Stranded [harry styles] ✓

14

I drag my stick in the sand, curving it to form the top half of the letter 'O'. The 'S' had taken a good ten minutes; having to draw the letter big enough to cover the large surface area of the canvas I had to work with. It was harder than I had predicted, trying to ensure it was large enough to be seen overhead but not too close to the water that it would be washed away when the tide came in.

I've situated myself further down the beach, in the opposite direction to the rock formation and where I'd woken up on the first day. Harry's nowhere to he seen with his man-made spear and garish shorts and I'm honestly grateful.

I feel so stupid about what happened; embarrassed and humiliated at my complete lapse of judgement in an evident moment of weakness and vulnerability. I can't help thinking of the passengers who didn't survive and what their families would think - probably that Harry and I are too busy getting caught up in each other instead of finding a way home to our loved ones.

But I'm also embarrassed about the sting of hurt I felt when he told me he wouldn't kiss me again and then walked away. His change of mood had been like a slap in the face even though I shouldn't really care and the fact that he's one hundred percent correct.

We have to stay focused from now. 

I drag my stick again to complete the 'O'. It reminds me of beach holidays with my parents and Jules when my father would create a boat or a car in the sand and I would draw on the finer details like the windows and the headlamps. I can see their faces so clearly in my mind; my mother's golden hair and my father's shocking blue eyes. And then there's Jules; wild, strawberry blonde curls and a mischievous glint in her eyes. My throat burns with the threat of an oncoming sob and I don't think I've ever felt so alone. 

With my relationship with Harry now in disarray, I don't have anyone to turn to. Can I still share my worries with him? Tell him about my bad dreams? Can I still cry in front of him and share stories of home? Will he open up to me anymore? 

I'm not sure I can survive here without his support and I certainly don't want to turn into Tom Hanks and start personifying inanimate objects. I'm so stupid for crossing with boundaries with Harry.

What was I thinking? 

Dark spatters fall across my writing in the sand and I think it's raining until my lower lip wobbles and a sob rips its way out of my mouth. It's loud - almost feral. And more follow. 

My stick falls from my grasp and lands in the sand with a gentle thump. My hands immediately clutch at the jersey material clothing my chest as the sobs fall continuously; tearing through my esophagus like a blaze of fire, intent on destroying everything in its path. 

I am strong. But I am hurting and lonely and I am afraid. 

"Fuck!" I yell agressively. "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" 

I hate this stupid island and I hate the stupid storm that put us here. 

I hate this swimsuit that's too small and cuts into my thighs.

I hate the furry layer of coconut that somehow always finds its way into my mouth, no matter how well we de-shell it. 

I hate that I'm on one side of the island and Harry is on the other because we messed everything up. 

And I can't seem to stop the tears. They run and run and run, dripping onto my feet and into the grooves between my toes. And I'm so mad, so hot in the face, that I'm surprised they haven't evaporated right off of me. 

I want to go home so badly, today more than I ever have. More than the first moment I realised I was stranded, when Harry stood before me with raised hands and tried to piece together for me what had happened. For the first time, I hope tonight that Dream Jules is there. Whatever the context; nightmare or dream. I hope to see her face, hope to see someone familiar - to see home.