Flower Girl | h.s.

60.

tw: gun violence, mentions of substance abuse, & death

Harry

It always felt like every time something good happened, tragedy followed. I guess that was the science behind balance—the philosophical attraction of yin and yang. With good, came bad.

I had found happiness, but what was happiness without the demons the followed? I had come to terms with this idea, but every time it came back around, I felt myself falling deeper into the mix of it.

Sand sat below me, the denim along my legs was keeping me from feeling the grittiness against me. The moon shone below; it felt like the entire ocean was lit up by the white light. Phoebe sat closely next to me, and I understood that we had an unspoken mess between us.

Something about being removed from our home made me feel better about this. I felt that only the two of us could hear one another. I didn't know where to begin. But, in some regards, I felt so ready to share. I needed to let the secrets out and to acknowledge what had happened in the past. In some moments, it felt like it could just burst out of me.

I didn't just get my heart broken; I had organized myself into a world that I didn't want to be in anymore. Phoebe knew some details, it seemed. It didn't surprise me that Carson would allude to it, believing that Phoebe would follow with whatever he said. It was just like him to believe that women were more naïve than he thought.

Like Daisy, she was smart– she knew right from wrong and good from evil. But sometimes, the grin of a devil was purposefully overwhelming.

My eyes focused on my hands; the coolness of my watch held onto my wrist as I felt the familiar ache in my throat.

"I don't even know where to start," My throat feels like it's closing in. I've never talked about it before, and now I'm laying it all out on the line.

Phoebe takes in a deep breath, and I almost don't hear it over the sounds of the waves crashing along the shoreline.

There's silence for a moment before I hear her click her tongue.

"Wherever makes sense, I guess," She shakes her head, and I can barely see it. The moonlight helps, as it projects a shimmering effect on the water, "Maybe start on why we're here."

Why we're here. The beach. I don't think it makes sense to start why we're here, so I decided to start where I think the story began. I hope that Phoebe can understand.

"She was sick," I begin, my memory trying not to fog at the thoughts of it. "Mum, I mean."

I've worked hard to come to terms with what all of this meant. Halle knows to the extent what I want her to know. She's never asked anything more, but living in a lie becomes easier when you make yourself believe it to be true.

"Terminal?" Phoebe questions.

I scoff at the irony of it.

"Felt that way," I told her. The rawness of my throat was coated in the salt of the air. In some ways it made me feel alive– I tried to focus on telling her the truth.

I don't know why I ultimately trusted Phoebe. Maybe it was because I knew that she had the ability to help if she wanted– like she could put an end to the reigning sadness, or that she could use her power just like her peers. Maybe it was because she had figured it out.