Music Box

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Both of us are now fuming, I find myself struggling to maintain my anger.

“How many times do I have to tell you that this is all part of my lifestyle?” he finally speaks in a forced calm tone. 

“And how many times do I have to tell you that I know that, but that doesn’t make you leaving all the time any easier?” 

“I’m tried of going through this with you everytime I’m trying to pack for a tour.  We’ve been together for three years - that’s three years worth of getting used to it.  I know it doesn’t get any easier - believe me, it’s not. he rants, the frustration and anger rising again.

“Harry, you can’t blame me for feeling so upset all the time!  You’re away doing a million things a minute and moving at such a fast pace - it’s easier for you to keep your mind off of the separation.  But I’m here, going about the mundane daily things And it’s quiet in this house without you And I have so much time where I have nothing to do with myself but think about how much I miss you,” I point out. 

Harry remains silent for a moment, but you can see in his eyes that an outburst is building inside.

“Do not,” he starts slowly through gritted teeth, trying to control his anger, “tell me that being busy makes things easier for me.  That doesn’t make an ounce of difference at all!  You act like I don’t think about you all the time while I’m gone!  Damnit, [Y/N], are you mental?!” he lets loose, his temper rising. 

He pounds his fist down on the dresser, letting out a groan of frustration before taking his arm and making a broad sweep across the dresser, sending things crashing to the floor.

“Harry, no!” I shout, bringing my hands up to rest on either side of my face. 

“If you broke my music box…”

“I didn’t break your damn music box,” he bites. 

Looking at the pile, i came to realize that he had in fact broken in, and the fighting ensues from there.

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