Silent | HS

06.

Soft.

She's soft like the clouds if I was ever able to touch them.  I didn't realise just how soft her skin was and how warm she felt against me.  It's been a long time since i felt this close to someone — but I've began to accept that i only feel close to her when I'm inside her.

Soft.

Too soft for me.

But I can't seem to stay away.

She was the perfect source of a distraction that I had been desperately searching for.  She has the power to make me forget about everything unwanted in my mind, almost like she had some sort of magical power to eliminate every source of uncertainty and fear that lingered deep inside of me.

There's something so deeply ingrained in me that believed she was made for me.  She was the first person I allowed to see me for who I was behind the sun — behind the seas of people and behind closed doors.  It took a lot of vulnerability to reveal the identity I tried so hard to disguise — but she saw right through it and I couldn't help but feel compelled into being with her all the time.

If she's not here, I'm at hers.

I think it's more obsession than it ever was love.

She manages to effortlessly make me feel like my struggles weren't so bad.  Because she had it worse.  She struggled tremendously.  It was mostly with her mental health and I knew it was something I couldn't keep trying to ignore — but she does that, so it's all I can do right now.

The thing about her is she's scarily obsessive. She doesn't let things go and she doesn't let people out her life.  The only way Id be able to escape her was if death called for me.  I was sure of that.

I'm not the type of person to let myself feel close to people.  I don't like the whole concept of being close with one person.  It made me uncomfortable and quite frankly, never had I let anyone as close to me as a certain someone.  I guess it holds bad memories, memories that I wanted to plant deep down inside of me that couldn't be unburied.

"Harry—"

I clamp my hand over her mouth, shaking my head,  "Don't," I hissed, fighting for my breath,  "Don't say my fucking name."

She nodded against my hand, the euphoric bliss glistening over her dark eyes.  Her sun kissed skin moulds against my own, sweaty and pale skin that meets her at its wake.  She rolls her head back, fighting desperately against the urge to moan my name — but she was good and refrained from doing so.

"This?" I groaned,  "This is never happening again, do you understand me?"

"You said that last time—"

A high pitched whimper catches her words when I slam my hips forward, fulling her completely and intensely. She was always made for me in that way, could always take all of me. Her eyes roll to the back of her head and she bites down hard on her lip to stop herself repeating the name I didn't want to hear in a time like this.

"Shut the fuck up," I demand, "You don't get to decide to come back into my life again and demand that I fuck you, Paris. It's not happening again."

That's what she did.

She comes into my life, promises me she won't leave again and she lets me feel that bubble of comfort. She fills my head with empty promises and false hopes and then when I finally let myself feel comfortable with her, with the idea that she was here to stay for the last time — she leaves.

We grow close, we fuck, we act like a fucking couple.

And she leaves.

I won't see her for a good few months, sometimes even a year until she reappears. At first, I'm angry and I shut her out and refuse her into my home — but then she does that thing where she looks at me like I'm the only person who can fix her, and it lights something inside of me.