PASSERBY, harry styles

x. always talked about

real life!

Nothing says a terrible Friday morning like being woken up by your own obnoxious ringtone. I thought it was a brilliant idea at the time—after all, Never Gonna Give You Up is absolutely timeless, no matter what Dorothy Smith from Carlisle says—but perhaps, in a bit of twisted faith, I just set myself up to be rickrolled.

        "Hello?" I mutter into the phone.

"Kavi, wha' you have a phone for?"

        If there ever was a class on the importance of checking caller I.D., my mother, Kathlyn Harris, would be the very first lesson. I'm obviously a terrible student.

"It's too early for this."

"It wouldn't be too early if you'd just get your ass up and do something!" she yells.

        "Eventually," I say in an almost-whisper.

       "That's why you gone England? To stay inside?"

       "No, but it's a perk."

        "I wish you would perk yourself at a job and make some real money. You can't survive the way you going."

        I sigh. "I always love our calls."

        "Not me. You's a pain in the ass."

        Out of the two of us, my mother should be the last one calling me the pain in the ass. I'd like to say I'm calm, cool, and collected, while she may as well be a walking how-to article for everyone trying to figure out how to always be red hot, angry, and ready to piss someone off at the drop of a hat. In our world, I'm the puppy, and she's the big, old, miserable dog. I'm the mellow river, and she's the roaring sea.

"You're right," I give in. I'm definitely the mellow river. "I'm the pain in the ass after you've just woken me up screaming in my ear at six in the morning like you got your head cut off."

Well, clearly even mellow rivers have their days. We can't always be smooth and calm, willing to bow down to our mother's every command. Sometimes we have to throw people for a loop, especially when we're woken up by a deep-voiced man singing about how loyal he is to whoever that lucky, lucky woman is.

        "I glad you know you's still the pain in the ass," she says, and I swear I can see her. Right now, she's watching out the window with a sly smirk on her face and silently cursing at the fowl that's just flew on to her porch. I can hear it in the background—what a cursed cluck—and I'm reminded how thankful I am for my dreary London apartment, or flat, as they say. "Regardless, I only call to make sure you buying your ticket sooner than later. Tickets cheap now. You need get on it."

Her and this damn ticket. It's not like I can blame a global pandemic for not being able to see my mother, or the rest of my family, anymore. No, that ship sailed and left me nothing but a nagging woman who, by some miracle, seems to be able to invade my life even while she's thousands of miles away.

        "Mommy"—she has a weakness for the mommy, so I make sure to keep it locked away for special occasions—"I don't think it's the right time to travel."

        "And why not?"

        What a waste of a nice Mommy Card.

        "I don't know if you know, but we're still kind of in a pandemic."

        "Kavi, that's nothing," she says easily. "We barely have cases here. You just goin' come, do your quarantine, and stay for the reunion. After that, you could go back home and do whatever it is you does do."