I woke up the following morning to find the bed empty, beside me.
I had a vague memory of Harry unwinding his arms from me, and leaning in to kiss me as I'd tiredly groaned in resistance to him leaving. I could remember stubbornly clinging to him, finding myself hating the fact that I knew he had to go and work; he had interviews, and promotion that he needed to be doing. If I wasn't acting on pure, tired instinct, I'd have caught myself and feared my actions were an annoyance; not that he'd ever have allowed me to really believe it.
I sat up, slowly, rubbing my eyes as I felt the empty space next to me. It was funny how I could spend my whole life waking up alone, but it had quickly become such a foreign, unfamiliar feeling; like that life without him somehow hadn't been mine. But at the same time, each moment I spent here, felt too good to be true; I felt like I was constantly waiting for it to go wrong - but it wasn't happening. It wasn't all falling apart; it felt too good to be true, but it was true, and it was actually good. I was in a constant battle in trying to believe that this was actually my life, with everything I adored so deeply about it; that it wasn't waiting to crumble in my hands - that it was mine to live.
It felt like I'd been able to somewhat compartmentalise the phone call with my mother. I'd chosen to keep it to myself, and thus, it had remained mine to deal with. It appeared she'd taken what I'd said, and abided by it; she hadn't reached out again, to me, or to Grace, or to anybody else. I'd never have known how much of a relief that would be to me - all I'd ever wanted was for her to chase after me; just once, for her to beg for my response. But knowing her intention, I was convinced that I felt content in never hearing another word from her.
I feared, deep down, she'd always be able to reel me in. I'd always fall for it, somehow, because she, as well as I, knew how much I'd always wanted to just be valued by her; I didn't need anything more from her - that was it. But I'd never get it. I believed, maybe, that I understood that, now. It still crossed my mind; undoubtedly. In a moment of silence, my mind would shift to everything that had happened, and it would grow tired in the acrobatics of trying to make sense of it all. But, her reaching out to toy with me, only to try and gain something from me, felt like it could be it. I wanted that to be it. I wanted that to have made me strong enough to pull away, and never let her hurt me again.
But I was still me. I could have everything I wanted; I could be happy, in the career that I'd always dreamed of, surrounded by people I felt like I didn't deserve, with a man better than anyone I could've dared to make up - but I was still the same person. I was the person moulded solely by everything I'd endured; moulded by everything they had inflicted. I could convince myself as much as I liked - but this life was shiny, and new, and fantastical; I was not.
I still felt guilty about keeping it from Harry, but he appeared to have let it go. He hadn't so much as hinted at it, or pushed - and I was glad. It meant I didn't have to cower back from questioning, or draw back from him for the sake of keeping certain things to myself. I could just be with him, as we wanted. Nothing felt better than that.
My eyes finally adjusted to the room in front of me, and it was only then that they could land on the desk on the far side of the room. My heart immediately swelled, noticing the bouquet of flowers positioned there. In an equally beautiful ceramic vase, this time, was a bunch of pink tulips, just as he'd given me the first time.
I stood up, moving toward them with an already ridiculous grin on my lips. I let out an exhale that I didn't even realise I'd been holding, the fluttering in the pit of my stomach indescribable as I reached for the small card beside the flowers, adorned with Harry's messy scrawl.
Call me when you're up. H x
I immediately reached for my phone, yearning to hear his voice, before I realised he was likely to be in the middle of an interview. I chewed on my lip for a moment, opting to text him instead, just to be safe. However, it couldn't have been more than a minute after my text was delivered, that his name flashed up on my phone, accompanied by what I was sure was my favourite photo I'd ever taken of him; his head propped up on his elbow, as he looked up at me, whilst lounging on the sofa after a soundcheck. I wasn't sure he even knew that I'd exported the photo to add to his contact, but I didn't regret it at all.
I was already struggling to bite back my smile when I answered the phone.
"That wasn't what the note said," Harry spoke before I even had the chance, referencing my decision to text, rather than call. I laughed.
"I know. I didn't know if you'd be in an interview," I said, honestly, sinking back down into the mattress with my phone pressed to my ear. I blew out an elated breath. "But, hi," I told him.
"Hi, baby," his voice came back in a way that somehow set my entire body on fire, but drew goosebumps to the surface of my skin, simultaneously. I drew my lip between my teeth.
"When will you be back?" I couldn't help but ask. I knew he had things to do, but hearing his voice had only fuelled how much I wanted him to return.
He laughed, then - the beautiful, melodic sound carrying through the phone and having the very same effect as it would if he were here in front of me. "Soon, I hope," he replied, "I promise you, I'd rather be back there, with you."
My heart swelled again, at the combination of his declaration, and my eyes landing on the flowers he'd left for me. "Thank you for the flowers. They're beautiful," I said, toying with the hem of my shirt, "they should have a chance at surviving, this time."
"Is that you admitting that they would've died in the sink?"
"Not at all," I shot back. "How's it been, today?"
"Bearable," he said, "except they all want to know the lucky subject of the song."
"Oh, really?" I raised my eyebrows, amused.
"Mm, I'm as interested as they are," he returned, humour in his tone, "she sounds fun-" he paused then, and I heard a muffled voice on the other end, clearly directed at him.
"Okay," he said, then, "I have-" he paused again, as if confirming his answer, "only one more interview. Then I'll be back. Probably two hours, at most," he told me.
"Okay," I returned, leaning back against the pillow. I could spend those two hours editing my photos. "I'll be here."
"Good," he said, and I could picture his softened, smiling expression as he spoke, "that's the best part."
I stayed quiet for a moment, bringing my knees to my chest. I kept the phone pressed to my ear, feeling the way my body harboured a shiver at his words. I bit back the smile aching to overtake my face, that familiar warmth filling my chest as I said 'goodbye' to him, and his beautiful voice echoed back a reply.
I spent the remainder of my morning editing together photos from the previous two shows. I spoke briefly to Grace, as I did so - the conversation wasn't particularly long; I'd filled her in on everything with the photo shoot, and we'd shared our excitement days previous. She told me she'd listened to Harry's new song that morning, and teased me with a number of the descriptive lyrics - but I couldn't even feel embarrassed; the flush in my face as she read them and joked, came solely from the meaning behind them, and the man who had written them.
"Seriously, though," she said, after she clearly felt like she'd teased me sufficiently. I had the phone on speaker, positioned on the bed beside me as I continued to edit photos. I was fixated on some adjustments I was making to the lighting on a particular photo I'd taken of Harry last night, as she spoke. "I can't even wrap my head around it. I just-" she paused, "I love how things are going for you right now."
I smiled, "I do, too. Enough about me. Are you up to anything?"
She sighed, "No. I've been so bored without you that I started doing my reading for next semester," she said, and I raised my eyebrows.
"You're lying," I said, in disbelief. Grace had always, without fail, left her work to the last possible second.
"Yeah, I am. But I actually thought about starting it, today - how crazy is that?"
I shook my head, smiling. "You haven't been going out?"
"Of course I have," she said, scoffing as if it were obvious. She proceeded to tell me about the gossip from other students we knew - names I'd barely heard, if at all, since being here - and the interactions she'd had with different people we knew; or mainly, she knew. Most of these individuals, I'd never have even known the names of if it wasn't for Grace informing me. If I'd been back at our flat, with her, then I'd have been consistently updated with all of the details that she was blurting out now.
"I miss you so much," I admitted, after a brief moment of silence had passed following one of Grace's stories.
She sighed, "I miss you too. So much. I didn't want to be selfish and tell you that as soon as we got on the phone. I'm just so happy for you. Ally said it feels like you've always been there."
"It kind of does," I said, "I'm gonna hate leaving. The only good thing about coming back will be getting to see you and Johnny, again."
"Have you heard from him?"
I nodded, although she couldn't see. "Yes. He emails, as much as he can manage. He said you've been stopping by."
"What did he say about the photoshoot?" she asked.
I laughed, "I could practically hear his voice through the email. He was so excited about it."
"Well, let's hope you don't lose that whole paternal dynamic you have once he hears some of the lyrics of the song," Grace joked, and I laughed. "But, he's right - this is huge for you. I can't imagine even two months ago, the idea of you doing something like that-"
"Well, I wouldn't have, if Harry hadn't put me forward," I admitted, feeling that turn in my stomach just as I said his name. I wasn't sure, in the heat of the moment, that I'd originally even described how it was Harry who had volunteered me for the position. Grace's slight gasp, and then momentary silence told me that I'd likely forgotten to tell her.
"God, Izzy, can we say that we love him yet?"
Her tone was light; playful. Her sentence wasn't intended to have any real weight, or meaning - but there was that word again. And again, its use was only flippant; colloquial. I knew Grace wouldn't have intended for me to take it so literally, but I couldn't help it. It had been playing on my mind for so long, now, without me even fully realising it.
I cleared my throat, slightly, forcing a smile back onto my lips in an attempt to combat the way my mind was yearning to spiral. I fixed my eyes back on my laptop screen. I couldn't allow myself to apply that wretched word and all of its extremities to mine and Harry's situation; if I did, I feared my inclination would be to ruin everything we had.
"You can," I replied to Grace, finally, attempting to laugh off the sinking feeling in my gut that came with such a weighted concept.
It didn't prevent excitement from filling my chest when I heard a key card slot into the door of the hotel room, signalling that Harry was finally back, around an hour after I'd gotten off the phone with Grace - just as he'd promised. I heard his voice, then, as the door clicked shut behind him, laughing briefly at something.
"Sure, it's not just because I'm three thousand miles away," his voice sounded then, his tone undoubtedly laced with humour. He was on the phone, I figured, and my suspicions were confirmed when he stepped around the corner. "Mhm - okay, Gem," he said, a bright smile on his lips as he finally locked eyes with me. I set my laptop down, crossing my legs as I stayed seated on the bed. "Tell Mum I love her - and you, as well," he added, rolling his eyes in a playful manner, "I'll talk to you later. Bye," he finished, his eyes locking back onto my own as he shoved his phone into the back pocket of his jeans.
He practically threw himself down onto me, and I couldn't help but laugh as he groaned in what seemed like relief, my arms winding around him as his face immediately buried into my neck. Even though he'd come in from outside, his body was so warm against my own, with his hair tickling against my jaw; I couldn't help but sigh a gentle sigh of relief, myself.
"How's editing?" he murmured, clearly having noticed my laptop, still open, beside me. He pressed his lips gently to my neck, where his face was, before he drew back to lay between my legs, shuffling his position so that his head lay against my stomach. My fingers pushed into his hair without hesitation.
"It's good, I think I'm almost caught up," I told him, "who was on the phone?"
"My sister," he returned, as my fingers continued their mindless drawing over his scalp. "She's at my mum's, so, they just called to make me feel a bit more included. It's usually at this point that I'll try and convince them to let me fly them here, but, my mum doesn't really like it here."
"In America?" I asked, "why?"
"I don't know. She finds it a bit much, and I don't think my sister would want to come without her, but I won't see them for ages, now," he huffed, his hand running mindlessly over my knee. He paused for a moment, before he continued, "You have a sister, don't you?"
My fingers momentarily halted their tracing through his hair, as my stomach turned. I wondered if he could sense the tension that had just filled my body, as he turned his head, so delicately, to enable him to meet my eye. I hadn't meant to react so blatantly, but I had, and he'd definitely sensed it.
It had slipped my mind that I'd told him about my sister. I remembered, now - I hadn't meant to tell him at all, but I had, in a hotel bar, a short while back. I couldn't help how deeply I trusted him, and I'd accidentally told him about how she'd sneak home our DVDs to watch. I'd obviously given him no context surrounding it, but he'd also never asked; and he hadn't asked at all, since that night.
"Yeah," I replied, realising I'd taken an unnaturally long amount of time to provide such a simple answer - but I couldn't bring myself to say anything more.
"What's her name?" he asked, and I could feel my heart beginning to race. I'd become pretty used to a life where my sister wasn't a part of it; just as my mother wasn't, but the recent conversation with my mother whereby my sister had been mentioned, had undeniably rehashed a little of the pain I'd been suppressing. My sister was the only person in my family who I'd never feared; who had never lay a hand on me, or directed a cruel word at me - but she'd still wanted nothing to do with me, all the same.
"Rosie," I told him, quietly. Her name was Roseanna, as my parents had always called her - I'd always called her Rosie. I'd looked her up on Facebook, once; it couldn't have been more than a year or two ago. I'd been aching to know where she was, even though I knew she didn't want to hear from me. I'd searched her up as 'Roseanna Blake', only to be met with an absence of results. It was only after excessive wracking my brain that I'd been able to remember the last name of the man she'd met before leaving - and I searched her name up, differently.
Rosie Michaels, was her name now. Her profile picture was her, but only because in my head, I already knew that it was. If I hadn't known, I'd never have been able to tell. My sister, growing up, had long, fiery auburn hair; this woman had a blonde bob, and beside her was a man, who shared grip on the baby that she was holding in her arms. She had a new family, now - she was a different person entirely.
There wasn't a trace of the person she'd been for so many years inside our house. I sort of envied that about her; how she'd decided she needed a new life, and so she'd gone and gotten it. She'd cut ties completely, and had never felt a need to glue them back together. I wondered if she thought about me, ever, like I thought about her. I wondered if she thought about them.
"Is she younger than you?"
"Older," I replied, quietly. I hated this. I didn't want to talk about it, and I knew he'd be able to tell by my disposition. I couldn't give more responses longer than a single word; I didn't trust myself to speak, when it came to any of them. He was peering up at me, now, from where he'd been laying on top of me, a look in his eye that I couldn't fully read, as he appeared to be attempting to read me, just the same.
"Um, she's three years older," I said, trying to add a little more detail in hopes that it would be satisfactory. I knew my responses were unnatural, but I didn't know how to change them.
"That's the same as me and my sister," Harry pointed out with a soft grin. "What does your sister do?" he asked, and I felt my mouth turn dry. I didn't know. I hadn't a clue; I hadn't spoken a word to her in years - and I wondered if he could sense it; if he was asking not solely out of intrigue, but also to see where I'd go with it.
"She moved away, to start a family," I told him. Although it wasn't a lie, it definitely didn't answer his question.
"You've never really said much about her," he pointed out, then, and my entire body was screaming at me to create some distance. This was everything I'd feared so greatly - I never, ever wanted to fall into these conversations. My body felt so tense; so different from how I usually felt in Harry's presence.
"I mean," I swallowed thickly, "we don't often talk about your family, either," I pointed out, which was technically true. "It just doesn't really come up."
"Oh," Harry replied, shuffling his position to sit on the bed across from me. I was no longer touching him, and I suddenly didn't feel as protected in our delicate topic of conversation. "Well, what do you want to know?"
I bit my lip. I was fine not knowing any more about his family, if it meant that I never had to say another word about mine. I'd relentlessly convinced myself that Harry and I could remain at surface level, even despite the depths of how I felt for him - and I knew it was a selfish idea, but I couldn't help it. I'd never be able to close that distance.
"Whatever you want to tell me." Could we talk about something - anything - else?
"My older sister, Gemma, works as a primary school English teacher. She lives in London with her boyfriend. And my mum - she lives in the same house we grew up in, in Manchester, with my stepdad," he told me, and I listened, sort of in awe at the ease with which he could discuss his life; his upbringing. He'd mentioned his sister was visiting his mum, and I presumed if he weren't on tour, he'd likely be visiting her, too - it was unfathomable to me, the idea of ever stepping foot in my childhood home. It blew my mind that Harry could choose to go back and visit his.
"You have a stepdad?"
He nodded, "Well, he's been there since I was four - so I just consider him as my actual dad."
"What about your biological dad?" I couldn't help but ask, though I knew I shouldn't have. Him sharing his experience, was likely to mean that he'd be waiting for me to share mine in response.
"I never knew him," he responded, as if it was the most trivial matter in the world. "I mean, I didn't - until I was eighteen, and he reached out to try and get some money out of me." My heart plummeted to the pit of my stomach. Oh.
I felt guilt begin to overtake me, again. He confided in me with such ease, that I only wished I could do it with him. Not to mention, that we had an element of our situations that were virtually identical, but I couldn't bring myself to admit how deeply I related to that parental manipulation. I trusted him - it wasn't a matter of that; I trusted him like I'd never trusted anybody, and he appeared to trust me, too. But I couldn't do it.
"What about your parents, Iz?" he asked, and I internally winced. "I mean, I know you weren't in touch with your mum, but - your dad?"
I bit my lip. "He died," I said, then, rather bluntly. Why did you say that? I watched his face fall, and his hand reach for mine. He opened his lips, as if he was about to provide sympathy - but I couldn't take it. "I was really young. I don't remember him, so - I'm okay." A real lie; a proper one. I'd just lied to prevent further questioning. I wished I couldn't remember him.
"That still must've been really hard, love," Harry said. I felt so uncomfortable in that moment that I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me, even with Harry's touch there to ground me. Every moment of silence between us now felt torturous, and deafening, but somehow the topic of conversation felt a million times worse. Why did you have to open your mouth? I'd dropped a statement that naturally provoked further questioning, and it was questioning that I couldn't endure. He continued, "I know you weren't close with your mum, but - your sister, were you close?"
I nodded, stiffly. I didn't trust myself to say another word - even in my deliberate attempts at silence, I'd said far too much. It was that stupid, irritating desire I had to just open my mouth and deal with whatever truth fell out, around him - to just drop my shoulders, and remove the filter I so harshly enforced before my sentences. It was that irrational desire to be open with him, like I'd never been with anybody else. It went against everything I knew, and everything I'd learned, the hard way. I needed to overcome it.
"I guess, at least you'd have had each other," he said, quietly, drawing his hand over mine. I could feel him looking at me, and I knew he was genuine in his concern, and compassion. But there was something else. It was rare that he couldn't properly read me; but now, was one of those times. He was searching my eyes, and it was then, that I felt like maybe - just maybe - he knew I was lying. Just as I'd felt he had when I'd said that my mother had never reached back out. He was looking at me like he knew there was something that I wasn't saying; looking at me like he couldn't quite figure out why.
Still, he didn't push. This was the closest he'd come; applying the slightest bit of pressure in asking repeated questions, but - still, he hadn't cornered me at all.
I liked to think I was past all of it, but I knew that I wasn't. Just a simple question about my sister had been enough to shift the whole dynamic of our conversation. I felt awful for shutting him out, but I didn't feel capable of doing any different. In my head, if I ignored everything that was eating at me; it would go away. I could live my life separate from it.
But, I realised, then, that this was always going to follow me. No matter what I did; no matter what I built for myself, I'd always be haunted by everything I used to be, and everything they'd ever done. I'd always be living on their terms, because I couldn't let it go. I tuned it out, constantly, and convinced myself that I was surviving. But it was beginning to feel like I'd never succeed in running from my past, at all - especially, because something told me now, that Harry wouldn't be able to completely let it go, either.