The moment I stepped out into the hallway, I realised I had no idea where I was even going. I had nothing on me; no money, and no phone, but the last plausible option seemed to be going back to the apartment.
I was being so stupid, and I knew it. But I couldn't do this. I didn't know how to be confronted with emotion by somebody wanting a solution. The only emotional conversations I'd ever really had, were ones were somebody was trying to get their anger and rage out, and so all I had to do was sit there and take it; I didn't have to contribute, or offer a response. But he wanted one. He didn't want anger, or confrontation - he just wanted things to be okay.
As soon as I was walking down the hall, I regretted leaving. I knew I shouldn't have, and I knew I was only making things worse, but my head wouldn't have allowed me to stay.
Maybe I shouldn't have let things go this far.
Maybe I wasn't supposed to be with him. That had tortured me in the back of my head from the moment we'd decided to properly try things out. The reason I'd avoided how I felt for him for so long was because I didn't think I was able to be what he wanted, I didn't think I was capable of being with somebody, and I didn't want to ever give a part of myself away. I didn't want anybody to know me. I'd been conditioned by both others and myself, for so long to believe that I was worthy of so, so little. It was like no matter what he did; no matter how many times he showed me that he was different, it wasn't enough to break my wretched patterns.
This could never have just been casual - the pair of us knew that from day one, and I knew it was dangerous from the start; and that's when I should've backed out. If I was going to keep concealing so much of myself, and giving him these half-truths and shallow explanations for things, then I should've never entered a relationship with him. It was selfish, and it was cruel. I'd been so wrapped up in my own stupid self-loathing and my pathetic, desperate attempts at protecting myself, that I'd been harming him all along. Deep down, I'd known that all along, but I was too selfish to rectify it.
I wanted him. I wanted him so, so badly - more than I'd ever wanted anybody, or anything. Even away from this job, and this stupid, failed attempt at seizing control of my own life; it was him, that I wanted. More than wanted - I felt for him like I'd never felt for anything else in my entire life. I didn't have words, or the capacity to even attempt at describing it; it was like, when he was there, everything felt so light. He made it so easy to keep being selfish and suppressing everything I was struggling with, because he made me so happy. But equally, that made it so much harder to keep lying to him, because I was starting to realise that wasn't something you were supposed to do to people you care about. You weren't supposed to lie, or twist things, or give them only half of you. I'd never given anybody more than that, and it felt like an impossible task.
I wasn't even downstairs when I remembered that I couldn't even go outside. The row of paparazzi that had settled themselves outside earlier on would definitely still be waiting for a glimpse of Harry, and though I doubted they even knew who I was, I couldn't risk it - for him.
There was a tiny little cafe area that we'd passed every time we went to and from the apartment. It was a self-service coffee kiosk beside the stairwell, with nobody attending to it, and there were a couple of empty chairs that surrounded it - that was the only place I could think to go. It was quiet - everything felt so quiet, for this was the first time - really - since I'd been here, that I was by myself.
I sat down, not bothering to make a coffee. Maybe if I hadn't been stupid enough to drop it the first time.
For a moment, I contemplated calling Grace, before I remembered that I'd left my phone in the apartment. Even if I'd had it, I likely would've decided against it, eventually; all I would've wanted was for her to tell me what to do - to give me a script to follow, and solve things for me, but I knew that was wrong. I knew that was a pathetic way out, and I knew it wasn't fair. This was him and me, and I needed to start acting like it. If I wanted to stay with Harry, I needed to start treating him like somebody I cared about. I couldn't keep failing him.
Had I really even tried? Or had I just decided it wasn't something I could do? I was getting angrier and angrier with myself; more and more frustrated. Did I really want him? I hadn't been acting like I did.
I didn't know what he saw in me. I offered him nothing, really, as much as I wanted to. He was stable, and kind, and generous, and selfless - he was good, and I was none of those things. I didn't understand why he wanted me, but I realised I didn't have to. I just had to decide that if I wanted him too, I couldn't be selfish with him.
I was so wrapped up in the mess I'd made with us, that my mother's repeated calls were slipping through the cracks of my mind. I couldn't even battle with that - why was she calling me again? So often? Was it to make another attempt at asking for money? I didn't know, and I didn't contemplate it. I was beating myself up far too much to rationalise anything that was going on. I'd already decided that answering another one of her calls was not an option, because mentally, I knew it would destroy me. Though it wasn't like I was doing any better, now, ignoring her.
I sat in the chair with my knees brought to my chest, wondering how to fix this. That was new. I remembered when Calvin had told me we were over, I'd had nothing to say in response, nor did I care to find anything. It had felt inevitable, and transactional; I felt nothing. I knew I was the problem, and I didn't think I had it in me to change it. I let him go so easily. Harry hadn't even done that, yet, but just the idea of him leaving me made me feel sick to my stomach. Harry and I were different - I couldn't just let him pass me by, knowing I could've done so, so much more.
We couldn't be like this; he was right. And I had to decide, then, between two choices; either I got ahold of myself, and started being honest - or I ended things, and I got on the next flight home.
I had to tell him the truth.
I wasn't sure how long I sat there, torturously lost in my own head. It was at least an hour or two, but it felt like days. If he were anybody else, that might've been the last time he'd see me - or at least, I could've held out a hell of a lot longer. I'd spent my entire life running, from everybody else, and from myself. I didn't want to run from him anymore.
My body was shaky and weak by the time I made my way back to the apartment. It was like I'd blinked and I was at the front door; like even the journey upstairs had been a blur. My entire body was fighting me, because this was the opposite of instinctual. This was the one thing I'd promised myself not to do. In my head, he already hated me, and knowing me would only make him hate me more. There was nothing appealing about somebody with emotional baggage - surely not to the man who could have absolutely anybody he wanted. But I had to tell him. I had to stop hiding, and accept that if he didn't want me after knowing me, then as much as I'd resent it; it would have to be something I learned to accept.
I could hear that he was further into the apartment, when I pushed the front door open. I was quiet as ever, gently clicking the door shut and turning back around, to hear the faint, familiar strum of his guitar from the other end of the apartment. I could hear his voice; that beautiful voice that I'd begun to take for granted, and how it carried through my entire body, warming it from top to bottom.
I walked slowly through the entryway, and towards the sound - feeling it get louder as I approached. I'd expected him to be in the bedroom, but before I could pass the lounge, I could see the back of his head. He was sitting in front of the balcony doors, overlooking the private garden area, rather than the street, and sure enough, he was playing his guitar, singing quietly to himself.
"I can see you're lonely down there, don't you know that I am right here? Spinning out, waiting for you, to pull me in-" he stopped, then, with another firm strum of his guitar, before he laid it back in his lap. The song was a work in progress, clearly, as he paused to stare ahead of him at the window, and I heard a gentle exhale leave his lips.
'Spinning out, waiting...'
He'd sung that very line a few days before - or, the first part of it. By accident, it had seemed, but he'd sung it, all the same. My heart was racing as I stood in the doorway, and tried to piece the lyrics together, desperately examining the back of him. He hadn't wanted to talk about it the other day, but I'd heard more, now.
'Don't you know that I am right here?'
"Hi, Iz," he said, softly, without turning around. I flinched at the sound of his speaking voice, having not expected to hear it directed at me again, so soon. His eyes were still fixated on the window, his hand resting on top of his guitar, mindlessly. I didn't know he'd known I was there.
"Hi," I returned, rather sheepishly, moving forward to close some of the distance between us. I stood beside the couch, awkwardly, staring at his side profile in search of an answer, until he finally turned his head to meet my eye. I felt a soft pang in my chest at the look in his eyes. It still wasn't angry, even now, despite how justified it would've been. I wouldn't have even called it upset, or particularly emotional - he looked a little defeated, if anything, with his lips pressed together, and his gaze refusing to give me the bright invitation or excitement that they usually did. He looked disappointed.
I stood there for another moment, awkwardly pondering what the correct thing to do was. I didn't know how to do this. I shouldn't have left, I knew that, but I wasn't sure what else to do. I'd never been pushed like that - I'd never had somebody asking to hear what was really wrong, for the reason that they might want to help me. That was terrifying.
I took a tentative seat beside him on the sofa, and I watched as his eyes followed my movements, as if carefully analysing the amount of distance I'd left between us. I didn't know what to do. I didn't know if I was supposed to give him his space, both literally and emotionally, or force my way back in with a heartfelt message. I'd never done anything like this. I didn't know how to approach this. Truthfully, I wasn't sure I'd ever been so scared of hurting somebody. And I knew that I had; I'd already hurt him by hiding, and leaving. But somehow, I feared the consequences, and in what was also for the first time.. I didn't fear the other person that I was at risk of upsetting. I didn't fear he would have an outburst at me, or lay a hand on me, or tear apart my character due to his annoyance. I didn't fear any of that, but somehow, it made this much scarier. I feared losing him.
"I'm sorry I left, earlier," I said, quietly. That was the easy part. I watched his eyes nervously, searching them for reassurance.
"Mm," he hummed, his tone even, as he brought his bottom lip between his teeth. He looked away, now, back out of the window. I knew I deserved this, a bit. He was continuously the most patient, level-headed person I'd ever been lucky enough to know, but he'd said it himself: he was still human. I knew he was upset, and entitled to be, but I wasn't sure how to make this better, even though I desperately wanted to.
I rubbed my hands over my own arms, awkwardly, looking to soothe myself into speaking further. But I didn't have any words to say. I wanted to make him feel better, but I wanted to do so honestly. And that just wasn't something I felt positioned to do.
"I didn't mean to shut you out," I started, desperately watching his side profile for a hint of guidance. So often, Harry could sense my demeanour and steer the conversation in a way that made it easier on me; without me even realising, he could ease my anxieties. I couldn't help but wish he would simply drop it, and we could go back to being careless, and happy, but I knew that wasn't practical, and that it was no longer sustainable for him. I'd tried to keep him at an arm's length, all whilst still having him the way I wanted to - but it didn't work, and in a way, I didn't want to keep it up, anymore.
I clarified, "I don't mean to..." I trailed off. I shifted my position in my seat, so that I could bring my legs up onto the sofa, and cross them, now completely turning to face the side of his body.
"I liked that song," I said, now, hoping to ease into the conversation a little more by changing the subject, first. Just at my previous attempts at words, I'd felt a strange tightening in my chest; a funny lurch in my stomach, at the foreign nature of such a conversation. I didn't like it.
"It's about you," he returned, catching me by surprise, but still not looking at me. My heart thumped prominently in my chest at the blatancy of his statement.
"It is?" I prompted, softly, and he only nodded, remaining quiet. I knew what he was doing. I knew he wasn't giving me a way out; I knew he wanted me to have to speak to him, properly, of my own accord. He wasn't letting it go, but equally, he wasn't forcing me to do anything. So often, Harry could sense my demeanour and steer the conversation in a way that made it easier on me; without me even realising, he could ease my anxieties. That was why he was refusing to award me with his eye contact, or the twitch of his lips, or even the relief of him leading our conversation himself. It was my turn.
I silently recalled the few lyrics that I'd heard from him - 'waiting for you to pull me in'... he was there. He was right there, truly, just waiting - all he wanted was for me to just let him in, and 'pull' him in, properly. He could see that I was carrying all of this, alone, and he wanted to share it.
It hit me, then, as his eyes were waiting, fixed ahead of him - that, perhaps, honesty wouldn't be the worst thing in the world. That he'd understand, and that I could tell him, truly, what incessantly ate away at me at every given moment of the day. If anybody would've listened, it was him. He wanted to - he had expressed, repeatedly, that all he wanted to do was listen. To hear me, as I hoped he felt I had heard him. He'd never given me any actual reason to think that he wouldn't listen, properly, and he'd never given me any real reason to believe he would dismiss my words, or laugh in my face, but I was petrified. Everything - everything - was screaming at me not to. That he wouldn't want damage - he wouldn't want the difficulty, and distrust that would inevitably come with delving beneath the surface with me. I was difficult, and I was a burden, at the best of times. I'd been told so my entire life, why would this be any different? I hated this feeling.
But he was Harry. He had a scary, unprecedented ability to see right through me, and he was offering me an out. He was offering me the chance to offload what was on my chest, and share it, with him. I wasn't sure how he'd take it, or how he could really help me - nobody could, really. They could nod, and rub my arm, and send me a sympathetic smile. But with him, it felt different. As terrifying as it was to admit, beside him, everything felt okay. Harry was unlike anybody I'd ever known. He was already helping me, he just didn't know it. But I feared confiding; offloading - I feared telling him the truth.
It was terrifying. To be so open, and not know what the reaction would be - maybe he'd think I deserved it all, like I so often did. Maybe he'd write it off as a minor bump in the road that I so childishly let rule my entire life. Maybe he wouldn't care, or maybe he would - maybe he'd look at me differently. But I wasn't sure how. He'd done, and said, so much to reassure me - whether it was telling me I'd never be a problem, or a burden, or gently requesting that I talked to him more openly; it hadn't been enough to make me give in.
To tell somebody everything... to let them know everything, was a concept that I was so far removed from. That level of vulnerability was something I'd never, ever experienced, and to put yourself out there entirely, into the hands of somebody else, was petrifying. I'd promised myself time and time again, that I'd never put myself into somebody else's hands - even his. But his hands were the most careful I'd ever known. And I wanted them.
I hadn't even realised that I was crying until our sustained silence had caused Harry to turn back towards me, and I caught the fall of his features on his face. His eyebrows furrowed, lips parting in surprise at my demeanour, and it was only then, that I felt the hot tears that coated my cheeks. No, no, no.
This was happening. This hadn't happened for as long as I could remember... I wasn't sure I even remembered what it felt like, until now. This wretched, powerless feeling - where it felt like something else was commanding your body. I could feel myself trembling, and I could feel my heart starting to race, and it made me panic. My mouth was dry, and my hands were shaking - I was crying.
It felt like I was so close to losing him, and as soon as he met my eyes, I'd realised there might have been a word for this feeling. But I didn't dare test it on my tongue - it felt like a disservice to even think it. I didn't know what that word meant, and I didn't know how to use it. But I was breaking down, now - it was all too much, finally. I couldn't carry it anymore.
"Hey, hey," he murmured, his voice barely even intelligible, it was so quiet. He set his guitar down and quickly closed the distance between us, and his arms were around me to pull me to his chest. I couldn't do anything but sit there, feeling my breathing grow shallow as it all began to hit me, all at once. I couldn't be strong anymore; I couldn't keep doing this. I had to let it go; I had to.
I couldn't tell how long we sat there like that. He had his chin on top of my head, and his arms wound tightly around me; his hand coaxing slow, gentle circles over my hip in an attempt to calm me down. I was desperately searching for my composure, and that was making it worse - I was freaking out about the sole fact that I was breaking down in front of him, and it meant that I couldn't calm down.
He just held me there as I cried, and the tears felt never-ending; like they just kept brimming, and spilling over my cheeks as my chest rose and fell in pathetic, shallow breaths. His lips pressed to the side of my head, every few seconds, almost like a gentle reminder of his presence, as if I'd forget it otherwise.
I'd feared this. I'd feared this so greatly. I'd never cared for anybody so much, I could feel that, now. I wanted to let him in. I wanted to so, so badly. I wanted him to hear me; to nod his head, and listen to what I had to say. I wanted him to keep helping me, as he was, just by being him. I wanted him to stick around more than anything; I'd grown to become exactly what I was afraid of... I was attached to him. Completely, and undoubtedly; I wanted him to be there for me, and I found myself wanting to be there for him, too. I wanted to do more than scratch the surface - I wanted him to understand me; to know me, just as he was already managing to, against my will. I wanted him there.
"I'm sorry, baby," he whispered against my hair after what felt like ages of silence, after I could no longer hear my own crying. He kissed my head again, as his hand gently rose to find the side of my face. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry you're hurting."
Those words sent shockwaves through me. He knew; he knew so much without me even needing to say it. He just knew. I still didn't have the strength to lift my head from his chest, feeling like my whole body was collapsed against his. This was crippling, and my head was screaming at me that I was making a mistake in letting him see me like this - but I couldn't do anything else.
I didn't deserve his patience. I still had a nagging fear that it would evaporate when I finally spoke, but I knew, deep down, that it wouldn't. He was the greatest person to ever walk into my life, and I knew that much, beyond anything else.
The mere softness of his movements and his gestures was enough to make my body hurt. I feared drawing back to look at him, but when I did, the soft concern in his eyes was the first thing that struck me. His hands rose immediately to my face, and his thumbs extended gently under my eyes to wipe away the remaining tears, there, before his hand shifted to the back of my head to weave affectionately into my hair. His eyes searched mine, desperately, and I could feel my heart aching; aching to tell him everything, and let him be there, just like this.
I couldn't believe I'd just done that. My breathing still hadn't fully evened out, and my cheeks were still stained with tears, and I almost felt empty. Like I'd emptied out so much tension that I'd been holding in - like my shoulders had dropped at least an inch. I'd just cried in front of him. Without even saying a word, and he'd let me. He hadn't shouted at me for trying to use tears for sympathy, or for being so weak. He'd just held me until I stopped.
I brought my hands over my mouth, silently shaking my head in disbelief as he ran his hand over my back. I was too worked up to even fully let it sink in, that I'd done that - I had more pressing issues. I had to talk to him.
"We don't have to talk tonight," he said, softly, his hand gently rubbing my back, comfortingly. I met his eyes as he leaned closer, and I let one of my hands reach up to gently cup his jaw, as the other remained over my mouth. He turned his head and started to kiss my palm, immediately, almost in a pleading sort of way. "Just stay here. Please. I want you here."
If I hadn't done so already, that would've been the thing to make me crumble. He was so good that it felt like it was killing me. As I drew my hand away from him, he did the same with his arm, just as I took a deep breath in. He was giving me the physical and emotional space, here, to say, or do, whatever I wanted.
I wiped my eyes another time, feeling my legs shake nervously against the couch. He'd stopped touching me, now, and his hands were in his lap, as if he were afraid to reach out again; as if upon reaching out, I'd break. I was afraid of the same thing.
Another couple of minutes passed, though it could've been hours. Part of me felt like I wasn't even in the room, but a larger part had me practically pinned to the sofa - this was the realest moment I'd perhaps ever felt.
I inhaled and exhaled again, feeling Harry's eyes on me the entire time. He was waiting - for something, anything. I had to do this. If I didn't do it now, I never would.
"I was - um," I paused, pressing my lips together. I blew out another shaky breath, then, closing my eyes for a brief moment. I squeezed at my own knee, trying to find the strength to speak. I wanted to, now - for the first time, I wanted to, but it didn't stop my body and my mind from fighting me, every step of the way.
I opened my eyes and looked away, and I realised that to get this out - as unhealthy as it was - I'd have to revert back to old patterns. I'd have to switch off, and I'd have to numb myself to the words as I said them. I just had to talk; I had to tell the story like it wasn't even mine. It was the only way I could tell him everything.
"My father was a lawyer," was all I could manage. I pushed the words out of my mouth, and quickly drew back to let them linger there, as if I'd thrown some kind of grenade. I could feel Harry still watching me, and as I turned to him, my suspicions were confirmed. His eyes were on mine, still patient and still waiting, but I could sense his clear confusion at my sentence. I was sure he hadn't expected me to start there - and neither had I, but it was just about the only words I could find. It was the easiest part.
The rest was going to be much harder.