sure how long I sat there, torturously lost in my own head. It was at least an hour or two, but it felt like days. If he were anybody else, that might've been the last time he'd see me - or at least, I could've held out a hell of a lot longer. I'd spent my entire life running, from everybody else, and from myself. I didn't want to run from him anymore.

My body was shaky and weak by the time I made my way back to the apartment. It was like I'd blinked and I was at the front door; like even the journey upstairs had been a blur. My entire body was fighting me, because this was the opposite of instinctual. This was the one thing I'd promised myself not to do. In my head, he already hated me, and knowing me would only make him hate me more. There was nothing appealing about somebody with emotional baggage - surely not to the man who could have absolutely anybody he wanted. But I had to tell him. I had to stop hiding, and accept that if he didn't want me after knowing me, then as much as I'd resent it; it would have to be something I learned to accept.

I could hear that he was further into the apartment, when I pushed the front door open. I was quiet as ever, gently clicking the door shut and turning back around, to hear the faint, familiar strum of his guitar from the other end of the apartment. I could hear his voice; that beautiful voice that I'd begun to take for granted, and how it carried through my entire body, warming it from top to bottom.

I walked slowly through the entryway, and towards the sound - feeling it get louder as I approached. I'd expected him to be in the bedroom, but before I could pass the lounge, I could see the back of his head. He was sitting in front of the balcony doors, overlooking the private garden area, rather than the street, and sure enough, he was playing his guitar, singing quietly to himself.

"I can see you're lonely down there, don't you know that I am right here? Spinning out, waiting for you, to pull me in-" he stopped, then, with another firm strum of his guitar, before he laid it back in his lap. The song was a work in progress, clearly, as he paused to stare ahead of him at the window, and I heard a gentle exhale leave his lips.