Matilda | Harry Styles

TWENTY-EIGHT

I woke up the following morning to find the bed empty, beside me.

I had a vague memory of Harry unwinding his arms from me, and leaning in to kiss me as I'd tiredly groaned in resistance to him leaving. I could remember stubbornly clinging to him, finding myself hating the fact that I knew he had to go and work; he had interviews, and promotion that he needed to be doing. If I wasn't acting on pure, tired instinct, I'd have caught myself and feared my actions were an annoyance; not that he'd ever have allowed me to really believe it.

I sat up, slowly, rubbing my eyes as I felt the empty space next to me. It was funny how I could spend my whole life waking up alone, but it had quickly become such a foreign, unfamiliar feeling; like that life without him somehow hadn't been mine. But at the same time, each moment I spent here, felt too good to be true; I felt like I was constantly waiting for it to go wrong - but it wasn't happening. It wasn't all falling apart; it felt too good to be true, but it was true, and it was actually good. I was in a constant battle in trying to believe that this was actually my life, with everything I adored so deeply about it; that it wasn't waiting to crumble in my hands - that it was mine to live.

It felt like I'd been able to somewhat compartmentalise the phone call with my mother. I'd chosen to keep it to myself, and thus, it had remained mine to deal with. It appeared she'd taken what I'd said, and abided by it; she hadn't reached out again, to me, or to Grace, or to anybody else. I'd never have known how much of a relief that would be to me - all I'd ever wanted was for her to chase after me; just once, for her to beg for my response. But knowing her intention, I was convinced that I felt content in never hearing another word from her.

I feared, deep down, she'd always be able to reel me in. I'd always fall for it, somehow, because she, as well as I, knew how much I'd always wanted to just be valued by her; I didn't need anything more from her - that was it. But I'd never get it. I believed, maybe, that I understood that, now. It still crossed my mind; undoubtedly. In a moment of silence, my mind would shift to everything that had happened, and it would grow tired in the acrobatics of trying to make sense of it all. But, her reaching out to toy with me, only to try and gain something from me, felt like it could be it. I wanted that to be it. I wanted that to have made me strong enough to pull away, and never let her hurt me again.

But I was still me. I could have everything I wanted; I could be happy, in the career that I'd always dreamed of, surrounded by people I felt like I didn't deserve, with a man better than anyone I could've dared to make up - but I was still the same person. I was the person moulded solely by everything I'd endured; moulded by everything they had inflicted. I could convince myself as much as I liked - but this life was shiny, and new, and fantastical; I was not.

I still felt guilty about keeping it from Harry, but he appeared to have let it go. He hadn't so much as hinted at it, or pushed - and I was glad. It meant I didn't have to cower back from questioning, or draw back from him for the sake of keeping certain things to myself. I could just be with him, as we wanted. Nothing felt better than that.

My eyes finally adjusted to the room in front of me, and it was only then that they could land on the desk on the far side of the room. My heart immediately swelled, noticing the bouquet of flowers positioned there. In an equally beautiful ceramic vase, this time, was a bunch of pink tulips, just as he'd given me the first time.

I stood up, moving toward them with an already ridiculous grin on my lips. I let out an exhale that I didn't even realise I'd been holding, the fluttering in the pit of my stomach indescribable as I reached for the small card beside the flowers, adorned with Harry's messy scrawl.

Call me when you're up. H x

I immediately reached for my phone, yearning to hear his voice, before I realised he was likely to be in the middle of an interview. I chewed on my lip for a moment, opting to text him instead, just to be safe. However, it couldn't have been more than a minute after my text was delivered, that his name flashed up on my phone, accompanied by what I was sure was my favourite photo I'd ever taken of him; his head propped up on his elbow, as he looked up at me, whilst lounging on the sofa after a soundcheck. I wasn't sure he even knew that I'd exported the photo to add to his contact, but I didn't regret it at all.