Moonlight (Harry Styles)

Author's Note: I have written this in less than a day. I barely even touched it, for it feels like I would ruin the authenticity of what the narrator's story is—something I wanted to convey to you, the reader. I'm apologizing in advance if I made any errors! I wanted it raw as possible so it would feel real and dreamy. And I wish you could feel the emotions that I have felt while I was writing this. Please do talk to me. Comment your thoughts afterwards! I hope you like it!

The one-shot is roughly based on Ariana Grande's song, "Moonlight."

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"My moonlight." I whispered these two words solely to myself while I looked at him—all of him. All of what he became.

I could still remember everything. We fit like a puzzle. We were nineteen—well, I was eighteen and three hundred fifty-nine days—he was older than me in months, and we were living in a small city. This city, in particular, is where dreamers only have two options in their lives: To stay in this old-struck city for good; or to leave the place the second they have a chance. The city never, ever faltered even though people come and go. I've never seen the city people question the need of others to pack up their stuff and leave; as I've never seen the people leaving, question the city people what makes them stay. It's just a way of life, I guess.

The city is filled with dreamers who are often contented of what they have, until one unusual day—they wake up and roam somewhere else...wander somewhere new and exciting. It's human nature.

I've always dreamed of the latter choice all my life; that is, to leave. I've familiarized the concept of leaving ever since I was a kid. I've always opted for the second-best, because I've always dictated to myself that I'm not good enough. And because of that, I want to leave. I want to selfishly see what the city that I've grown up in doesn't offer. I felt that like me, this city is not good enough for people with dreams.

In preparation, I've read about books from other countries just to have a gist of their colorful cultures. I've downloaded pictures of where I want to go and what I want to do. Maps are posted on my walls rather than posters of bands that live a million miles away from me. And like mostly everyone in here, I've always traveled in my dreams that I felt a need to do it in reality.

And oh god, everything I do, whatever I plan—I've always dreamed of being with Harry Edward Styles, the charming boy who I love since I was fourteen years old. He was always in my plans. He was always in my thoughts. I would watch an action-packed film and my brain would randomly divert to him. I would eat something new and contemplate if he would like it even though he basically eats any food.

I would close my eyes and hear his laugh. I would close my eyes and open them just so I could see a nanosecond of his figure before evaporating into fragments of my foolish mind.

That's how crazy my love for him is. And about my love? He kind of reciprocated it—most of the time.

We would discuss our dreams over late night conversations and sleep knowing that we're going to do it someday. We would talk about anything and everything. We would talk about our fears—Harry, stepping out of his comfort zone a.k.a leaving or having no familiarity, and me, ghosts, heights, bugs and closed spaces.

And oh, how we want the whole world. We were dreamers, we were willful dreamers that we dreamed and discussed of stars and of us and of three cute, little kids and of silly dancing and of doing anything and everything together. These are all of our 'somedays' and 'maybes'—promises we know too well and wish to keep, if destiny permits.

I admittedly gave him all of me and all that I can and he admittedly, gave me what he could just give. He was remorseful for it, and I think my mistake was accepting that he couldn't give everything to me—everything that we both knew I deserve, and still welcome him back to my arms every time he needed me; and still embrace what little love he could proffer.