aesthete | 𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐬𝐭𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧 [EN]

01 | 𝑑𝑒𝑛𝑖𝑚 𝑗𝑎𝑐𝑘𝑒𝑡

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i'm not a native speaker ♡

𝑎𝑒𝑠𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑡𝑒
01 | ᴅᴇɴɪᴍ ᴊᴀᴄᴋᴇᴛ

I don't want to.

It was not often that I did not want to do something. But when it was like that, every tendon of my body would fight against it and gradually rob me of my sanity. I had spent the last few nights tossing and turning in my own sweat in my bed, desperately trying to get the slightest bit of sleep. There were just too many thoughts in my head.

Too many thoughts in my head since I got the call from my management. It had been a Tuesday morning, pitch dark, the sunbeams choked by the fog of November. I could still remember the conversation clearly. And the way I had to put my hand on my chest to see if my heart was still beating.

» Oh, now don't be like that, Harry. You were together day and night for five years, so this one afternoon doesn't make any difference. «

I contemptuously snorted in the air. It was all about the image and another moment in the headlines. In show business, no one took feelings into consideration, and certainly not those of those who were sent around the globe on stages, events and even more business meetings.

Only now did I realize how cold it actually was. Although it was July, the wind passed me by in cold streams and in the sky a dark cloud layer indicated a thunderstorm to come. Probably I should have put on a jacket after all. Or at least taken an umbrella with me. Whatever.

I buried my hands in the pockets of my linen pants. Nervously I pulled the fabric of the insides through my fingers, whereby the waistband of my sleeves laced into my wrists.

Just turn left two more times.

Then I would be there. At a studio that had been set up behind countless cameras and technicians to give the audience the illusion that the boys and I had made ourselves comfortable in an old living room. With pictures of us on the wall and a way too tiny leather couch.

The first raindrops started to fall on me. On my white shirt, which made it possible for my skin to shimmer through, and a few wet strands of hair fell down on my forehead. I pulled one hand out of my pocket and held it protectively over my head. I looked around helplessly in all directions, but there was not a single small niche under which I could hide.

By and by I accelerated my step. The cars that passed by me sloshed the rainwater slightly aside, which then drenched my shoes and trouser legs. I squeezed my eyes together and took a deep breath. I had been naive to think that the day could not have gotten any worse.

Without much of an effort I stroked my hair back. A few raindrops fell on my face, blurring the picture before my eyes. The colors flowed into a single color palette, the street noise around me seemed even louder than it already was, and for a moment I thought I had lost my sense of balance.

But some things are recognizable even if you have the feeling of having lost yourself in the maze of life. Sometimes it's the sweet smell of a perfume and other times it's the tiny sparks of a cigarette crackling on the asphalt.

And sometimes it's both.

My pace slowed down. I was at least fifty meters and a crosswalk away from him and he had his back turned to me, but his silhouette was the only thing shining out of the sea of colors.

He still wore the same denim jacket he had worn five years ago, except that the threads on the sleeves were already starting to come loose from the fabric. The laces of his Converse were tiend around his ankles in a messy loop, and his hand let let his cigarette slowly down towards to the floor. He blew a swath into the air.

For a while I just stood there and looked at him. The rain now heavily poured down on the ground and soaked me from the tips of my hair to the soles of my shoes, but I didn't care. All I heard at that moment was my heart beating too fast. My too loud thoughts. His stupid sayings, which I somehow couldn't get out of my head. And the only thing I saw was him. Him, how he slowly turned around and dropped the cigarette on the ground.

Louis.