When I woke up, Harry wasn't in the bed beside me. I'd fallen asleep with ease after the events of last night, my face buried into Harry's chest - I didn't remember how long it had taken, or how long I'd slept, but the room was noticeably brighter, now. I assumed it was at least the mid-morning, for the sun to be streaming through with such force.
I looked over to the balcony doors, and saw that the curtains were drawn over them, but they shifted a little, as if carried by a breeze. I figured the doors were open, and the translucent curtains had been pulled to stop the sunlight from breaking through to wake me up too early - and thus, I figured Harry was likely on the balcony.
I sat up, slowly, blowing out an exhale. I rubbed my eyes, peering around the room, as I turned my head, stretching my neck. I'd slept so well that it was almost shocking to me - my mind felt at ease; I felt calm, and I felt good. Being here with Harry, was already one of the most blissful dynamics I'd ever experienced, even after less than a day.
My suitcase was laying on the ground, open, from where I'd selected the clothes that had remained on my body for a maximum of fifteen minutes, last night. I stood up, reaching into it to grab something to pull onto my body, still bare from the night before. I reached for one of Harry's t-shirts that I'd managed to steal - an old, baggy band t-shirt that he'd lent to me one night - and I pulled it on, along with a pair of underwear. Finally, I made my way over to the balcony doors, gently drawing back the curtain to be met with the real intensity of the sunlight that had been previously diluted by the blinds.
Sure enough, there he was. Lazily sprawled across the lounger, focused on a book grasped between his fingers, in complete silence. I bit back a smile at the sight of him there, his hair in loose waves due to the humidity and lack of product in it, his lack of shirt revealing the inkings upon his chest and torso. He looked so peaceful; more relaxed than I'd ever seen him, his tan already beginning to deepen and his skin just glowing. Italy looked beautiful on him.
I wasn't sure I'd ever loved a sight quite like this one. I watched as his lips occasionally pursed to half-form the words he read, the sun casting a beautiful hue over him on the balcony.
He hadn't noticed me, not yet. I wished there was a way to put into words how I felt at that moment, looking at him, there. I had never had so many feelings towards one individual, so many good feelings. When I looked at him, I trusted him more than anybody in my life, and I didn't want to hold back. He made me so happy.
I moved over to where he sat, causing his head to lift from his book, at my presence. He sent me a grin.
"Hello, darling," he peered up at me through the thickness of his eyelashes, laying his book in his lap to give me his attention. My heart fluttered at his greeting. I leant forward, and he opened his arms, tugging me onto his lap without another word. My back pressed to his chest, his chin on my shoulder as I leaned into him, and he brought his arms around me. He waited, as if to see if I was going to say anything to him - and when I didn't, he didn't press me; he only raised his book back up to continue reading it.
He needn't have said any more, and neither had I. I liked that. Silence used to scare me, but this type was quickly becoming enjoyable. I simply peered out onto the skyline ahead of us, whilst he occasionally turned to the next page of his book. There were a couple of moments where his lips pressed against the back of my shoulder, or he'd take one of his hands from his book to lay it against my waist or my stomach. His shorts had hitched up to reveal the tiger tattoo he had inked on his thigh, and I mindlessly brought my fingers over it, to trace it, as I let my eyes occasionally close.
I wasn't sure I'd ever felt so at peace in my life. This place was magical, without a doubt. There was just something in the air here - with it being just us, with nowhere to be, and nothing we had to do. I turned around, after a while, still lying between his legs, but now with my stomach pressed to his. He flickered his eyes down to meet mine, and I could've melted in an instant, feeling his hand press to my back.
"When did you wake up?" I asked, and he set his book down on the table beside our chair. As much as I liked our silent interactions, I'd decided that I missed the sound of his voice far too much to sustain it.
"Mm, maybe an hour ago?" he replied, tilting his head slightly. His fingertips moved from my back to my hair, gently drawing circles over my scalp.
"You came straight out here?"
"No - I was probably out here for twenty minutes or so before you woke up," he told me, continuing to stroke his fingers over my hair as I peered up at him. "Believe it or not, it's hard to force yourself out of bed when your naked girlfriend is still there, next to you," he said, then, wit in his tone as I felt my face turn red, burying it against the firmness of his abdomen. Even after everything we'd experienced as a pair, he still managed to make me feel like a shy, giggly teenager with butterflies in her stomach.
I heard him laugh, then, and I shuffled further up to rest on my knees, so that I could bring my arms around his neck. My body weight was still resting on him, as I leaned forward, clinging onto him with the assurance that he'd tighten his grip to allow me to embrace him. I buried my face into his neck, his arms around my waist to stabilise me. It was like that was all I could bring myself to do - adore him, there; embracing him and placing kisses on his skin. It was all I wanted to do.
"Is there a plan today?" I asked him, my face now level with his own as his hands held me in place, drawing over my hips.
"Not particularly," he replied, a lazy smile on his lips that made me ache at my core. "Well, I have ideas." I knew this week was one meant for relaxing - I doubted there'd be much real activity, but it wasn't that I minded. In an area so beautiful; with an apartment like this, I definitely wouldn't have minded a day or two holed up on this balcony, with an occasional walk around the city.
He'd suggested, then, that we went to the local supermarket to gather some things for the apartment. If we were back home, or in America, I'd have raised an eyebrow - I wondered when was the last time he'd gone into a normal supermarket, on his own. But he had insisted that things were entirely different here, and who was I to do anything other than embrace it?
Our morning was slow, in the best way possible. We'd stayed on the balcony for a little longer, before I'd reluctantly pulled myself from him, deciding I'd ought to shower and get myself together. He'd placed a hand on the back of my thigh in a gentle acknowledgement as I went to walk away, before he stood up to follow me, bringing a grin to my lips.
We showered as a pair, and it felt like ridiculous smiles were permanently plastered on our faces as we proceeded to get ready. From what I could tell from my time on the balcony that morning, it was incredibly warm outside, but still with enough of a gentle breeze blowing to keep it comfortable - it was perfect.
I'd finished getting ready, finally, after continuously messing around, with Harry repeatedly pulling at my waist, or playfully biting at my ear to stop me from getting anything done. He grabbed one of the many empty tote bags that he seemed to drag between every location, as I wandered about the room in search of one particular bag that I'd brought.
I found it, reaching for the camera I'd been looking for.
"This sort of feels like our camera, now," I said to Harry as I turned back to him, holding it in my hands. His eyes flickered from mine, down to what I was holding, and I watched a small smile begin to pull on his lips, recognising it in an instant. It was the camera that Johnny had gifted me before leaving London - the camera I'd used for the first time on what I supposed could now be categorised as Harry and I's 'first date', and I'd ended up keeping it only for the moments we shared between us. I'd used it a few times since then, on dates, or in our hotel room, just to capture the occasional moment of Harry, or our surroundings. I knew from the moment this trip was agreed on, that the camera would be coming with me.
"Does that mean you'll let me use it?" he asked, with a raise of his eyebrow, "if it's ours?"
"Maybe," I returned, pulling the strap over my head to let the camera hang from my neck. He narrowed his eyes, knowing that 'maybe' meant 'no'. It wasn't that I didn't trust him with it, but rather that I far preferred to be behind the camera, rather than in front of it. We couldn't all be as gifted as he was, in being so photogenic. Being in front of a camera made me feel vulnerable, and exposed, and I didn't like it. I knew he'd never understand why I was as insecure as I was, and though it made me feel so special to know that he couldn't wrap his head around the issues I had with myself, it didn't stop me from loathing so much.
We left the hotel, Harry's hand laced with mine, but we only made it a metre or two out of the front entrance, before he stopped. The market was around a fifteen or twenty-minute walk away, he'd said, and so I'd expected him to continue beside me. But he stopped, grinning over at me.
I frowned, "What are you doing?"
"Well," he drew his hand from mine, taking a few steps over to a bike rack outside of the entrance, housing a plethora of bikes, scooters, and the mopeds I'd seen so many of since being here. I raised my eyebrows as he lay his hand on one of the mopeds, painted a sage green colour, parked in one of the available spaces. He then reached into the back pocket of his trousers, and drew out a set of keys.
"You're joking."
"This is ours for the week," he said, then, and my lips parted in elated surprise. I'd never been on anything like this, and if it wasn't for him and his beautiful grin across from me, I'd probably have laughed off the idea and anxiously avoided it at all costs. But he was serious - completely, with a boyish grin on his lips and a beautiful glint in his eye, a stray few strands of hair flopping down over his forehead.
"You know how to drive it?" I asked, still in slight disbelief as he reached for a helmet, handing it to me. I accepted it, as he took one for himself.
"I've done it on my own... once," he returned, pulling his helmet on as I did the same. "C'mon. You're in very safe hands."
"Famous last words," I jokingly mumbled in response, prompting him to whine a 'hey', at me, before he took a seat at the front of the bike, leaning onto his leg to steady it for me to get on, behind him.
I felt a jolt in my stomach as Harry lifted his leg from the ground to balance the bike, and I instinctively clawed at his shirt in a panic at the sudden movement.
"Hold on to me," he glanced over his shoulder at me, bringing his hand over mine to prompt my arm to wind around his torso. I did the same with my other arm, as I felt the engine start with a harsh jolt. "You're fine. I've got you," he said, turning his head to survey our surroundings as he then skillfully pulled the moped out of its parking space. And suddenly, we were gliding over the cobblestone streets as if this were second nature to Harry.
When I finally had the nerve to lean back from where I'd been clinging onto him, a little, I could really take everything in. I understood why this seemed to be the most popular way to get around - it was more practical than walking, but gave you all of the same advantages of being able to squeeze along narrow footpaths, whilst also being fully immersed in the depths of the city - with all of its quirks, and its uniquely authentic charm. These mopeds didn't drive particularly fast, meaning I could catch a glimpse of everything, and everybody, as we passed, but it equally meant that I could lift my camera, snapping a few photos of our surroundings as we moved, or whenever we found ourselves in a brief moment of delay or traffic. My hands rested over Harry's stomach as he drove, the breeze blowing at our clothes as we travelled along.
"Why were you actually good at that?" I asked him, as he drew us to a gentle halt outside of what I assumed was the supermarket. Still seated on the moped, Harry extended his hand to me to help me get off, first, before he stood up. I took off my helmet, and he took it from me, wedging it beside his onto the moped seat.
"Don't sound so shocked," he returned, raking his fingers through his now dishevelled hair. His hand then laced through mine, as I held onto the tote bag he'd brought with us, my camera still hooked onto the strap around my neck.
This particular shop didn't look hugely different to any other supermarket I might have frequented - the only real difference, here, was the presence of multiple counters providing fresh, authentic produce; whether it was salads, fresh vegetables and fruit, or fresh pasta, or meats, and cheeses - everything looked to be of such high quality.
We picked up a few things that we thought we'd be likely to need for the apartment - tedious things that didn't feel so tedious when I was buying them with Harry. He carried the basket around for our items, as we grabbed things such as dish soap, and paper towels that we'd likely need for the remainder of the week. After a short deliberation, we'd settled on attempting to cook our own pizzas that evening, and so we began to hunt for the ingredients we'd need for that. The apartment had a beautiful kitchen attached to it, fully supplied with just about every electrical appliance we could've required, and so it would've felt like a waste not to put it to use.
We stopped at each of the fresh produce counters, filling the basket with a number of the cheeses and vegetables that we'd laid our eyes on as soon as we'd entered the supermarket. Each item looked as if it had been individually crafted and wrapped, with handwritten labels and makeshift string to seal their containers. We grabbed the rest of the things we thought we'd need, with Harry making a strong case for adding a couple of bottles of wine that looked far too expensive for me to have been previously acquainted with, to the basket. It wasn't overly long before we were finished retrieving the things we'd set out to purchase, and we made our way toward the checkout.
Harry easily conversed with the older man that was seated behind the till - it always seemed to come so naturally to him, and I'd yet to see a person converse with him who didn't leave the conversation with a bright smile on their lips. Even with a slight language barrier - that he skilfully worked around in slowing his words, or gesturing with his hands, or even throwing the occasional Italian word that I was shocked to find he knew, in there - he had that aching charm about him; he was so easy to talk to, no matter how well you knew him, but even then, I couldn't help but feel even luckier to know him the way that I did.
I'd somehow, for what might've been the first time in our relationship, managed to wrestle his arm away from the card reader to tap my own card against it, paying for our groceries. I'd watched as his jaw dropped in a frustrated defeat, as I'd managed to get one over him, just this once. He was always so insistent when it came to him covering our bills, and I adored how it wasn't even a question to him, but it didn't mean I didn't want to make the same gesture, sometimes. I'd always have to beg him to let me pay for something as minuscule as an occasional coffee, and he'd still kick up a fuss that I'd even make the suggestion.
"Isabella," he huffed, in an attempt to nudge my card away, but it had already been picked up. He used the entirety of my name, as he did whenever he was trying to be overly teasing, or if he was trying to convey his disapproval with my actions, but it didn't matter. It was nothing compared to how much he did for me.
With his tote bag slung over my shoulder, now full of our groceries, we made our way back through the city to the hotel building. Harry insisted on pulling over at a flower stall he'd spotted on the way to the supermarket, and retrieving an obnoxiously large bouquet of pink tulips that made me melt. It felt like it was a gesture he'd have made, regardless, but he also appeared to be making a point of getting a bouquet as large as possible after the stunt he'd felt I'd pulled at the supermarket. I laughed as he was barely able to wedge them into the tote bag, unharmed, unable to resist kissing him as he'd reapproached the bike with a smug, satisfied look on his features.
It felt like I could've toppled the bike over with the amount of weight now in my bag, but we somehow made it back, unscathed. We unpacked everything, and I made a point of hunting around in the kitchen cupboards for a vase to place them in. Harry had to help me arrange the flowers so that they could even be displayed, there, a boyish grin on his lips as he recognised the scale of the gesture, and I couldn't help but be amused. He knew I didn't need such a grand bouquet - but he equally knew the thrill I was filled with whenever he'd bring me flowers; I supposed that was why he'd made it such a frequent habit, but this was simply another level.
The afternoon drew by lazily, with us spending the majority of it on the balcony of our bedroom, peering out at the city beneath us. I watched as a number of boats drifted smoothly, without urgency, along the canal, the water sparkling up at us underneath the beaming of the sun. Harry was fixed on his book, just as he had been this morning, without another care in the world. I loved seeing him like that. My chest felt lighter than it had in ages - I'd expected, with the turmoil I'd been feeling in the buildup to this trip, to feel relentlessly tortured by my own head - but it felt somewhat clear. There was the same nagging occupying the back of my mind that there always was, but it wasn't at all prominent. Being here with him felt good.
After a number of hours had passed, we finally decided to head for the kitchen to start putting our dinner together. Harry had reached for one of the bottles of wine from the fridge, retrieving a couple of glasses for us to use.
I leaned forward to rest my elbows on the island in the centre of the kitchen, watching Harry as he poured wine into the two glasses. He slid one across the countertop, to me, and I took it, thanking him as he broke from his concentration to meet my eye. He looked unbelievably good, just as he had all day, with his hair floppy and unstyled in loose waves, and his skin somehow glowing even more than usual. He felt too far away, then, across the counter, and I tilted my head at him, in hopes of beckoning him over to me. He tilted his head back, teasing me.
"'Want something?" he quipped, but he was making his way around the counter as he spoke. His arm reached for me, and I closed the distance between us, our bodies pressing together as I tilted my head back to let him press his lips to mine.
There was something so comforting about being able to lean my body weight onto his, and have him support me in return. His arms snaked around me as he set his wine glass down to enable him to fully hold me to him; breaking our kiss only to press his lips to my forehead, instead.
"Okay, come on," he grinned down at me after a moment, "let's get on with it. I'm starving."
I drew back from him, moving over to the fridge to grab out the ingredients that we'd bought earlier, feeling him slap his hand gently against my bum as I passed him. I turned back, narrowing my eyes playfully at him, but feeling my face heat, nonetheless. I pulled the fridge door open, feeling Harry's presence behind me as I grabbed some of the ingredients out, and he immediately took them from me to place them down on the counter.
"Have you ever actually made pizza?" I asked him, furrowing my eyebrows as he took the last things from my hands, and I pushed the fridge door closed. I narrowed my eyes. "How often do you even cook?"
"More often than you're probably thinking, thank you very much," he narrowed his eyes back at me, mocking offence as he began to unwrap the dough we'd bought earlier. "Whenever I'm home... so for a few weeks a year, maybe."
I blinked at him, hit with another reminder of how different our lives were, even away from tour. A few weeks a year. That was all, where Harry wasn't constantly travelling; constantly performing, making appearances, making music. Harry had admitted, himself, that he felt like he'd missed out on so many aspects of growing up as an 'ordinary' individual - living as a university student, being one of those experiences. I was reminded, then, he'd never known what it was like to be scraping by on the pennies of your student loan, and having to make poor attempts at 'cooking' cheap rubbish for yourself until your next loan payment came through.
Being on tour, I was earning more money than I ever had. Even with sending money back to Grace to cover my share of rent, I had more income than I'd had working ridiculous hours in the firm - I barely even had to spend it, here, with the majority of my meals and my accommodation covered. Then, there was Harry, who refused to let me pay a penny towards anything we did, or bought - I'd had to blindside him to even cover our groceries, today.
With how down to earth he was, and with how I knew him, I'd somewhat come to separate the Harry I'd seen on the covers of magazines and plastered on billboards, from the Harry I had as my partner. It was easy to forget how different we were, even in our current lives. I figured, had I never known him, I'd have categorised him as it was easy to categorise any celebrity of his status - out of touch, and up themselves, without any real understanding of how the world worked. And though it felt like I'd still never be able to reveal my world to him in a way that he'd understand; I knew he was better than any of that. It was when I'd see him bombarded with fans in the street, or hit with enamoured, relentless applause at every show that I was reminded how different his life was from mine - how different our worlds were. Being on tour with him had let me have a taste of his reality, but I'd be occasionally starkly reminded of how it wasn't mine.
I eyed him for a moment, watching as he rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and laid out the dough on the counter, feeling oddly endeared. It all felt very domestic, and I was stirred by how much I liked it, despite the dread that simultaneously occupied my mind at such a feeling. I drew my eyes over the individual tattoos that had been revealed on his forearms; the little cross that adorned the edge of his hand, as his fingers flexed against the dough. He glanced up at me, a small smile on his lips, and I exhaled, a smile on my own lips. Even with every tumultuous battle taking place, daily, within my mind, he somehow always drew me back - just with his eyes; just with his smile, and his voice; just by being him.
I reached up to take his face in mine, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek before I wrapped a hand around his bicep, leaning my temple to his shoulder. I wasn't much help with his cooking, but he didn't seem particularly bothered.
"Did you see the record player?" he asked, then, tilting his head toward the entrance to one of the lounge areas in the apartment. "In the other room?"
I nodded, having spotted it on our initial tour the day before. "Should I pick something?"
"They're my records in there," he said, as I drew back from him, slightly. "I keep a load of them here - pick anything." He met my eye as I squeezed at his arm, beginning to walk away from him.
I went into the other room, through the open doorframe and into the living room. It wasn't a room I'd spent a lot of time in, yet, but it was equally as beautiful as the rest of the apartment - somehow striking that same balance that the remainder of the place did, between luxury and a welcoming sort of comfort - I supposed the same kind of balance that Harry struck, himself. The couches were a plain fabric, but were adorned with throws and pillows in eccentric colours, though somehow they weren't at all tacky. Everything in here was classy, with a slight spin on it.
I wandered over to the record player, positioned on top of a desk, in the corner, which further housed a large stack of vinyls. I dragged my eyes over them, hearing something clatter in the kitchen as Harry most definitely dropped something, and I felt a small smile pulling on my lips. Each of these records were so, unbelievably him - old bands, from long before either of us were born, with slightly tattered sleeves and aged discolouration on the covers. He collected them, I figured. I remembered him telling me about his favourite record shop in LA - how he didn't get to visit as much as he'd like, anymore. Each little attribute I uncovered about him made me adore him even more.
I selected one of the records, with a name on it that I didn't at all recognise, and I set it up. Johnny had a record player that he'd shown me how to use a while back - it was slightly simpler than this one, but the basic principle was the same, and so I managed to set it up without too much difficulty.
A gentle crackle sounded as the needle lined up with the grooves of the vinyl, and music began to play. Just as I hadn't recognised the cover; I didn't recognise the music, either, but it didn't feel like it mattered. I walked back into the kitchen, to find Harry washing his hands in the sink, the dough having been spread into a large oval across the counter.
"You picked one of my favourites," he said, switching off the tap and drying his hands on some kitchen towel as I glanced between him and the dough he'd rolled out on the counter.
"How are you so good at everything? The moped, and now you're a master chef?" I asked him, picking up my glass of wine as I moved back toward him, taking a sip as he ghosted his hand over my waist in a brief acknowledgement. Though his own glass was on the table a few feet away, he glanced at mine and tilted his chin, beckoning me to raise it to his lips so that he could take a sip from it. I wasn't sure why such a simple gesture made my chest flutter - but it was likely something to do with the lazy smirk upon his features that had the ability to make my knees weak.
"I think you're biased," he returned, then, referring to my question as his eyes flickered briefly from my eyes to my lips. "You're meant to think those things about me."
"Maybe," I returned, "or maybe I actually believe them."
"Well, I'm not opposed to that," he sent me a grin, as I subconsciously reached to brush a stray hand of hair from his face. Harry truly did seem like the sort of person who could do just about anything - he ticked just about every skill box; he was musically talented, he was athletic, he was academically, and emotionally intelligent - I couldn't imagine anything that he'd be unable to do.
He followed me back over to the counter, the music I'd put on gently blaring throughout the apartment as we continued to put our food together. The sun was barely grazing the sky, now, almost entirely lowered as the evening drew on, casting a faint warm hue over the kitchen. Harry's arms wound around my torso, his chin pressing to my shoulder as I spread the sauce diligently across the pizza - his fingertips lightly digging into me, on occasion, just to throw me off. Each time he'd press them against me, I'd laugh, leaning back into his chest and hearing a short, breathy laugh leave Harry's lips, too, as he'd press them to my ear or my temple with a quiet murmur.
He helped me lay the rest of the toppings on our pizza, before he skillfully maneuvered the base into the oven, swinging the door closed. He raised his hand to high-five me, satisfied, and I didn't hesitate to raise my own hand to meet his.
We spent the remainder of the evening just like that - the gentle blare of the music carrying throughout the apartment, with Harry moving to replace and change the records whenever one would draw to its end. We ate, and we drank, clumsily dancing around the kitchen. I wasn't sure when his arm had looped around my waist to guide us across the kitchen floor, but my arms had wound around his neck almost on instinct. He kissed me - again, and again, as he playfully twirled me around, a beautiful smile upon his lips with an equally beautiful glint in his eye, and I felt like I was floating. It was so easy to be with him like this, that it was torturous to imagine a world without it - the frequent kisses that I couldn't help but trail over his face, which he'd always return; the nudge of his nose against my jaw, and the tracing of his fingertips over my ribs. It was an obsessive, all-encompassing feeling - it wasn't one I could quite pinpoint.
At some point, Harry had fished his guitar from the bedroom, where it had been with the remainder of our bags. He'd brought it with us, carrying the case around with the suitcases. The last of the records we'd been playing had reached its crackling end, and it had been replaced by the gentle, blissful strumming of Harry's guitar. He peered ahead whenever he'd strum his fingertips over it, pursing his lips in thought. I wondered how it worked - if he'd had something in mind, when we'd sat down on the sofa, or if he was mindless in how he began to play. The sliding door to the second balcony of the apartment, here, was drawn open, with it being almost completely dark, now. The wind had started to pick up the slightest bit, bringing some colder air inside, but I didn't want to shut the door on the night, outside.
"Do you know what you're playing?" I asked him, sort of fascinated with the seemingly effortless shifting of his fingers.
"Not really," he replied, "but once you have the basics down, you can sort of go anywhere." His eyes flickered to mine, noticing how I was focused on the strumming of his hands. "I can show you."
I was sure my excited expression at his proposal wasn't at all subtle. I was sure Harry had more musical ability in his little finger than I did in my entire body, but I'd have liked for him to teach me, regardless.
My legs were already pressed to his own, but he tilted his head for me to move closer. I could feel the cool breeze from outside beginning to nip at my arms, slightly. I turned to him, "Let me grab a jumper, first," I told him, pulling my legs from his, and standing up to leave the living room. "Are you cold? Do you want anything?"
"I'm okay, love," he responded, peering up at me as I stood above him, now. His hands were preoccupied with his guitar as I moved away from him. I walked back through to the other end of the apartment, where our bedroom was situated, in search of a jumper - likely of Harry's, rather than mine - to pull over myself.
I landed on one of Harry's knitted jumpers, that he'd hung inside the wardrobe, and I reached for it. I pulled it on, instantly met with the warmth and familiarity of him, with the wind no longer able to reach my bare skin.
I went to leave the bedroom, before I heard a phone begin to ring. I glanced down at the bed, where Harry and I had both discarded our phones much earlier that day - neither of us had touched them, since. My eyes landed on Harry's phone, first, before I realised that it wasn't his that was ringing - it was mine.
Just as I went to reach for it, to read the caller ID, the call ended - I wasn't sure how long it had taken me to pick it up, but it seemed more like whoever the caller was had decided not to let it ring the entire way through. I narrowed my eyes, watching as a 'missed call' notification formed on my lockscreen.
I didn't recognise the number. It wasn't somebody I had saved as a contact - nor was it a business number; it was a private one - it was a British one. It was likely a misdial, or a private company who had stumbled across my number and was looking to sell something. It wasn't unusual.
I was staring at the notification, not immediately unsettled - until I had a funny sort of gut feeling. I couldn't explain it; but I had it, with my mouth feeling slightly dry, and my shoulders feeling slightly tense. It was sort of innate, for me to assume the worst, but I couldn't quite ignore it. I unlocked my phone, trying to piece it together, in search of something; in search of some clarification.
"Was that your phone or mine?" Harry's voice suddenly sounded from the other end of the apartment in a gentle call, and I felt my heart thump. I opened up my texts, urgently scrolling back through my conversation with Grace - I hated this feeling. This weird, sinking feeling that the number wasn't completely unbeknownst to me.
"Mine," I called back, bringing my lip between my teeth. My hands were frantically searching for the answer I was seeking to rule out, as I scrolled through my texts, finally reaching the point I was looking for. I scanned over the number that Grace had attached a short few weeks ago, and I swallowed. Okay.
I opened back up the missed call notification, flickering my eyes between the two numbers - the one that Grace had sent, and the one that had called. My heart sank, then, plummeting to the pit of my stomach as the realisation set in. The two numbers matched. The very same phone number that Grace had attached in a text to me, several weeks ago, that I'd been aching to leave behind me, had just called me again.
My mother had just called.