(14/02/19)
HARRY'S P.O.V
I sit with my legs crossed by the window, staring into the blank, empty backyard of my house. I arrived yesterday after staying with Mum for a while back home in Holmes Chapel. The car ride was tedious to say the least.
I love London, don't get me wrong, but there's something about how emptiness in Holmes Chapel still has an aura of peace that makes me crave being alone. Whereas in London, that same emptiness eats you up. It's dangerous. Destructive, even.
My journal rests on the dusty windowsill, bits of fluff from my jumper sticking to the leather cover. The ink sketches have sunk into the material, disintegrating and leaving a purple stain around the lines.
I've had writers block for weeks now. It was like after I wrote that song on New Years, all the lyrics I held in the palm of my hand were sucked away viciously. It doesn't matter how many times I play useless chord patterns on my guitar, or plan out concept ideas or play other songs, I can't get past the looming barrier.
That's what I'm trying to do now, but to no surprise it isn't working. I've been sitting on the timber floor for two hours, pen in hand, frozen in motion. My guitar lies still beside my legs. A fly has landed on the wood, sniffing the paint. I brush it away, picking up the instrument with a sigh.
I don't know why I keep trying honestly.
My fingers play the same chords I've played for the last two weeks, still without any words. I love the sound. It sounds summery, and uplifting despite how I feel. I want to write something happy. I tilt my head, letting my voice hum anything that comes to mind.
"Walk in your rainbow paradise," I start, my voice cracking a bit. "Strawberry lipstick state of mind..."
Of course the song is about Nixie. She's the kind of girl who deserves to have every song in the world written about her.
A warm smile rises onto my face at the memory of how her lips tasted. They were so sugary sweet in all the best ways, never once giving me a toothache. I always craved their flavour, not caring that my lips would turn pink. I'd do anything to taste them again. She's addicting.
"I get so lost inside your eyes... Would you believe it?" I chuckle lightly.
She would never accept a compliment. Never. Not once. Everytime I complimented her utter beauty, Nixie would shy away, her cheeks blushing crimson. Her arms would fold self consciously over her chest. It still makes me sad that she can't see her own beauty.
A sour taste pinches me suddenly. I wonder if Daniel makes her know her worth? I wonder if they have said the 'i love you's that were stolen from me?
"You don't have to say you love me, you don't have to say nothing, lately you've been on my mind..."
I strum harder, head bopping a bit to my melody. Nixie's always on my mind. I don't think I would care if she walked through the door, sat down and never said a word. Just having her breathing the same air would be enough.
A memory of our day in Paris drifts into my vision, bringing a loving warmth to my skin. Those few minutes in the rising escalator that seemed like hours to Nixie. The way her arms grabbed my desperately every time the machine paused, and the pure fear in her lilac eyes. I've given up calling them grey. She'll never be grey.
"Happy you're here now?" I murmur, letting my eyes travel up and down her frame.
The bright smile bursting across her sun kissed cheeks reveals the answer to me. I'm too busy admiring Nixie to hear her response, my lips gasping more for breath when she peers cautiously over the railing, stepping back immediately.
"No problem. And if you wanted to know, my biggest fear is fire." I ramble.
She turns quickly, a small laugh leaving her crimson lips. A confused crease appears in her eyebrows, causing me to grin.
"Honey... I'd walk through fire for you, just let me adore you..." I sing louder, passion lacing every word.
I would do anything for her.
"Your wonder, under summer skies..." I think back to the day at the beach, where we so nearly kissed in the ocean. "Brown skin and lemon over ice...Would you believe it?"
I release a genuine laugh at this, knowing that Nixie would as well if she was here. Her obsession with lemonade and strawberries is something I'll never forget. Even if we don't talk again.
A solemn tear prickles at my eyes at the thought of all the words I never got to say. If she was here, and I could still call her mine, I would say every unspoken word.
I wish I could tell her that I love her.
"You don't have to say you love me, I just wanna tell you something, lately you've on my mind..."
I hum the chorus once more, already feeling the goosebumps of pride on my skin. I love this so much. Maybe one day Nixie will get to hear it, and she'll understand how much I miss her. That sounds pathetic, doesn't it?
I lay the guitar down again, suddenly returning to that same state of emptiness. The fire dies down after a spiteful ignition, leaving me to think about everything.
It was my birthday two weeks ago. I spent it exactly the same as last year, with Mum, Dad and Gem, going to our local pub for my birthday dinner. It felt so strange without Nixie there, which is weird considering I had only ever spent one birthday with her.
It's as if those few days created a blueprint for how I should spend my special day, and without following the instructions it all felt off. Mum noticed of course, but I couldn't tell her what had happened. She knows bits and pieces from when I flew home quickly after my show in Copenhagen, on the 19th of March.
Just thinking about that show makes me feel ill. I was awful, all because I let my thoughts drag me down. That was one of the only times during the last few months that I've felt angry and bitter at Nixie. I was so upset with how I performed, and in my mind, I blamed her for that, even though it didn't make sense.
I stayed with my family for a day, avoiding their endless questions about why I was so upset. I didn't want to tell them what had happened. In a weird way, it felt like I would be betraying Nixie. So instead, I gave vague one-word answers and left the next day to continue performing.
It's sad that I still check my phone everyday, praying under my breath that there's a text, or a missed call, ust anything from her to show me she still cares. That Nixie ever did care.
But that's what leaves me more and more confused everyday. She seemed so in love, just as deep in this madness as I was, and still am. It baffles me that she could leave it all so easily, without turning back to get one last glimpse of us. I would never be able to do that. Maybe that's the difference between the two of us.
WIthout warning, a very sudden impulse carves its way into my brain. I reach for the abandoned cellphone on the windowsill, immediately scrolling through the endless sea of useless apps to find the photos app. My thumb leads me to the old, faded images of my ex-girlfriends.
It's strange. They all share the exact same smile that I have on my face, unaware that it would only last a few more weeks at most before dropping to an anticlimactic end.
That's the thing, though. They all seemed so happy. I'll never know if they ever actually were. But the one thing I do know for sure, is that the common factor in all of these breakups, is me.
Maybe I'm the problem. Maybe it's me that needs fixing, instead of the broken pieces of a relationship that could've been a fragment of my shattered imagination. Perhaps all of this love was self-born, living in a world of incapable, twisted daydreams, where I could be whoever I wanted and be with whoever I wanted.
I stand up quickly, using the back of my hands to press against the looming feeling of tears in my eyes. As if I needed a reason to go searching for the alcohol cabinet, the impulse explodes through my veins, igniting the urge further, growing the flame of want and dimming the aura of resistance significantly.
My hands fumble anxiously with the lock. It's meant to protect the expensive, ancient bottles of tequila and wine that are worth more than me. Not from myself and temptation, but more from guests when they come over. In this situation, as I stare in awe of the deep liquid behind the green glass, it could be protection from either.
The faint smell of desire is inhaled through my nostrils. I reach up to grab the closest bottle, seeing the logo of a swan on the front. I easily undo the cork, taking the first swig when I raise the lip to my own. The slightly bitter taste prickles on my tongue, dissolving into something so deliciously sweet.
Is it bad that the first thing that comes to mind is Nixie's lips?
I shake off the thought with another sip, not caring about the slight nausea in my stomach telling me to stop. I can't. I breathe out deeply, my chest rising in no kind of pattern, letting myself spiral out of control.
Slowly, the alcoholic burning starts to wander down a strange pathway, leading me to the fireplace where I sit down drowsily, head tilting to the side. I feel lifeless, and so alive at the same time somehow. The burning flames start to turn into pictures of what used to be, making my eyes widen with teary melancholy.
My lips drop into a faint gasp of purity when my eyes distract me with Nixie's shadow.
It's like she's here, but not quite. The ghost of her ever-alive and ever-present memory lingers in the golden light, dancing behind my burning eyes so gracefully. I close them tightly, swallowing the tears in my throat. It's not real.
She's not really here.
When I open my eyes, the expected truth hits me like a freight train. Her beautiful, enchanting shadow has disappeared back into the alcoholic daze, leaving me completely and utterly alone for the second time. Somehow it feels worse when you take a second shot of the same pain.
Especially when you caused it.
A loud, urgent sounding knock rings through my hallway, causing me to snap my head quickly. I drop the bottle in my hand without realising, stretching my arms above my head as I stumble to the door. The effects of the strong liquor I downed too fast start to make themselves clear, blurring my vision with happy stars and friendly colours.
Maybe they're in disguise as well.
I open the door, wincing at the loud shriek from the wood as it hits the wall with force. A blue indent is left in the white paint, streaks from the indigo door leaving their mark.
My brows furrow as I see Mitch standing there, swaying back and forth impatiently. His eyes go wide as he takes in my appearance, his eyes looking behind me to the pool of clear liquid seeping into the floorboards. Without wasting another second, he grabs me harshly by the arm and slams the door.
Unfortunately, I'm too dazed by the poison in my blood to notice. All I do is follow him to the kitchen, pretending not to see the dishes left on the counter.
"What are you doing?" Mitch starts, staring at me incredulously.
I shrug, and point helplessly to the puddle on the floor.
"I was having a drink."
"Jesus you're stupid...Be honest with me, now, Harry and don't even try to lie," He grits his teeth, shaking his head. "How much did you drink?"
"I only had a few sips."
"You know you're lying. I know you're lying."
Guilt washes through me, sobering up some of the haziness. I look to the floor, those stupid tears coming back faster than ever. My hands instantly search for something to hold onto as the dam breaks, a harsh sob erupting from my throat.
Mitch sighs, coming to my side and rubbing my back whilst looking at me with a brotherly kind of sympathy. I continue to cry, not bearing to make eye contact.
"How long has this been going on?" He asks gently.
"Only tonight."
"Harry..."
"I promise, Mitch, it was only tonight I drank this much," I run a stressed hand through my sweaty curls "Maybe one or two drinks some others, but this is the worst it's been." I admit, shaking.
Mitch exhales, moving to lean against the counter. He thinks for a moment, before holding onto my arm to pull me away from the marble, slowly leading me to the couch. I sit down like a helpless child, allowing him to get me a glass of water.
"Harry, please tell me you didn't have too much of this.." He warns, holding a shard of glass in his hand.
I shake my head, not too fast because my head is already spinning like a merry-go-round. He raises an eyebrow, and I repeat the same action.
"Why?"
"It's straight vodka."
My jaw drops, feeling sick in my stomach. Maybe it's the quantity of the harsh alcohol that I ignorantly consumed in a short space of time, or maybe it's the worry and sobriety starting to settle back in.
"Lie down, H."
As my head drops to the pillow, I catch a glimpse of a piece of paper by the fireplace. I can see the outline of my messy scrawl, accompanied by some kind of emotional attachment. I don't remember writing that, I remember writing one a while ago, but the matching ashes were taken away.
"Mitch?" I frown.
"Yeah?"
"Could you please bring that to me?"
I point at the paper, the black ink drowning in orange light. He nods, and walks to the paper. Without looking or trying to read the words through the thin sheet, he hands it to me, walking away swiftly.
I don't remember when I wrote this, but it must have been tonight, because there is a vodka stain at the bottom, smudging the words. My drunken mind tries to comprehend the words.
Dear Nix,
I don't know why I'm writing this because I know you will never respond. I don't even know if this will reach you. I burnt the last one in my fireplace. You know, the one you said you would like in your own house one day?
I remember the moment you said that, because the first thing that came to my mind was the image of us sharing a house. It was a townhouse in the outskirts of London, not too big or too small, hidden behind tall pine trees and a hedge. It had brick walls, and a huge backyard for our kids and dogs. I know you want at least three dogs, and two kids, preferably both girls. Your nan told you how scary it was to watch Eddy be raised. See, I remember!
I remember most of what you said to me. It's kinda weird. The day you left me I wrote it all down in case I ever felt like this so that I could read through it and feel happy again. That's what I did before writing this letter.
All of the thinking about you made me wonder if you think about me still. Do you? I know you hate questions like that in letters, but that's all I want to know. I can't stop thinking about if you do or not, or if you've moved on already. I can't move on. I don't think I ever will. Part of me hopes I prove myself wrong, but the other half wants to cling to the remnants of whatever this was.
What was it to you? To me, what we had, and maybe still have, I'm not sure anymore, was the best thing I've ever experienced. You should be happy I'm drunk writing this because I'm admitting things I hate to tell people. But here we are. I love what we had, everything about it. I loved when you would put your cold hands in my wram ones to feel loved, I love how you would steal my socks in the middle of the night, I love how we would joke around with each other and then have the most serious conversations of my life.
Really, I just love you, Nix. I'm sorry I never said it. Well I did, but it didn't mean as much as it does now. We both told each other those three words, but be honest, did you mean it? I meant it, but not to the degree that I mean it now. I guess when I lost you I realised how much space you really took up in my heart. It felt so broken for so long. And then you stole my every thought, not that I'm complaining.
I daydreamed about you, I still do. It's a cure for when I'm sad. I'll just sit by my window, staring into nothing, imagining how strong we could be if fate hadn't taken us.
I don't blame you, Nix. I hope you know that.
If anything I blame myself, which is odd because I wasn't the one who left. I was the one who tried so hard to stay. But this always happens in relationships with me. I fall too fast and can't pick myself up off the ground when it doesn't work out, and this poisonous thing spreads to the other person.
In the end, we're both miserable. It's my fault.
I'm sorry, my love. I'm sorry for calling you that.
I love you, really
Harry xx
I release a shaky breath, hurt by my own brutal honesty through the page. I hold it out to Mitch, who has been watching me cautiously for the last few minutes. He takes the letter carefully with a confused frown.
"Can you do something for me?" I ask, pleading him to say yes.
"Okay... Kinda depends on what it is but yeah I guess."
I build up my courage to say what I want to say, wringing out the anxious shaking in my hands. For once, I want to tell Nixie how I really feel. I want to have the chance of being open with her, even if she might not take it. My voice breaks with desperation as I speak.
"Can you send that to her please?"
PART TWO
(24/02/19)
NIXIE'S P.O.V
I swallow the horrible guilt residing unwanted in the back of my throat. It grows worse with each word I read from the doomed letter being gripped harshly by my fingertips. I'm too scared to hold it completely. The distance lets me at least hold on to some hope that I'm dreaming.
Every letter seems to be poured straight from the deepest crevice of Harry's heart, so much so that I find myself doubting if he's actually telling the truth.
I thought he really, truly, deeply meant it when he said 'I love you'. I meant it that way.
What hurts the most is when I read 'If anything I blame myself, which is odd because I wasn't the one who left. I was the one who tried so hard to stay'. I can't tell you what I would do to be able to hold him and tell him over and over that it was never his fault. It just makes everything worse that he is blaming himself over something I did.
For a split second when I close my eyes I see the devastating picture of Harry crying. His under eyes are red and puffy, a slaty flow of tears tumbling messily down his glowing cheeks, shining for all the worst reasons. His hair is uncombed, his shirt unbuttoned and no effort made.
My eyes burst open with a small gasp of terror as I hear him scream. It's bloodcurdling, and makes my skin crawl. It's the worst sound I've ever heard, even though it is completely made up by my own brain to torture me. I guess I kind of deserve it.
My lips tremble as my eyes replay the image of Harry's green eyes, so lifeless and dull. It was as if the green had faded to a deathly grey.
My chest heaves, my stomach rising and falling causing my lungs to lose oxygen. I reach for my inhaler, which has now been left by my bedside table in case of times like these. Daniel said it was a good idea.
The last time I was like this, he was with me. I felt bad considering I was upset and I ruined the club night we were having. It was our first official date. He had brushed his sandy hair and styled it almost beyond perfection. But it just didn't feel right, having him hold an arm around me, seeming so far from protective. If anything, I felt more like arm candy.
The way Daniel had easily tugged me through the never ending crowd to the bar counter, asking the tall blonde waitress for his usual with a wink. I guess I'll have to get used to the response if a flirty smirk. It seems to be familiar to him.
He had leaned down into my ear, breathing making my skin quiver. I don't know if I liked it or not. His voice was laced with confidence and borderline arrogance as he whispered.
"Don't worry, I won't do anything with her."
My fake smirk compensated for my shaking hands as a shot glass of something toxic was handed to me, not feeling quite right in the tight grasp of my fingers. Daniel had urged me on, nodding for me to drink. His lips quirked up at the ends of the sight of me swallowing harshly, the tender liquor chasing any anxieties d=far down into my stomach.
My first thought had been of Tyler. This moment reminded me of one of the first parties I ever went to during my high school years, starting at 9pm and ending at midnight. I can't tell you how drunk I was. Tyler and I went together, and he did just as Daniel did. He encouraged me to drink, and congratulated me afterwards for trying something outside of my comfort zone. I was proud of myself.
"Here comes fun Nix!" Daniel clapped with a chuckle as Lilia and Wren came bounding over.
They had their arms messily intertwined, an intoxicated skip in their step as they walked. Both managed not to wobble in their high stiletto heels, their plain short red party dresses barely reaching past their bums. Their makeup is identical to every other girls' in here, the red lipstick looking more maroon in the purple lighting of the nightclub. Wren accidentally spilled some of her champagne on my knee as she sat down on a barstool next to me.
"Oh my god, I am so sorry." She slurred, making an odd gesture with her manicured hand.
I laughed it off, giggling more nervously as she scooted closer. Too close. There was now only about a centimetre and a half between us, her head breaking the needed distance as she leaned it on my open arm. Her dark hair fell gently over my skin, a red imprint left as she lifted her head back up again.
As I looked at her more closely, I could see the pupils of her eyes were dilated significantly, the usual amber colour of her irises long gone, only a thin rim showing around the edges. A speck of white powder resided on her upper lip.
"So, who wants shots?" Daniel grinned.
I fall gently back into reality. I did so many new things that night, things I wasn't too fussed about in the moment. I got caught up in the adrenaline of it all. The blinding lights that make your head feel heavy, like you've got a brick on top of it, and make your eyes spin around. Maybe that was just from the dancing.
I slowly stand up from my bed, suddenly feeling as though the effects of alcohol have been passed through from my memory. I stumble over the tattered ends of my blanket as I rise, plain black socks sliding on the floor. My phone weighs down my hand. It feels heavier than it did a few seconds ago.
It was Valentine's day a few days past. Ten, to be exact. I spent the day at the beach with Daniel, jumping about in the crashing waves that slowly eroded the small sand castle we had crafted at the crack of dawn as the sun rose high. The day sends echoes of free falling laughter and carefree grins flashing across the screen of my memory, bringing back some of the summery warmth. The Australian autumn has come abruptly, not as harsh as England's of course, but still bitter enough to put an end to the yellow-tinged summer.
I returned home from the beach on Valentine's day with a hot sunburn line running across my shoulders and down to my back, causing me to itch uncomfortably at my skin for the next few days. I shift paths to stand in front of the mirror, examining the fading burn. I run a finger tip along the red, checking the pain it causes. By now it is only a tinge of discomfort.
I pull on the yellow hoodie that hangs on the back of my door, its gentle pastel happy against the white. The old, now faint stains of my own blood still reside on the sleeves from that night on the tour bus. It would be over a year ago now that that occurred.
A deep frown of disbelief appears on my forehead, directly between my eyebrows. I catch my own gaze. It's a picture of doubt and newborn tears of anxious worry, not believing that it has been that long. It can't have been.
It seems like yesterday. Yet somehow, it also seems like an eternity has flown by.
I hug the cozy material closer, sighing when it causes a tingle of remembrance to shudder along my skin. I remember how Harry and I both forgot about Valentine's day last year, and how we promised each other with a glass of champagne and a touch of our rings that we'd go all out this year. I still wear the silver carved delicately like an English rose every day.
With just one snuggle into the loving yellow, a gentle tear rolls carelessly down the skin of my cheek, falling into the crook of my neck. The slow saltiness sinks deep, and I hold back the strong urge to cry. I don't know how I still have enough tears left.
Maybe this is why I shouldn't get close to anyone. Whenever I do, it ends like this. Me, alone and lost in the mess of it all, usually one I have created. The other person, confused, but still stable enough to move on. It leaves me more broken each time, yet I still do it.
I plop down onto my checkered desk chair, the uncomfortable linen fabric already rubbing against my trousers. My gaze lands on the yellow cover of my journal, in particular the intricate rose Harry drew in the corner. It's identical to the one on his arm, the same fine line details and love surrounding the ink.
I guess roses are kind of our thing now.
I turn to the nearest blank page, laughing a bit under my breath at how the page is already damaged, by me of course. There is an ancient stain of what seems to be tea spreading along the top of the paper, making it crinkle and fold awkwardly. I twirl my pen, and exhale as I begin to write my response.
Be honest. He was.
As I write every thought of mine from the last few months onto paper, brutal and hidden away from doubt, a sense of relief floods through my veins, distorting any kind of fear. Well, the truth I want to tell him. Maybe I'll feel different in the morning. A small flicker of hope ignites inside my heart, imagining what it would be like if Harry was mine again.
All I can hope is that that flicker doesn't die out.
VOTE COMMENT AND SHARE!!