Dear Iris [h.s]

Chapter twenty six.

Iris Grace

I woke up with the sorest head ever and I get why, I don't think I've cried that much in years. I'm also drowning in embarrassment too, I can't believe I went to his house and just cried at him for half an hour. I'm humiliated to say the least.

I definitely wasn't thinking straight when I went there. I was hurt, annoyed, tired...I was every negative emotion under the sun and there was quite literally zero thought process behind me deciding to run to Harry's house and ask what Thomas told him.

Then we were sat there on his floor, he had his arms around me and as the entire world felt like it was crumbling around me, Harry acted like a shield.

It was an odd moment, I do not understand why Harry even gave me the time of day. If some crazy woman came to my door asking what I was told, with tears running down her face, I'd probably just shut the door. I really admire his patience.

I tried not to think about it too much as I made a cup of coffee and sat with an empty page open in my sketchbook. I couldn't even find the motivation to draw, never mind paint. That hurt, but when I forced myself to draw an eye, I just got frustrated because it was forced and I was just not in the mood.

The thing is, having nobody to talk to means you bottle things up too much until everything comes spilling out at once. Then you're just empty again, waiting for the emotions to come back and fill the now empty bottle. It's so draining.

I can't believe I let it get to the point where it's Harry Styles I'm absolutely breaking my heart in front of. However, in my defence, I had every damn right to be upset, I just didn't really want Harry to have to see any of that, because it is quite embarrassing.

It was 11AM when my doorbell rang. I was glad to hear I had someone coming to visit, I thought it would have been somebody coming to ask for a commission piece or drop of payment, therefore would probably have kicked me into the spirit of working.

It wasn't somebody coming to commission a piece, it was Harry.

"Your favourite artist is Lucian Freud. " He said, however I just looked at him confused, despite his smirk that didn't help solve any of my questions.

"What?" I asked, completely baffled. This is not what I expected him to be like after my whole breakdown last night.

"You prefer red pesto to green pesto for some bizarre reason, you know all the ladies at the stalls by their first names, you don't take milk in your coffee or your tea, however you do take a spoon of sugar in tea, you always twirl your hair around your fingers when you're nervous, your favourite play is Romeo and Juliet, you speak fluent french and have since you were little, you-"

Harry paused when I stepped aside to let him in, trying to battle the smile creeping its way onto my face. He looked like he was away to step forwards, but paused and looked like he was away to ask whether he could come in or not so I just nodded and gestured him in.

When I shut the door and turned to face him, he took a deep breath before carrying on. Before. Even had the chance to apologise or ask what was going on.

"You're too polite to ever stand up for yourself, you always seem to smile more with your eyes than your mouth, you-"

"Harry, what are you doing?" I asked, still totally confused as to why he's shown up here telling me things about myself.

He leaned against the wall, folding his arms and letting out a sigh as he ran his hand through his hair. I wanted to say a lot of things to him, but I could see the cogs turning in his head as he thought about what to say first, so I bit my tongue and waited.