Sycamore Tree // H.S. (HIATUS)

eighteen

The weeks until Harry's birthday are spent between dates, you and Rebecca painting in your bedroom and studying. Everytime you don't hang out with Rebecca after uni, you're at Harry's house studying in the kitchen, while he either does things on his laptop or scribbles in one of his journals, always trying to be as quiet as he can so that he doesn't distract you. What he doesn't know is that his mere presence is distracting you.
On his birthday, you finally met his mother. She cooked for you, him, Gemma and Charlie. She seemed to love you from the very first second and you also loved her from the very first second. Harry promised you nothing else, but you were still relieved.

He loved the guitar you gave him and later, when it was just you and him in his bedroom, he played you a song on it. Landslide.
Two days later, he flew out to America. He promised you to call you every day after work and if you couldn't pick up, he'd leave you cheesy voice messages. He also promised to write you a postcard every time he was thinking of you.
Harry seemed to cope well with the fact that you couldn't come with him, he didn't mention it again until the night before he left. Not giving you the chance to tell him, what you so desperately had to tell him.

                                             --

Sometimes Harry thinks his mind never stands still. At the airport, he bought a new journal and has written Lucille on its first page. It's your journal now- the place where he's going to capture everything his mind comes up with about you. Every comparison, every poem, things you say, things he wants to say to you.

Harry hates Los Angeles. It's too loud, too full, too trendy, too hot, too narcissistic. It takes him back to a time he'd spent every day he had off with either Matty or his ex girlfriend. The only thing he likes is the beach. But he doesn't want to go without you.
What he misses most, is the sound of your voice.

Yesterday, he bought a bunch of vintage themed postcards to send to you in the three weeks he's gone.
He hasn't touched them since, they're still on the dresser in his bedroom in Matty's house.
Harry has made the decision to sell his house in LA after the break up. He needed a change, he needed London. Now, every time he comes here, he always stays with Matty or some of his other American friends. But he prefers Matty over any of them.

There's a spider in the corner under the ceiling that Harry has watched for a while, instead of focusing on his book. He sighs, gets up and grabs one of the postcards and a pen.

Lucille.
It's been about 7 days since I've seen you last. I don't know what time it is in London, but if it's night, I hope you are asleep. Because what I don't want is, you being up just because you miss me. You won't be able to focus.
It's really hot here, I think you would hate it. Do you hate the heat?
I miss you.
H

He draws a couple of hearts into the corners of the postcard. A sunflower into the left right corner.

When Harry drives down the PCH the next day on his way to the studio, he plays the song he wrote about you over the speakers. He wonders if you will ever actually hear it, you deserve to because it is about you, but technically it's bad and the lyrics aren't good.
He wants to know Tommy's opinion about it, but today is not that day. Today is the day they start the fine tuning of the final songs. Harry always gets bored with these kind of tasks, although he longs for the feeling of fulfilment and pride once they're all done.

They work the whole day and only finish two of them. They're done, ready to be shared with the world. Over the years of doing this, Harry had a hard time learning to accept when a song is finished. He's a perfectionist after all and always thinks there's something to change to make it better, he puts his everything into every song he writes before he shares them with the world.