Part Forty-Nine: Lost Leather & Love Letters

5.9K 201 523
                                    

Hi my loves! Welcome to the longest thing I've ever written. It's 17k words so grab some snacks. There are bound to be typos so I apologise in advance. C.W: mentions of anxiety.


"Is this okay here?"

"Right there is perfect, thank you."

You took in the space in front of you, the smell of fresh paint overwhelming your senses. The scent, however, did little to dissipate all or any excitement that bounced in your chest. You stepped out onto the balcony, the glorious skyline of London stretched out before you.

It was just past midday, the sun fragmenting its reflection off the river Thames. While sunny, the typical chill of the wind forced you back inside, closing the sliding door with a brisk shiver.

This was a milestone you never thought you'd get to. Never thought you'd be able to solidify and encase your blooming success into a home. But here you were. A brand new apartment in the heart of central London, far more luxurious and spacious than your last one.

It was a fresh start for you. A new space for you to fully immerse in, and significantly closer to your work, which stemmed a lot of the appeal of your new home's location.

Five and a half months.

Five and a half months without him. Five and a half months of grieving and sad playlists and endless tubs of ice cream. Of regret and self-loathing. Wondering what-ifs and wondering how he was. His number was still logged into your phone but you didn't dare contact him. Even on those nights when you were especially sad or drunk. Mostly both.

For an ex you wanted to avoid, he was everywhere. On the radio, pretty much every social media site. You'd seen a few articles since your breakup, excited that the most desired British singer was single once again. You noticed that no one could see past their own selfish fantasies. It was a breakup, and people were over the moon, not the least bit concerned for any hearts that had been broken in the process.

His album had launched. Fine Line. You had stared at the song list for what felt like hours. Golden, Falling, Cherry. All titles that pierced through your heart. Little memories and moments and endearments. All liquified into songs for millions to hear.

You noted how many fans pointed out that there were intense underlying notes of heartache in the album, and how it had stemmed from your relationship. They prayed for mended hearts and hoped you were both okay. Aside from a few incidents that happened directly before your eyes, whether actual or on the screen of your phone, his fans loved you. Moreover, loved your aura and the fact that Harry had been happy with you. You could never escape the theories that were sure it was a stunt, but they seldom actually got to you.

It would take you months to finally build up the courage to listen to Fine Line. You had fully prepared yourself, too. You'd ensured a good and breezy workday so that you weren't stressed. And when you got home, you had a light dinner, a quick shower, and lit some candles on your balcony. You'd slipped your headphones on and sat there, wallowing in pain and adoration. An odd mix.

A man who had once been everything to you, now singing in your ear. You knew how hard he worked on that album. Having the final product of it flowing through your ears was surreal. You were proud. And through your sobs, you wished you could tell him just how proud you were. As painful as some lyrics were to stomach, you did it. Just the once. That was enough.

And while you could simply scroll past him on your phone, or change the radio station, he was everywhere in some of your favourite aspects of your life. In Greenwich park, your vinyl's, an oversized band t-shirt he used to borrow, sat at your work desk where he fucked you one time, bars you frequented with friends. Patches of flowers, the colour gold. His essence was everywhere.

Incandescent | H.SWhere stories live. Discover now