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looselucy · 7 years

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Part Four - The Dangling Conversation

It’s a still life watercolor Of a now-late afternoon Harry watches her intently, focusing on the way her eyes stay shut for a few seconds every time she blinks, her exhaustion clear. He wonders how long she had stayed awake, just waiting to hear him screaming, waiting to run to his aid, like she always did. The steam of the coffee she has clasped in her hands is rising gently upwards, crashing just below her chin and swirling around her skin. He can’t keep his eyes off her, because suddenly he is longing for something, lusting over someone he can’t have. Over their time together, he’d somehow managed to convince himself that Florence Valentine would therefore be a constant presence in his life. They’d said they would stay in touch, they had both explained that neither of them wanted to ignore how well they got on. That was the decision they’d come to on Christmas Eve and that was what he thought he would get. He hates that her soul has been snatched from him.

The cold platform leaves Harry feeling a little lifeless, the two of them just waiting for their train so they can escape their situation, perform their final few scenes. He drops his head, really trying to pull his eyes from her, but he’s finding it difficult. If these are going to be his last moments where he can see her clearly, then he wants to drink her in, remember everything about her. He pictures her elsewhere, somewhere other than the splintered bench they are both sat on. He pictures her with thick sheets around her, the morning sun glittering her eyes and casting a warm glow upon her smiling face. He pictures her in the only place he’d ever known things to be real. When they were alone in bed together, every interaction was real, it was theirs. He pictures her in the one place she was entirely his. Couched in our indifference, like shells upon the shore You can hear the ocean roar He has so much he wants to say to her, so many words that he knows will be useless. Harry hasn’t ever felt this way before, about anyone. Maybe it was predictable, that he’d become like a love-struck teen, that he’d just jump to the conclusion that his feelings would be reciprocated. Harry was almost sure she felt the same way, and even after everything, he still doesn’t fully doubt his own intelligence. He knows many of the tender moments they’d shared ran much deeper and held much more adoration than the average friendship. But she has her mind made up. Her future plans no longer include him. Harry drops his head, twiddling his fingers as though magic will seep from his print and give him some words to say to her. No such magic exists. In the dangling conversation And the superficial sighs The borders of our lives Harry feels sick when he sees their train pull into the station, because it’s like he finally has to admit that this is really ending. It’s bizarre how quickly she has become a statement piece of his life, and he doesn’t want to remember what it’s like without her. He pictures his bed at home, the cold sheets that had remained untouched over the past few weeks. He thought he might see her there, one day. He thought her body may imprint his mattress, her fingers may run over his sheets, her warmth might remain there as a reminder that he didn’t need to be scared. He’d warned himself after their first night together, screamed in his head, gripped his fists tight. Don’t rely on her. Don’t get to the stage where you feel like you can’t do this without her. Don’t fucking fall for her. Because he fucking knew this would happen. He knew it would. From the very first time that he kissed her in his flat, Moggy bashing against his legs as he tangled his hands through her hair, felt her dainty hand on his chest, he fucking knew it would happen then. He knew he’d fall for her because she was wonderful, through and through. She had this beaming soul and all he had wanted, from the word go, was to be blinded by it. But in the end, he’d been left with none of his senses still intact. He wasn’t just blinded, he was numb, deafened by the beating of his own heart, all he could smell was her hair after he’d washed it for her, his taste buds were useless unless he was tasting her, his touch futile unless she was within reach. He knows not every kiss was real, not every kiss was valid, but the ones that were, fuck, they’d fuelled a new existence within his body. He loved what she did to him. He’d fallen and he’d fallen hard. He’d ignored everything he told himself. He also thought that she had done the same thing, ignored her initial instincts and maybe let herself fall for him too. She hadn’t. Like a poem poorly written We are verses out of rhythm Couplets out of rhyme In syncopated time Harry gets to his feet first, turning to look down to her, seeing that she’s looking to her feet rather than raising to them. He isn’t used to not comforting her when she looks so down. He wants to offer his hand, wrap his arms around her, tell her how perfect she is, but he can’t. All she’d do is reject his affections, and he’s stinging enough as it is. He hadn’t been aware of this sensation previously, where being around someone could make him feel as though his insides are too big for his own body, like every movement is a strain to him just because of the ache he feels. Yet he still doesn’t want to be away from her. They’d spent next to no time apart for almost two solid weeks and he had adored every second, even the strenuous ones were so much easier when she was there. The thought of this connection he feels coming to an alarming end leaves his whole body feeling drained of life. Without a word, she finally lifts herself, swinging her bag over her shoulder. She looks up to him, their eyes meeting. She gives him a smile, one that’s so soft he wishes he could reach out and touch her lips, trace his thumb over her swollen flesh, adding a few more bitter memories to his tattered mind. He stops himself. Just. And the dangling conversation And the superficial sighs Are the borders of our lives He feels sick as they near their seats, because he knows they’re not going to be playful. They won’t argue over who gets the window seat, there will be no Rock, Paper, Scissors. No game of Thumb War to decided who sits where. There will only be a continued awkward silence and he hates it, hates that the life they’d once shared has died. He hates that his hands will be shaking and empty and fucking useless when they should be all over her. The amount of times his fingertips had reached for her skin as a reminder of his reality was insane, and he liked her being his reality. A reality without her there now seems entirely twisted, damaged. He can’t remember what it’s like to wake from his dream without having her there, and he would give anything not to be reminded. Sometimes when he’d wake in the middle of the night, he couldn’t remember what the sun looked like, he couldn’t recall any kind of warmth in his life, lost within the horror of his mind, where nothing existed but his fear and that blue room. But with her there he remembers the sun, he remembers light and heat and remembers that he isn’t controlled by his fear whenever he sees her sunflower eyes. Harry had always loved flowers, admired the beauty that ran through their veins, but he knew he’d never look at sunflowers the same way again, not after her. Harry often saw different people in different flowers. His father in lavender, his first girlfriend in roses, his mother in tulips, himself in orchids, but not in the same way. There was something about Florence Valentine and her sunflower eyes, something special. He knows that he shouldn’t feel like he needs her, but when someone enters your life and changes it for the better, it’s not unnatural to want that person to stick around, he thinks. Can analysis be worthwhile? He takes her bag off her without even asking, knowing from past experience that she won’t be able to reach to the overhead compartment. It’s not even a question. Somehow, they just work together now, complement one another. They’d put on a marvellous show together, so captivating that Harry had convinced himself that the scenes they had performed might have shown their true substance rather than their ability to act. Harry had never been good at being fake, lying, putting up false pretences, and he had thought her to be the same. A strong part of him still feels that way. Is the theatre really dead? She silently offers the window seat, simply by not budging. She stands there with her arms folded until he sits down, and he wants to grin, because ignoring everything she still makes him so happy. There’s just something about her, something so enchanting and immersing, that he still manages to realise his luck. Some people go their whole lives without Florence Valentine, and Harry had been lucky enough to call her his. Even if it was fictional, even if it was temporary, Winter had been warm thanks to the fact that she had shared her soul quite openly with him. No rain or snow or harsh gale could eclipse the tender heat she had brought to the season. He truly wishes he could voice his thanks, his veneration for her, but the words tangle in his throat as he looks down to the side of her face. The words battle one another, fail themselves, dissolve, the debris of his dialogue eventually released in the form of a soft sigh. She glances up to him, almost like she can hear the fragments of the words he wishes to say, and then she looks away. And although there’s so much to say, so much more that they should share, nothing comes but silence, and the movement of her head so it lays gently on his shoulder as she closes her eyes. And how the room is softly faded And I only kiss your shadow, I cannot feel your hand You’re a stranger now unto me Lost in the dangling conversation And the superficial sighs In the borders of our lives

#TFA19 #Harry Styles #1dff #short but...... I hope you enjoy it anyway #feedback is very much appreciated my loves #thank youuuuu

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