*༶тαѕтєѕ ѕσ ѕωєєт | h.ѕ ༶*

Sweet ♡

♡

Tears slip from my eyes and fall onto the page of His words. I have no idea when Harry wrote this or if He even thought I would ever find it in the last page of my diary. I had wanted to read something that Harry had written for so long. And here I was reading a love letter in his very own words, all of them addressed to me.

I sit on my floor for minutes reading His words over and over again wanting them to sink into my brain. I should have believe him. I know I should have. I've made a complete mess of things when all along it's been so easy. Harry doesn't care what size jeans I wear or the pink lines on my stomach and legs. All's he ever cared about was showing me what love was, what it felt like to have my own garden full of daisies and roses and butterflies in my heart. He created that for me. He made me feel beautiful after years of feeling disgusting.

I'm positive by the time I stumble to the door Harry will be gone. I can't blame him for what happened. I know it was my mistake for not trusting him when he said he didn't do anything. Anyone who can write words so effortlessly meaningful, could never want to hurt you. I stand up from the shaggy carpet, searching for my coat in the mess of things I've thrown all over my apartment floor. Once I find it I put it on over my bra and panties and wipe at my tear stained cheeks. I know I need to find Harry. I need to apologize. I take a deep breath before I twist my door handle open, ready to go to find Harry.

But I don't have to find him.

He is standing across from me, his back lazily slouched against someone else's door. And his ring covered hands I've come to love more and more each day are tousled, pulling at his long chocolate curls. His eyes are shut tight, and I can see little specks of tears tracing his tan skin, rolling down his face. And I did this to him, I made this incredibly loving and caring boy drown in a glass of his own tears.

"Harry," I exhale, taking small steps closer to him. He looks so handsome. He is dressed in a pair of black skinny jeans and the familiar pastel pink satin button up from our first date. I wonder to myself if he thought tonight was just as special as I did.

"Flora James," He breathes, his sad emerald eyes looking up at me hopefully. He reaches his hand out to touch my cheek, but he hesitates unsure of how I'm feeling. I step closer, closing the distance between us. Harry takes that as his okay to touch me and I mimic him, running my thumb across his cheek as he does mine. We don't say anything. I just want to be close to him, feel his soft touch, feel the butterflies all come fluttering back to me, feel the insecurities I once held so dear to my heart all go.

"You're My favorite author, Harry Edward Styles," I say to the boy who turned my bitter heart sweet.

♡