Desirous [H.S.]

Thirteen

TW: use of a derogatory slur - I never condone using offensive language towards the LGBTQIA+ community. Treat people with kindness (except for the character that uses it) <3

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HARRY STYLES

SEPTEMBER 20, 2020

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I feel my chest tighten as my eyes scan the page of the open book in my hands, each word I absorb feeling painfully familiar. The corners of my eyes prick with tears, my throat burning as the image of Anastasia from last night, leaning close to me with flushed cheeks, flashes across my mind.

Her eyes were hooded, her plump, beautiful lips parted as she stared at me. My heart begins to race just from thinking about it, and I shake my head in an attempt to erase it from my memory, but it doesn't work.

It never works.

The first and, before last night, only kiss that Anastasia and I shared was on the night of graduation, but I could never forget the way her lips felt on mine. She was so warm, so sweet, and the sensation was fucking electric.

In that moment, I swore I would never feel that amount of happiness ever again, and I was okay with that. I was okay with it, because at least I had the privilege of experiencing that; experiencing her.

Last night, of course, was no different.

Now, though, I feel horrible. I don't know why I did it. I knew better, but fuck, when the woman you've been in love with for over fifteen years looks at you as if there's nothing else she'd rather be looking at, how are you supposed to control yourself?

That's right, you're not.

It felt perfect in the moment, especially when she slipped her hand into my hair to bring me closer to her, like things had finally fallen into place for us. It wasn't until she pulled away from me, a look of sheer panic painted on her face, that I knew just how badly I'd fucked up.

I've texted her numerous times in the last twenty-four hours, each one going unanswered. I've sent her countless apologies, practically begging her to respond to me, but eventually I gave up. I decided to give her the space she needs to process what happened between us.

That hasn't stopped me from checking my phone for a response every five minutes, though.

I close the book still in my hands; the poetry I was hoping would distract me has only made me spiral more. I toss the book next to me, a loud 'SMACK' echoing off of the brown leather couch cushion. I lean forward to rest my elbows on my knees, and place my face in my hands. My eyes are burning from attempting to hold back the tears that have been threatening to fall, but the second my face is covered, a choked sob escapes me.