Flower Girl | h.s.

61.

Daisy

I love you. I love you.

H.

There's something about a handwritten note that adds a sense of honesty. It was like someone had enough decency to think about their decision before it happened. It wasn't a text that felt too direct, it wasn't a voicemail that would leave rambling and confusion.

It was honest– it could be precise with crossing out and tailoring to what was needed to be said. It was messy, it was raw. It held the emotion of the writer; tear stained pages and smudges from the ink.

I knew his handwriting the minute I dilated my eyes to it. I knew the second I saw it that it was his, which made me smile at first. It made my heart thunder and my cheeks flush at the thought of him thinking of me.

His Flower Girl.

I always thought that my world made sense– our world together. When it was taken away, there was a part of me that felt so unsure with everything I had known before. I had loved being his. I had loved every sentence of his words to me in previous handwritten notes.

But this one was different.

I don't recognize the wreck of sobs until they overcome me. It almost felt like I had gone from nothing to all in the blink of an eye. All because of the handwritten letter that stated that he was gone.

He had left, and I was still here.

"God damnit, Harry– what the fuck."

I cover my hand over my mouth before I bring myself back into reality. The reality of the situation stands that I'm reading a note that states that he's not here anymore.

A logical, but irrational decision would be to go find him– to let him know that leaving isn't the answer to our problems. It's the first thought I have when waking up and recognizing that my nightmares are slipping into my daydream.

It's a choice that I have to make and somehow, I'm stuck here. I'm stuck rereading and looking for signs that I'm misreading and I'm unclear– I must've missed something. There had to have been some sort of sign that I missed.

I grab for my phone, my stomach getting a bit in the way as I reach and try to grab it from my spot on the bed. My fingers wipe quickly at my eyes as I notice that a few tears have tried to slip their way past before I'm trying my quickest to unlock my phone.

The name pops up at the top of my messages. H with a small heart. My heart.

I click on the name, letting the receiver pick it up before I bring it to my ear.

"Please, pick up," I quietly plead, chewing on my fingernail as I anxiously wait for the ringing to stop. The ringing has to come to a pause, and when it does, I feel my heart skip a beat.

"Harry?" I squeak out quickly, my throat feels tight as I try to pull myself together and think of what I need to say to him. "Harry, please."

Your call cannot be completed as dialed. Please try again.

The tightness in my jaw makes my head pound as I shake my head at the disbelief that racks in my body.