GOLDEN (harry styles)

je tombe à nouveau, je tombe

(14/02/19)

HARRY'S P.O.V

I think this is the most empty I've ever felt. Sitting here, Nixie's letter in hand, an accidental tear down the centre splitting it in half, and nothing to distract myself from her words. They're timeless. Heartbreaking.

It doesn't help that I don't know if she's hiding behind her pen again. But she's happy, she says she is. I'll admit it hurt a bit when she told me about Daniel. The new surfing wonder she can now call hers. I guess it stung that he can call Nixie his. I used to do that. Sometimes in my dreams I still do.

I lie down, immediately shielding myself from the pain with my duvet, clinging on tightly. My heart stills for a moment at the intrusive memory that I used to pretend this was Nixie because it made me feel so happy. Whereas now, it drains any ounce of joy like an overflowing tsunami.

Without thinking, I shove the material back, launching myself to a sitting position. My legs are outstretched, my back resting uncomfortably against the bedhead. My hand travels down to pull my socks off, before my skin knocks into the wood of my guitar harshly.

"Oh shit!" I mutter in frustration, an unnecessary tear dropping onto the sheets.

My sudden anger fades as I look at the instrument. It looks sad. A light layering of dust shines arrogantly in the afternoon sunlight that dashes through the sheer curtains, making me wince. I slowly draw across the thicker sheets, blocking out any harsh rays.

My finger leans down to trace the patterns on the wood, running up and down the guitar's sturdy side. There is a smudge of midnight ink from when I last used it, probably shifting from the edge of my hand. I sigh as I take the instrument into my hands again, placing the letter gently on my bedside table.

I almost throw the guitar across the room within a second. The moment I start playing it, an awful ear piercing sound erupts from the strings, telling me unnecessarily that it is out of tune. I growl through gritted teeth, aggressively opening the FenderTune app on my phone. The painstaking process of adjusting the knobs until it sounds somewhat mediocre takes longer than it should, and I let my hands travel to the roots of my growing hair to release frustration.

My fingers tap the side impatiently. Finally, I hear all six little dings and the screen lights up a bright shade of green, bringing a small grin to my face. I know it's pathetic, but it's something.

I start to strum a rhythm. The lulling melody sounds gentle, but has a hidden harshness in its undertones, bringing a nervous heat to my cheeks. It feels more like burning, like you've just set yourself on an internal fire.

It also feels exactly like when Nixie looked at me.

I bite my lip, and my fingers stop their patterns. A deafening silence fills my dizzy head, lowering me back down to the safe place below. My teeth sink in lower to the warm inner skin of my mouth, my face contorting as I return the guitar to its stand with a lengthy exhale.

It was worth a try.

I pull off my trousers, throwing them into the basket by my bathroom door. My jumper soon follows, as do my pants. I tenderly remove the threaded beads from my neck, placing them carefully on my chest of drawers, far enough away from the edge so that they can't fall off. A light smile remains on my lips as I head for the shower after seeing the word 'golden' written across the beads.

It scares me sometimes how much of an effect a simple two syllable word can have on you after months of trying to remove it from all threads of memory.

The boiling hot water runs cleanly over my bare skin, gaining a sigh of relaxation from my heaving chest. The steam surrounds me until it fogs up the glass, reaching to the mirror and erasing my reflection. The tiled room is soon filled with the sticky, calming smoke, as well as the sweet scent of vanilla from my cologne being washed off.