Strings Attached (Harry Styles FanFiction)

31. Do You Trust Me?

A/N: Edit in the sidebar and the song for my inspiration for the chapter

...“I-I couldn’t do it. I wanted to... but I couldn’t.”

I didn’t respond, I had no idea what he was talking about.

“Louis told me it was okay, he said that I should. I danced with her. She tried to kiss me but I-I couldn’t. I couldn’t do it... I- She-She wasn’t you. I feel wrong even thinking about someone else, Cassie. So wrong.” There was a raw edge to his voice and I knew with heart shattering certainty that he was crying. I’d never thought that I’d see him cry and the fact that I was the one that pushed him to it nearly killed me.

“How could you do it?” His voice broke and I could feel the hot tears slipping into my hair. My own flooded my eyes and I held onto him tighter, afraid that if I let go even for a second he would disappear, “It hurts, Cassie. It hurts.”

“I-I’m so sorry, Harry,” I sobbed over and over again, my tears soaking his shirt as they streamed freely down my cheeks.

Tell him, Cassie, the voice in my head insisted, Tell him you selfish bitch.

“Harry,” I whispered, praying to god for my own narcissistic needs that he was too drunk to remember this in the morning, “I-I need to tell you something.”

 

Cassie’s POV:

 

I knew that we shouldn’t be having this conversation now. It was wrong and I was only doing it to make myself feel better. Christ, I was so f.ucking selfish. I should have told him in the very beginning. I shouldn’t have waited until he was drunk off of his ass and lying vulnerable in my bed. Hell, I shouldn’t even have to tell him. I shouldn’t have brought him into this. I had no right to force him to deal with Adrien’s sadistic bullshit. I told myself that I was strong, that I could deal with this on my own but I was f.ucking wrong. I couldn’t deal with this. How am I ever supposed to break free when every time there is even the slightest bit of danger I go sprinting back. It was like I’d sold my soul to the devil. Running obviously wasn’t working. He’d always be lurking in some dark corner.

“Shit,” I mumbled, burring my face deeper into his neck.

I’d been to see a psychiatrist a month or so after I was released from the hospital, he’d spouted out all of this bullshit about “facing my problems head on” and using my “sword of truth and justice to rectify my problems and deduce right from wrong”. The guy needed to see a f.ucking Shrink himself. Did I look like a damn comic book hero? Had I forgotten to leave my spandex and cape at home? Jesus Christ. Honestly, I probably needed more therapy after that first visit. My mother swore he came highly recommended.... bull-f.ucking-shit. I never thought that I’d ever, and I mean ever, even think of using one bit of that madman’s “advice”, but yet here I was, psyching myself up to “face my problems head on”, wielding my "sword of truth and justice". F.uck me.

Quit hiding, you whimp. Put on your big girl panties and just f.ucking deal with it.

Sucking in a deep breath, I pulled away from the inebriated boy, curling in on myself, tucking my knees up to my chest and resting my back against the wall. He grunted, eyes lazily fluttering open to glare at me.

“Cold,” he slurred, beckoning me back with the curl of one wobbling index finger.

I shook my head, throwing him one of his sweatshirts from the foot of my bed, “I want that back,” I muttered. My kleptomaniac tendencies had been emerging lately and I may or may not have been stashing away bits of his wardrobe. The kid had phenomenal taste. The faded Aerosmith hoodie fit him snugly which meant it was a a freaking circus tent on me. I loved it.