the lonely hearts club || n.h au

twelve

Niall is a dweller. He doesn't like that about himself but there's not much — or anything, really — he can do to change that.

When he was fifteen, he broke his ankle a couple of weeks before a football match he was looking forward to and he had to be on the bench instead of on the field when the school's football team reached the final of the competition. It was hardly his fault — aside from not foreseeing the boy who decided to tackle him seconds before he passed the ball to Connor and not predicting the whole thing at all — but he spent weeks dwelling over that moment, blaming himself for it. Searching for things he could've done differently to avoid the injury.

And right now, he can't stop dwelling on the almost kiss. Which wouldn't be an almost moment if he hadn't been stupid.

Two days have passed and his brain won't stop replaying the moment, haunting him. The what-ifs, he can handle. He's dealt with what-ifs his entire life that he's learned how to ignore them, shove them to the very back of his mind.

But the horrified look on Alexandra's face and the crack in her voice when she told him she should get inside. Those are two things he has never dealt with before. They are the reasons for his restless nights and his inability to stop checking his phone every few seconds, hoping that he'll see Alexandra's name on the screen.

So far, there's nothing. She hasn't replied to any of his text messages. Not the one asking her if she's feeling better or the one asking her if they could talk or the one asking her if he'll see him at Copper & Compass for the party.

He didn't know what got into him. He wanted to kiss her. Was going to kiss her. But at the very last minute, the voice in his head won. The voice that sounded like the one he should listen to but turned out to be the one that he should silence. Because now, there's no doubt that he's ruined things with Alexandra. Put a rift between them when they had just started to get comfortable around each other.

Niall has done so many stupid things, but standing at the top of that list is what he did — or rather, didn't do — to Alexandra a few nights ago.

In his defence, albeit a weak one, he was trying to be a gentleman. He saw how much drinks she had at Fionn and Cara's — they tend to make their cocktails stronger than they look. And while she's not drunk enough to slur over her words or sway on her feet or to not remember everything that happened the night before, her flushed cheeks told him that the alcohol did have something to do with how freely she was speaking to him last night. How it was easy for her to be so open to him.

And Niall didn't want to take advantage of that.

Niall takes his key out of the ignition and reaches for his phone. When there's still nothing from Alexandra, he runs a hand down his face and swallows the lump in his throat — it seems to have made a home there and won't go away unless he talks to Alexandra.

But there's nothing else for him to do, is there? He's messaged her more times than he probably should, each growing more and more desperate — he wonders if she can sense that — and still, that doesn't earn him any response. He considered showing up at her parents' house but after spending hours upon hours mulling over that idea, he decided that showing up unannounced isn't the best way to deal with this delicate situation. He'd hate to overstep and make things worse.

Texting her, hoping that she'll reply to at least one of them, is his only option.

Niall wishes he can talk to someone about this. He's never been one to unload his burden to other people, always choosing to carry them himself. But right now, he wants to confide in someone. He wants to share all these confusing emotions he's been feeling these past few days, waging wars inside of him, with hopes that someone can make sense of these feelings for him.