Aureate | Harry Styles

19

ɴᴏᴡ ᴘʟᴀʏɪɴɢ: Landslide by Fleetwood Mac ─────────────⚪️──────────────────◄◄⠀▐▐ ⠀►►⠀⠀ ⠀ 1:00 / 2:50

"well i've been afraid of changing 'cause i built my life around you..."

•••

It's like a movie scene. After I hang up the phone, the world slows down. I feel like nothing is real, Harry's voice, while he talks on the phone, is distant. The words he is saying are meeting my ears, but it feels like that's where they stop. When I start to feel like I'm watching my body from the outside I realize that  I'm having a panic attack. I slowly scoot up the bed and curl into a ball. Breathe, Emerson.

Five things. Five things I can see. I can see my hands, Frank, the silhouette painting on my wall, the colors of green in all my plants, and Harry.

Four things I can touch. The soft cotton of my sheets, the smooth wood of my bedside table, the rough stubble on my legs, and Frank's fur.

Three things. Just three things I can hear. Harry's voice, talking to someone about a plane, Frank's heavy panting, and the sound of my feet rubbing against my comforter.

Two things I can smell are, what are they, focus Emerson. Frank's breath, unfortunately, and my own perfume. Good smells and bad smells.

One thing I can taste. The strawberry lipstick on my lips.

I feel my heart rate slowing, and Harry's voice starts to get louder. He gives me a worried glance, and I ignore it. After a minute, I stand from the bed, and go into my medicine cabinet and pull out my anxiety medicine. For a moment, I stare at the bottle in my hand, trying to convince myself to take it. Medicine isn't weakness, Emerson. I sigh, and set the bottle down, then splash my face with cold water. Before I can talk myself out of it, I pour one pill in my hand and drink straight from the tap. Baby steps—my therapist's voice rings in my ears. Slowly, I shuffle back to my bed and take deep breaths and sit waiting for Harry to be done on the phone.

They say there are five stages of grief, and I feel myself seated squarely in a pit of denial, which happens to be stage one. My mind refuses to agree with what is true, and though I know it's irrational, I am unable to believe that Blair is dead. The mere thought sends shivers through my body, and I try to reroute my brain to other happier thoughts, but to no avail. My thoughts are full of flashes of memories with her, and I can almost smell her famous chicken and dumplings, and taste her sweet tea. I only tune back into reality when I hear Harry say something that I don't like.

"No, she'll meet you at the airport, I'm packing her things now. Yeah. I have a car coming, " Harry has pulled down my suitcase from my closet, and is pulling t-shirts, underwear, and other necessities out of my drawers. We make eye contact and his eyes soften, "You just have to be on the tarmac within three hours. Take off is whenever you want. No, Scarlett, you can't. I have to go." He hangs up his phone and comes to sit next to me on the bed.

I can tell that he is trying to read me. His inquiring green eyes beat into mine, and I feel my guard letting down with the familiarity and comfort that his gaze offers. Harry's hand reaches up, and his knuckle traces down my cheekbone, before resting in my lap, gripping my hand tightly. The way Harry is able to give me reassurance and soothe my anxiety with non-verbal communication astounds me. Before him, I had never experienced being known by someone in this way. Though we still have a lot to learn about each other, my resolve to present myself as something I'm not is nonexistent because I know Harry can detect my acting even when I don't know that I'm acting myself. In light of this, I decide to address what he said to Scarlett on the phone, and not beat around the bush.