Come June [ h.s. ]

3

3
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As he drove, he willed something greater than himself to take control of the wheel. Harry didn't want to know where he was headed, after all. He just wanted to get there. It was still a bit gloomy out, with rain spells showering the countryside. It was a light rain, which luckily wouldn't interfere with his driving.

Two hours prior, he had been sitting alone in the apartment that, despite its smallness, always seemed too big for him. He splayed himself across the bed, looking at little speckles dotted across the ceiling. His chest felt heavy, his head spinning from his own wild impulsiveness.

"You need to do it," he told himself aloud-- Harry talked to himself sometimes when he needed to reason things out. "People know. You said you would leave, and you need to leave."

And he did just that.

He left.

Of course, he made sure everything was taken care of-- Harry liked efficiency and wanted to make sure that whatever he left behind was put to good use.

In fact, before he got his things together, he put all the coats, sweaters and shoes that he didn't wear into a cardboard box; they were currently sitting out in front of the apartment building, in the cold February air, with a note that said "to anyone who needs them."

Then, slinging a leather bag over his shoulder, he grabbed his packed suitcase and fled. When he got down to the front desk, he looked at the kind, rich-skinned woman who sat in a lilac sweater.

Without a word of explanation, he dropped his key onto the smooth wooden surface.

"You have a good one, Paula."

She had stared at him with bewilderment in her eyes. But he didn't even have time to notice; he'd already slipped out the front door.

And now, here he was-- fingers clenched tightly around the steering wheel of his Expedition, his head and heart whirling. This was impractical. He'd only brought enough money to keep himself afloat; nothing more.

He didn't want to feel like Harry Styles.

He wanted to feel like anyone else, working a full shift every day with just what they needed to survive.

And he wanted to be as far away from the city as possible. At this rate, he might as well take himself all the way to the seaside. Harry loved the seaside. He loved to be alone next to the water, with the salty breeze in his hair and his toes buried deep in the sand.

His family took him all the time when he was a boy. They would go on quiet escapes to their beach house, which was South of London, along the English Channel. Many happy summers were spent there; his sister would go out and collect sea shells with him, whilst his parents sipped red wine and laughed on the back porch.

Thinking about it now, as he drove past lush green pastures, Harry had never really gone on vacation by himself. This would be his first journey alone; just a thirty-year-old man, looking for a new life.

He knew, way deep down inside, that he had no intention of going back.

After his departure, there wouldn't be an easy way to return to London. Or his shitty apartment, for that matter.

He really did hate it there.

It was awfully drafty.