The Guest [harry styles]

Prologue

six months ago

Everything is black — our hair, his suit, the layered chiffon of my dress. Even his saucer-sized pupils, blown wide like a bloodthirsty shark are reminiscent of a black hole. I can see myself in them but I can no longer see him. This person is not him, not really. Long, yellow stained fingers curl around my left wrist and I see the tear in the fabric of his sleeve and the name label sewed into the cuff. A name that isn't his — a jacket that doesn't belong to him. 

"Will?" His voice shakes, as does his hand. "Willa, please." 

I feel the curious eyes of onlookers and the burning heat in my cheeks. I know what they're all thinking—because I'm thinking it too. The Prodigal Son has returned. 

"Will." He tries again. The suit hangs off his frame, as poorly fitting as the sheet of waxy skin that clings to his cheekbones. "Just a tenner will do it. I'll pay you back, kiddo."  

We've not even made it out the crematorium. 

The anger starts behind my eyes; stinging them with hot tears, before rushing to my face. I shrug him off. "Leave."

He stumbles backwards; eyes impossibly larger, and the onlookers move in like hungry vultures. "What? Will—"

"Let me make this quite clear," I snap in a hushed tone. "I never want to see you again." 

I don't hang around to see his response, but there's an unmistakable smash of glass before I've even closed the door.