Rotation

Wings of Butterflies

Who knew the South of France could be boring?

Neither the wine nor the men, either the beaches or the crystal clear water could interest you. Your family knew something was up with you, your brother even attempting a heart-to-heart one night to pry deep into the corners of your mind to understand why you weren't your happy, bubbly self. Even Harry's family had taken notice, his sister struggling to get more than three word answers from you, either via text or in person, over the last few months.

But you stayed mum. You hadn't much to say anyway. You'd done a lot of growing, a lot of thinking, since Harry had left you all alone.

If life were divided into chapters, the night he came round and the morning he left made for a very distinct Ending and Beginning.

Harry hadn't been able to ignore you for much longer than a week. Not because of your persistence—no, you hadn't reached out to him again since the day he all but vanished from your bed—but because guilt kept gnawing at his conscious every time he looked at his phone. He'd read all the texts—and saved them, too—stared at the missed call notifications, but he hadn't brought himself to listen to the voicemail you'd left late that evening. He hadn't mustered up the courage, and he was disgusted with himself for it.

So, with a deep breath, he listened to the message. Better a week late than never, right?

You were crying; well, sobbing was more accurate. You didn't say anything at first, probably not realizing the recording had clicked on as you choked in search of air. Once you settled down, you laid into him with a few choice words—all of which he agreed with—but it wasn't the name calling that stuck with him or the way you hoped to never see him again that plagued him with regret. It was your final word, your final question, that haunted him.

Why?

Because there were a million reasons why and none of them excused him for being such a dickhead. And that made him angry, very angry, because there weren't many situations he found himself completely lost in, unable to navigate the waters, yet here he was drowning in your tears without a buoy or damn life preserver in sight.

So he called.

And, despite being in the library studying for an exam, you answered. You hesitated at first, the stitches holding together your heart pulling at the seams with the sight of his name and his face across your screen, but answered nonetheless.

"Hello?"

"You can't keep cryin' over me," he barked. He should have waited to call when his anger—all at himself—dissipated because now it was oozing out toward you.

You were half in shock, half incredibly aware of the other students sat around you fully focused and deep in thought. "I'm...sorry?" Someone looked up to glare at you, another hushed you from a few bookcases down.

"It's just...Yeh need to get over it, need to get over me. Shouldn't be dwellin' on me, s'not worth it." Had he been calmer, his wish might actually sound sweet and full of sincerity like he had intended. Instead he sounded mean and like every other fuckboy who messed around with a girl and was surprised when she caught feelings.

"Well, it's quite difficult to get over it when I don't fully understand it." You weren't sure if more glares came your way or if you were just self-conscious and hyperaware, but it didn't really matter in the moment.

"What's to understand?" he snapped. And he hated himself for it, but he just couldn't control himself. Harry had never struggled with self-control before, in fact he had marvelous restraints, but around you it was almost impossible. Every emotion he felt was multiplied by ten in your presence, amplified by the strange mixture of feelings you spurred inside him.