About (Harry Styles)

31.

"Elaine," he says, looking at me intently. "I don't know when it started. But whenever I see you, whenever I'm with you, I'm just drawn to you."

I'm speechless at his confession. Am I hearing this correctly? Harry Styles is drawn to me?

"Do you want me to get another room?" He asks, taking another step towards me, his reach only an arm length's away.

Though I want to look at him, I can't muster up any courage to. I'm left so confused, so unsure of what's going on that I need some time to process this.

To answer his question, I slowly nod, though every cell in my beating heart is bellowing at me not to. I need some time to think - to take this all in. Everything's happening so quickly that I'm perplexed about my own feelings.

I know I have something, I feel something for Harry, but I need to figure out what it is before I do anything rash or impulsive.

Too afraid to look him in the eye, I keep my gaze steady on the carpeted floor.

I see him nod in understanding. He walks past me over to the other side of the room, grabbing his duffle bag and throwing his guitar case over one shoulder. I feel his eyes settle on me, and I try hard not to return the gesture, but I cannot help myself. I have to look at him.

Our eyes lock for the briefest moment. A moment in which my breath defiantly stops. A moment in which I know that I am unequivocally feeling the same way he is.

But that moment quickly vanishes as he shuts the door. Though I move to sit on the edge of the bed, I don't remember walking the short distance. A numbing silence fills the room as I replay what just happened in my head. My hands hover over my lips, gently pressing them as I close my eyes, recalling the thrilling feeling of Harry's lips on mine.

I did the right thing.

Right?

You're supposed to avoid him, remember Elaine?

I hate situations in which I doubt myself. I hate how he makes me question my own actions. I like being decisive but these past few weeks, I've been indecisive and insecure about everything.

...

The next morning, I lay in bed til around noon. Every now and then my mind drifts off to my ex roommate and I would try to shake him out of my thoughts. But then he'd creep back in making me wonder where he is, what he's doing, if he's okay.

I've gotten so used to the routine of waking up to him that when I woke up this morning and didn't see him on the couch with his legs over the armrest, I felt an emptiness luring around me. One that is all too familiar.

But he wasn't the one who abandoned me. Did I abandon him then?

No. Because we're not involved. How could I leave someone I didn't have any relation to?

Three hours later, I finally decide to get out of bed and shower. Once I'm fully dressed, I find myself being drawn to the couch, vividly remembering Harry Styles playing his guitar for me. The magical melody rings through my ears clearly as though he was still here playing. Something in the split of the couch catches my gaze. Almost immediately, I recognize the shape of the brown object.

It's his journal.

He must have forgotten about it when he left.

I move over to the couch, slowly pulling out the leather book. It looks kind of worn out, the edges coming undone a bit, exposing some of the material underneath. My fingers run along the fragile spine, noticing a black pen placed in between some pages.