camp cherry three | hs

five

The moment he begins to strum the strings of the purple guitar he used the first day I met him, I know I'm going to sob pathetically at this song.

Don't you call him baby,
We're not talking lately,
Don't you call him what you used to call me.

I, I confess,
I can tell that you are at your best,
I'm selfish so I'm hating it.

Tears are already brimming in my eyes just at the prospect of him taking the time and effort to compose an entire song, dedicated to me.

I notice that,
There's a piece of you in how I dress,
Take it as a compliment.

I notice him shift his hand to show me his nails, painted pink and blue like so had done three years ago, the first time I visited Camp Cherry, in turn displaying the cherry tattoo, the exact same one I have inked onto my ankle.

Don't you call him baby,
We're not talking lately,
Don't you call him what you used to call me.

I, I just miss,
I just miss your accent and your friends,
Did you know I still talk to them?

Does he take you walking round his parents gallery?

My mind flips back to when he would make fun of the way I pronounced things - tomato, his name - and the tears only become more difficult to stem. A few people around me begin to speculate that I'm the subject - I'm Cherry. I hear a few girls whispering about how cute this is, how I look at him like I'm in love, another arguing that it's not me entirely, but I can't care less.

Don't you call him baby,
We're not talking lately,
Don't you call him what you used to call me.

Don't you call him baby,
We're not talking lately,
Don't you call him what you used to call me.

The music ends, and I see a man behind a computer just beside the stage press a button, and suddenly the music starts again, Harry's guitar accompanying the music playing from the speakers.

"Ciao, stai dormendo? Mi displace. Non è importante. Semplicemente mi manchi. Per favore richiamami. Ti amo, Harry, addio."

I freeze; he put my pathetic, drunken voicemail that I had regrettably sent last year in his song?

He glances to me as if to assess my reaction, worriedly bending down to me when I gesture that I'd like to speak to him. Once close enough, I grab the soft fabric of his jacket and kiss him as well as I can through my immovable smile.

"Told you that was her," I hear the girl from before nudging her disbelieving friend, but all I can concentrate on is Harry's soft tongue sneaking into my mouth before he pulls away with a dazed smile and straightens his posture.

"Ti amo, ti amo mucho," he speaks into the microphone, trying his best to hide the overjoy contorting his features and doing an absolutely terrible job of it.

In a split decision, I raise my hand, sticking my little finger out waiting for Harry to take it. Stunned, he accepts, even more so when I gently pull him towards me and whisper softly into his ear, "I want you."

He smiles, ecstatic and plays one last song, - Big Yellow Taxi by Joni Mitchell, one of our shared favourites - before constructing a swift goodbye. Messily packing up his kit, he's guiding me out onto the busy street.