About (Harry Styles)

42.

"Harry."

If possible, my chest constricts further as his name falls breathlessly from my lips. The excruciating torment is suddenly replaced with a dim sliver of solace as soon as I see him.

It's him, right? I blink a few times to make sure that he's real and not a figment of my current insanity.

He doesn't disappear. He's not an illusion. He's real.

He's really here ...

How is he here?

When did he get here?

Why is he here?

He looks ... good. Even better than before if that's even possible. I always knew he was handsome. Anyone with a pair of functioning eyes can see that.

But tonight, he looks even more so. The top strands of his hair pushed back behind one side of his ear while the rest of his curls settle on both sides of his face. The skin on his lips a darker shade of pink as they press together effortlessly. And his eyes, those dazzling green eyes that I am terrified of growing used to. I feel like it's been so long since I've seen them.

I think ... a week since.

Has it only been a week?

I feel like it's been months...

How could he have such an impact on me by simply standing there?

I've never felt such heavy uneasiness and a strange sense of comfort all in the same moment.

The expression on his face is difficult to read. He's not happy nor is he sad. He hasn't looked at me yet since his unexpected appearance. His steady gaze is on my mother as she turns around to see who's interrupted.

"Can I have a minute alone with your daughter, Ms. White?" Harry asks my mother, his deep English accent patient and gentle.

"Of course, dear," she nods, flashing a concerned look at me before stepping away.

For a brief moment, I feel the suffocating memory biting at my mind as my mother walks off. The room has become a trigger, an invitation of panic. The only way to rid myself of such a thing was telling her, and I feel like I've lost the chance to do it.

I almost want to follow her, but every piece of my body is stagnant as Harry watches me with a challenging stare. His brows are low and furrowed, expressing his obvious resentment.

That's all I ever do to him. He must think of me as nothing but infuriating.

"Why didn't you have your phone on you?" He asks, pulling a cellphone from the back pocket of his jeans.  My phone.

"What?" That's the first thing he asks me? I know a little 'hello' is asking for too much but the question still catches me off guard.

"Your phone," he repeats, clearly annoyed with me. "You're supposed to have it with you at all times."

I think hard, trying to remember the last time I had my phone. I was charging it in my room, I think?

He swiftly comes across the space between us, heaping over my phone and I glance at him then at the screen. As I take it from him, I press the power button to turn it on. What appears on the screen slightly puzzles me. I've received twelve missed calls in the past hour, two of them voicemails.

All of them from an unfamiliar number, but the blurred black ink is still freshly burned in my memory like it was etched on my skin.

"I'm sorry," I say, surprising him more than I.