A Dreamers Dream

Conflicted. Los Angeles, California. USA.

Maddie's perspective

"Tell me something, tell me something

You don't know nothing, just pretend you do

I need something, tell me something new"

"Nope! Nope nope nope. Not today iTunes!" I say to myself as I scramble off of the fluffy beige rug on the floor of my hotel room, tripping over my own feet in the process and nearly knocking a nearby glass of water over the lyrics I've been working on for the last hour in my hurry to reach my laptop and skip the track that has suddenly decided to blast out of my speakers. Seriously need to stop trusting shuffle. It's like it's intentionally trying to upset me.

It takes me a good minute or so of frantically clicking at my mousepad to get the stupid computer to play something that doesn't remind me of the beautiful man with the stunning green eyes and sultry voice who I last saw embracing another woman a week ago now in New York. Has it really been a week already? I wonder to myself as I settle back down on the rug. Of their own volition, my eyes move over to the little wooden table next to my door and focus on the pile of envelopes sat there, next to the seven small bunches of wildflowers tied together with bits of twine that I have unceremoniously shoved into an oversized coffee cup which was the nearest approximation to a vase that I could find.

Yep, it's been a week.

The morning after that fateful night out drinking with Dean when I stupidly threw myself at him in an attempt to... I don't really know what I was trying to do, being honest. Get even with Harry? Make myself forget? I'm not sure. That's besides the point, anyways, when I got up the next day, nursing what can only be described as a hangover sent directly to me from Satan himself in an attempt to teach me the error of my ways, I struggled out of bed, pulled on a sweatshirt, pair of jeans and my sunglasses and opened the door to my room, intending to head to the local 7-11 and locate some seriously strong painkillers to try and dull the ache in my sore brain, and was greeted by a single white envelope with my name emblazoned on the front in very familiar handwriting sat on the dull hotel hallway carpet outside my room. Even if it hadn't been accompanied by a small bunch of the very same wildflowers that Harry had presented me with on our first 'date', I'd have known straight away who had sent it from the small heart who's ends didn't quite meet that had been drawn over the seal in thick black Sharpie.

I had waited until after I'd purchased and swallowed a few painkillers as well as drinking three bottles of water to try and rehydrate myself before I managed to work up the balls to actually slide my finger under the seal and open the envelope. Inside was a single sheet of white paper, Harry's spider-like scrawl sprawling out over it in the form of a poem. As usual, I had never heard of the poem before or even the poet he credited as having written it, but even someone as dense as me couldn't miss the clear message it was sending. The poem spoke of two lovers who had had a misunderstanding, it was written from the perspective of the person who had been misunderstood, and they were asking for a chance to explain themselves. To make things right. There was nothing else on the paper, no personal note from Harry asking anything of me or explaining exactly what it is that he thinks I have misunderstood, his lack of belief in me maybe? Or about what I saw that day in his hotel? I don't even know if he is aware that I went to New York, let alone that I saw him standing practically naked in the hallway with another woman. I haven't bothered to try and contact Stuart since I got home and he's the only person who could really tell me I guess, as he's the only one who knew I was there. As much as I like Stuart, I haven't been able to bring myself to talk to the poor guy, despite the fact that he's text a few times to ask if I am OK.

Every single morning since then, I have received a new poem and a new bunch of flowers. Seven poems and seven bouquets so far, each with a different meaning but all as beautiful and heartfelt as the last. If he keeps this up, I'm going to need a bigger coffee cup.