What Once Was (A Harry Styles Fanfiction)

Chapter 1

Chapter 1:

“I am nothing special, of this I am sure. I am a common man with common thoughts and I've led a common life. There are no monuments dedicated to me and my name will soon be forgotten, but I've loved another with all my heart and soul, and to me, this has always been enough...”

Why does Nicholas Sparks have to be so perfect? Argh. I wish I could write like him. Even though I’ve read The Notebook probably sixteen times, this little part always sparks tears in my eyes.

My legs swing back and forth, dangling over the counter. I’m sitting on the crumbling marble countertop in the back room of the old ice cream parlor. Even though the outside seems to sag, and the cheery paint is decaying, I can’t hate it, because this is the center of my childhood. The air is a tad too chilly even though the door stays open, the glass is desperately in need of a good wipe-down, the linoleum tile near the hot fudge squeaks if you don’t step with caution, and the corner of the bar always seems to snag my hip and make me double over in pain. The back is stale with the stench of strawberries and cigarettes, and the bathrooms need a new paint job. Yet, there isn’t one place on earth I would rather be working at.

The little shop has been family run for fifty years, and they proudly hang the old photos on the walls. I’ll trace my fingers over the ornate edges of the frames when the customers are scarce, or when I’m forced to restock the cones.

As I previously stated, this is the birthplace of my childhood. I’ve always been close with the owners, since I live down the street, and I can remember racing over here nearly every day during the summer. It’s like no matter what mood I was in, or what I had been doing, I needed to come to this place. So, of course, as soon as I was old enough to work, I applied for a job here. The pay isn’t too suckish, and the customers are nice for the most part.

There’s this old frail woman that comes in on Sundays and Wednesdays, her name’s Marabella, but she insists I call her Mara. She always sits at the bar- even though I know it’s a struggle for her to reach the seat- and he tells me the stories of her husband, Ackerley, and their undying love for one another. Some of the stories bring tears to my eyes, and I always look straight at her face when she tells them, because I can see traces of hope and love flare in her deep blue eyes, and it brings warmth to my heart. I want something like that. I want to be just like her. To not be scared of death, knowing my love will be waiting for me. To have a lifetime full of memories to replay once they’re gone. To love. To truly, deeply, wholly love someone who will love me back and give me more than I can ever ask for.

But what normal girl ever finds their true love in a modern day world? It all ends up in court, anyway. But a girl can dream, can’t she?

Back to reality, I’m chilling in the back, reading The Notebook, listening to some Ed Sheeran, with a spoon turned upside down in my mouth. My nose is scrunched together in focus until I hear the jingle of the door. I hesitantly put my book down and hop off the counter. I see two guys walk in, and one looks a little tipsy. Not full blown drunk, but not completely sober, either. What do you expect working at ten o’clock on Saturday, right?

“Welcome to Sweet Tooth, what would you like?” I ask cheerily, busying myself with the ice cream. After a moment, I look up, to be met by a dazzling pair of green eyes. Holy shit. Those eyes. I clear my throat, as if to say Out with it, man and he holds my gaze. He flashes me a smile, and his dimples make my knees weak. I would love to touch them. What? No. I would do no such thing. I’ve known him, what, all of three minutes- and it’s been spent quite awkwardly, may I add-, so therefore I am in no such position to sexually harass a cute boy’s face. That is no, Victoria. He parts his lips, as if to speak, but his tipsy friend speaks first.