Matilda | Harry Styles

THIRTY-EIGHT

I didn't leave the bedroom for another couple of minutes - I didn't quite feel like I could. Instead, I was frozen to the spot, staring down at my phone screen, desperately searching for my composure.

I felt sick. I thought, somehow, that I'd managed to compartmentalise the phone call I'd had, weeks ago, with her. I knew, deep down, that I hadn't acknowledged or addressed it enough to ever have been able to rationalise it properly, or to even begin to move on - but I'd convinced myself that I'd managed to set it aside, and move forward. It was so much easier to trick myself into believing I had a hold on things, when I was enjoying where I was at so much. In London, I hated everything about my life, day-to-day; and though I hated to accept that there was an overarching problem, there was nothing to really distract myself with. On tour, there were a million and one things to keep my head away from everything that I hated.

I knew my coping mechanisms were practically non-existent - denial and avoidance could only take me so far, but I couldn't will myself away from it. That felt like the worst part - I knew the way I lived wasn't sustainable, yet I couldn't bring myself to change it - I was desperate, aching to continue this pattern, no matter how it killed me. Every single sense in my body screamed at me to keep battling this alone, and to keep 'coping' in the only way I knew how.

It was infringing on the only period of guaranteed peace I had left. After this week, and the final tour shows took place - everything went back to uncertainty. I wouldn't know how things with me and Harry were to work; I wouldn't have this routine that I adored so much, of travelling with my friends and getting to play at doing my dream job. I knew Harry and I would need to talk about that, too, eventually - how would it work? But I sort of feared that I'd have grossly misread us in wanting us to continue past tour; I still couldn't believe that he really wanted me. Even with everything he did, even with every gesture, and affirmation - even though I stood, now, in an apartment in the middle of Italy that he'd brought me to for the sole purpose of enjoying a week together - I couldn't fathom how he could mean what he said, about how he felt for me. I couldn't fathom that if he knew everything I'd been concealing, he might just understand it. It felt selfish, and almost disrespectful to him - but I couldn't force myself away from it.

My mind felt like a broken record - torn between an attempt to try being open, and making tiny, useless advances like telling him my mother had originally been in contact, but then in drawing back in lying about any surrounding details. Every attempt I made, I stopped myself from following through. It was useless, and it was relentless.

Part of me was still mindblown by his continuous composure - even when it felt like he knew I was lying, or that he'd picked up on my shifts in demeanour, he never lashed out. He never grew angry, or abusive - he never lay a hand on me, or sought to hurt me, and that was something I equally had to adjust to. At points, I questioned if he'd picked up on my dishonesty at all, because he'd never truly let any frustration show; there were times I felt I could sense it, but he'd mask it as quickly as it had manifested.

This was yet another thing to weigh down my chest. It was becoming exhausting, and it was beginning to scare me how, against everything I'd ever taught myself, I wondered if it would be easier to tell Harry what was going on. I didn't know, this time, why she'd reached out, or what had prompted her to reach out again after a few weeks of silence - but Harry didn't even know that I'd talked to her, to begin with. I'd chickened out of telling him the real truth, and so we had nothing - he knew nothing. I'd never, in my life, considered sharing these parts of myself with somebody - and I knew, in actuality, that I couldn't bring myself to do it. But the temptation lingered, and it was scary.

I realised I'd spent far too long in the bedroom, and I quickly set my phone back down on the bed, switching it off. I briefly considered texting Grace, but I decided I didn't want to bother her with this right now; I also didn't want to delve much further into this topic, in fear I wouldn't, then, be able to conceal my anxiety around Harry. If I quickly cut off my thoughts, now, I may have been able to keep this up. The ambiguity surrounding her call, though, was enough to unsettle me - I didn't know what had prompted her to contact me, again. But I knew, equally, that I didn't want to contact her in return, to find out.