Come June [ h.s. ]

18

18
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Rachel.

That was the name of the last girl Harry had ever been with.

The one who left him in Paris.

They met at a Christmas party a few years back, and she had somehow managed to look so beautiful while wearing the ugliest jumper he'd ever seen — she bewitched him, and he just couldn't resist her.

Rachel.

His beautiful, perfect Rachel.

It was difficult to remember exactly when things changed; but they did. One day, he simply wasn't happy anymore. She used him when she needed him and left him hanging when the roles were switched. She stole from him, then manipulated him into forgiving her. She pointed out all the little things she didn't like about him — his hair, his tattoos, his bright clothes — and with time, the cuts got even deeper.

She didn't like his beliefs.

She didn't like his stories.

She didn't like him.

Sometimes at night when they were laying in bed Harry would stare up at the ceiling and cry. That was another thing about Rachel — when he cried, she didn't touch him. Harry liked to be held when he was grieving. Rachel kept him at arms length, always.

He knew she didn't love him.

He knew she was using him.

But he let her abuse him in that way; he let her make him feel small. And by the time she finally stepped away from him enough damage was done to last a lifetime.

"I just don't understand," he had told her. He was sitting in the middle of the hotel carpet, staring down at his phone. It was five o'clock in the morning. The room was empty, and any traces of her were gone. "Why now?"

"Because," she said through the speaker. "It's been a long time coming. Maybe if you weren't so sensitive I wouldn't have left you. I mean, come on, Harry — you honestly didn't think we were in love, did you?"

June 1st.

That was the day she left him.

It was the day his tour ended, the day his manager dropped him, and the day he looked around and realized that he was completely alone.

Everything just... fell apart, and never came back together.

As Harry drifted farther and farther from the house of tulips, he kicked the asphalt beneath his feet and cursed Rachel for ruining him.

He cursed Eileen for not telling him the truth. If only he hadn't have left those stupid keys in that stupid restaurant, none of this would've ever happened — he'd be safe, and alone, and happy.

He would, wouldn't he?

After all, he'd done just fine by himself, and for a long time. Now that he'd let another person in, he was right back where he started. The loneliness was tearing him apart. Anger ran like blood through his veins.

When he was about one block from the Castaway, the whole world seemed to come crashing down on him, and he did something he swore never to do:

He looked back.

A cruel and guilty feeling overwhelmed him. In his head, he kept thinking that despite the dishonesty, Eileen would never abandon him like Rachel did. She couldn't. So maybe she wasn't perfect, like he'd always assumed her to be —

But when he thought about what would happen if he broke down right in front of her, he knew without a shadow of a doubt that Eileen would hold him.