(31/12/18)
HARRY'S P.O.V.
It's New Years Eve of 2018. It's been exactly nine months and 15 days since Nixie and I stopped speaking. I wish I could say I've tried reaching out, but she didn't, and so I didn't. I'm giving her space. That's what she wanted.
The distant sounds of partying can be heard from just outside the glass screen door, a group of about thirty people all crammed into my family's small backyard. My mum stands in the centre as always, dressed in a stunning blue dress. Gemma is dressed in similar attire, but she has given into the cold and now has a coat around her shoulders.
It's strange. It's so busy, and full of life, yet there is something missing. I can't help but think to myself that that missing piece, is Nixie.
She would love this. She would look at all of the people unknown to her and see a group of new friends, instead of seeing strangers like me. Nixie would have a ball dancing and swaying her hips to the beating Christmas music, even though it finished on the day it started. Her dress would be red, the same shade of cherry as her enticing lips. This would bring out the purple tints in her deep eyes, no doubt dragging me down further into the spiral. God, it would be amazing.
But it's not real. It's all just a fever dream on this cold, English evening.
I sit by the warm fireplace, an orange shadow projected on my face from the burning flame. It's so alive. The different shades of temptation and life swirl in their reds, yellows and scarlets, dancing happily in the pit. It's mesmerizing.
I let out a long breath, withheld for too long. A blank sheet of paper lies in my hand, taken from the old printer in my house. The top left corner is dogeared and damaged from years of being tossed aside, and an aged thumbprint of chocolate has been printed onto the back. It's all there was left.
I've wanted to do this for a while now. Not to get Nixie back, because I've come to terms that that probably won't happen. She seems happy. Apparently there's a new guy at university. She went back quickly after, and from what Griffin told me she's made some new friends instead of being by herself like before. That's good for her.
Maybe she really was right about this break.
I will admit to searching this guy up. He's tall, blonde and tanned, the perfect Australian surfer you could say. His name is Daniel unsurprisingly. His instagram is public obviously, so I had a look and to no surprise saw hundreds of photos of him surfing, fishing and cooking barbecues.
I even saw one of Nixie. She still looks the same, beautiful as ever. Her ginger hair is longer, and she wears thicker mascara when she's with him, I noticed. I smiled when I saw she still wears the same lipstick, and when I saw the 'golden' tattoo on her skin. She hasn't changed a bit, which hurts I guess.
Daniel's parents are quite wealthy, from what I saw. He always seems to be on a fancy yacht, or hanging around the art gallery they own in Sydney. But otherwise he looks to be the typical, drunk uni boy, a beer in hand for the majority of the day and partying until 2am.
I force myself to stop thinking about them with a sigh, rubbing my fingers against my temples. The paper is still a sad picture of emptiness, no inked words or thoughts. I don't know what to write. All I know is that I want to write to Nixie, just to see if she responds.
I breathe, chewing on my bottom lip nervously. It's a habit I picked up from her. My legs shuffle to sit directly by the fireplace, the fire tipping my toes with an aggressive heat. With a blue tartan blanket around my shoulders, and my back slumped against the couch, I start to write.
Dear Nixie,
It's Harry. You could probably tell by the handwriting. It's still pretty unreadable.
We finished the second leg of the tour a few months ago, back in July. I got to play in Los Angeles again, this time in front of over 17,000 people. That's crazy, isn't it? I couldn't believe it. The audience seemed so happy to be there as well, and screamed and sang their hearts out.
I was actually meant to write this letter then, when tour finished. I promised myself I would, in fact. But I didn't. Mitch and Sarah wanted me to tell you they miss you very much, as do Charlotte and Adam and the rest of the crew. We all miss you.
I miss you so much, Nixie. I've tried so hard not to, but the same feeling of impossibility greets me every time. I won't go on about that in this letter though, because that would be pointless. You can't help me from seventeen thousand kilometres away. I don't even know if this will reach you, and if it does, I don't know if you'll read it.
But god, I miss you. The day you left, I remember how miserable I was. I'm not trying to make you feel guilty, because I know it was probably my fault. I still don't know what I did. Maybe you'll tell me if you write back. I laid in bed all day being pathetic, watching the videos we took on my phone and thinking about all the wonderful memories we share.
And I realised that it wasn't going to help anything. I did. But it was so oddly lovely, imaging that you were there beside me instead of facing the reality that you had left me alone. I pretended for hours that the pillow was you, my eyes closed so I couldn't see the truth. I even admired the simple fruit sketches on the bloody envelope for christ's sake.
I hope we see eachother again one day. I don't know if we will, but all you can do is hope right?
I scrunch the paper into a tight ball, shoving it deep into the fire. The heat instantly burns my skin, creating sore blisters that won't go away for a long while. My eyes water over as I watch the flames eat the letter, the letter that was never destined to reach the girl I still love.
I can't stop loving her.
My knees raise to my chest, my arms instinctively wrapping around them. I start to sway lightly back and forth, tuning out the sounds of laughter as I sit alone in the growing darkness. A gentle tear rolls quietly down my cheek, dropping onto the tartan as I think.
Whoever said that love is forever was a liar. Every time I love, it ends. It's quick, selfish and unforgiving, tearing a piece of your heart out with every thread of memory that you choose to obsess over. I hate it.
I stare into the abyss for so long that I don't even realise my reflection looking back at me through the shiny wood of my guitar, resting beside the door. The patterns along the inside remind me of Jamaica, probably because that's where I got the guitar.
A familiar urge rises in me suddenly, like a burst of colour in the darkness. My forehead creases. I get up, dusting a crumb off of my trousers and walking cautiously over to the instrument as it draws me in deeper, like an awful temptation.
My fingers graze along the wood, touching every indent and scratch that it has gained over the past few years. It's still in good condition though. I grip it tightly, taking it back to my comfortable spot on the couch. With just one strum, I can tell it's in perfect tune for once instead of being dreadfully off-key. My left hand switches to change position into the shape of an F chord.
I start to strum a gentle melody, a pattern unique to anything I've played before. It's simple, but possesses a character that my songs don't usually. There is a touch of melancholy under the somewhat quick rhythm. In my head I make a note of the chords. Then, I start to sing. Whatever comes out.
*play 'cherry' by harry styles*
"Don't you call him baby, we're not talking lately... Don't you call him what you used to call me..." I sing softly.
My fingers lightly tap the side for percussion, before settling back into the same melody. The room suddenly seems warmer than before, the sound carrying to my heart. It feels good. I, feel good.
"I, I confess... I can tell that you are at your best... I'm selfish so I'm hating it..."
It's hard to admit. Nixie was always at her best, wasn't she? If she wasn't, I'm kind of scared to see what her best is. She possessed such grace and intelligence with everything she did. It's hard to imagine her not being the centre of my thoughts. I am selfish, aren't I?
"I noticed that, there's a piece of you in how I dress," My eyes close, not needing to look to my chest to see the necklace I gave her resting on my shirt, as well as the ring she gifted me wrapped around my finger just like I wish she was. "Take it as a compliment..."
"Don't you call him baby, we're not talking lately... Don't you call him what you used to call me..."
It hurts more than I'd like to admit that she's already found someone else to love. Nixie moved on so quickly. I don't know why I'm surprised, it's not like it hasn't happened before. This one just stings a bit more.
"I, I just miss, I just miss your accent and your friends..."
My heart aches as I sing the words out loud, changing the melody ever so slightly. I miss her voice. The different rhythm of her words, and how her sentences went up in pitch at the end even when it wasn't a question.
"Did you know I still talk to them?" I question.
Griffin and I talk a lot, maybe more than Nixie would like. He keeps me updated on what happens there for the most part, excluding everything to do with Nixie. Amelia and him are now married. They had the ceremony in June, so it was very quick. I wish I could have gone to the wedding, but I didn't think that would be a good idea, considering what had happened.
I strum a few more times before singing my most true question, despite how much it hurts.
"Does he take you walking round his parent's gallery?"
My voice breaks with sheer honesty. All I can do to stop myself from crying is to continue singing the chorus, my fingers moving quicker and more desperately for her to hear my thoughts from miles away. Without thinking, I let my throat talk, releasing a few cries and faint screams as I play the guitar frantically.
Then, I stop. I let the silence take me as I process what I wrote. It's now that I'm very thankful that I recorded this on my phone, because that was....
Amazing.
I take a few deep breaths, admiring the guitar being gripped too tightly by hands, letting myself smile at the pride of what I just wrote. Even though I promised myself I wouldn't write about Nixie.
I made the mental promise all the way back in San Francisco, the night I realised how special she was. I so badly didn't want her to be just another girl that I follow the same stupid routine with; I meet her, I fall in love too quickly, we have a fight, we break up, we never talk again, I write a song about how I felt. It's so boring isn't it?
It scares me that with each passing day, my worst fear is coming true. I glance down at my phone beside me, checking that it is New Year's Eve. Sure enough, the illuminated white numbers and letters tell my doubting mind that it has been this long.
It's been so long.
Maybe if I hadn't had just burnt the letter I wrote to Nixie, I could've sent it to her and we could start talking again. Or, she could have ignored it and we would still be in the same miserable place. Miserable for me, at least.
I sigh, forcing myself to leave the comfortable indentation my bum has made in the couch. I return the guitar to its spot against the wall, leaning happily, waiting to be used again sometime soon. The sounds of overjoyed laughter gets closer as I open the backyard door, sliding the glass and stepping onto the concrete in my socks.
I feel kinda bad for not dressing up more now. My battered old green dressing robe, crazy burger-print socks and corduroy flares underneath probably makes me look at bit like a lunatic. A badly dressed one at that.
I give in to my need to feel good about my clothes, quickly running upstairs to change. My dressing robe is swiftly unwrapped, being tossed messily to hang on the hook on my door. The only thing that stays on my body is my trousers and underwear, a simple new t-shirt getting thrown on.
Before I leave, I brush my hair, not wanting to seem lazy in my appearance despite the fact that I was about to go and introduce myself to everyone wearing the dressing robe I got when I was 15.
Just as my hand twists the doorknob, my eyes land on Nixie's necklace. The yellow still holds the same summery feeling, and the pearls shine brightly under the dim lighting of my bedroom. For a moment, something comes over me. Something I've never felt.
It's like an odd, unhealthy mixture of jealousy, love, sadness, despair and need. I tear my hand away from the door, instead walking carefully over to where the piece of jewellery sits on my bedside table, next to the letter Nixie left me that day. I pick it up, scanning the beads for no reason.
Then, I put it on. I don't know why. My fingers stumble to do the clasp up properly, the skin getting pricked a bit in the messy process. The word 'golden' seems so bittersweet as I look at it in the nearby mirror, loving the feeling of having something of Nixie's on me again.
I wish it was her. But this is the closest I'll get, so I'll take it.
My lips turn to a happy, almost weak smile. But it's still a smile. I walk out of my room, making a beeline down the stairs to where the group of people have all gathered, quiet suddenly. They're all gathered around the large clock that hangs on the brick wall, staring as it ticks over and over.
"What are you doing?" I whisper to Gemma, who only holds up a finger.
"Seven seconds."
"Until what?"
"Until 2019, Harry!" She laughs.
I watch as the clock continues to make its melody, oblivious to its surroundings. Just as the hand hits the stroke of midnight, we all jump into the air with shrieks of excitement and joy. Gemma wraps her arms around me, laughing into my ear as someone swears behind her, spilling their glass of champagne on the concrete.
"Happy New Year!"
I lift my head up to look at the stars. They seem to shine extra brightly tonight, casting their dazed glow onto the billions worldwide. I feel good right now. My face explodes into a big grin, looking directly at the stars Nixie pointed out to me in Auckland. I don't remember what they were called, all I know is that I liked them.
I wonder what she's doing right now...
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