Status: ON-GOING.
You Wound Me, Styles
Internet
Upon hearing his response, I stumbled back, almost toppling off my seat. Despite all that, I laughed, not in buffered hiccups, but a forced throaty laugh.
“Right,” I said, measuring the now bigger gap between where I sat and where he did. “I’m an idiot.”
“Do you still get discounts at the bakery?” he asked, gulping a little.
Of course he changed the subject, brusquely, averting his gaze to a verdant-leaved tree.
“Yeah,” I smiled. “I work there now. And I go to college now. I’ll graduate in a couple of years, or more, depending on how much I want my mom to suffer.”
He laughed, teary-eyed. He could be a sadist at times as well.
Needless to say, we wallowed in our usual random talk, while I rotted in disappointment somewhere in my throbbing chest.
By the end of the day, Harry escorted me to my hotel room, where we quickly exchanged cheek-kisses, the friend-zoned kind, and I dialed my mom’s phone sometime afterward when Gemma was out of earshot.
“Hello?” It was my aunt Elizer who’d picked up the cell.
“Hi, auntie,” I smiled in a way that could be heard in my voice. “Can I fly back there?”
“What, dear? Here in Holmes Chapel?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, no...” she trailed off. “You’re not pregnant, are you?”
“Yeah, you caught me.”
“Who’s the father?”
“Darth Vader.” I cracked a sly smile.
“Nice try, Rosie, but your jokes are still lame,” auntie laughed, nullifying her remark.
“But I’m serious about flying back there,” I said, my countenance suddenly flickering to the opposite of happy.
“Oh? Run out of Skins episodes to watch?”
“Lordy, yes.”
“Alright, you’ve suffered enough, you poor child.” And then she hung up, leaving me with the assumption that she’d arranged my return to my beloved England.
My rotten aunt did not in any way make any effort to at least pick up the phone and book a flight for me. She did, however, call up Gemma and made her aware of my current situation, saying, “Oh, make sure she watches some Skins, okay? She needs it like how we humans need oxygen.”
But I was bound to go home, with no victory to take pride in. It was wrong to say that I went to Ireland solely to sort of woo Harry Styles.
Each night after my birthday (the day Harry openly rejected me), Harry would bring one girl back to the hotel after another. They were all blondes, and I was pretty sure I got the message there.
I went home to England empty-handed, and maybe with some of Gemma’s determined words. “This isn’t the end of it,” she’d said; we both picked up the hesitation from her tone.
People online also weren’t giving me a break. They mocked and ridiculed me, only because pictures of me and Harry on my birthday were taken by some fans. They had thought Harry and I were dating, but some people also called me a beard. Some people made internet memes with my face, saying some degrading things.
There was even a blog that was out to specifically pinpoint my physical flaws. My countless freckles, my lack of cheekbones, and there were also some ginger jokes. I was accused of not having a soul; it was awful.
Harry was not aware of this, neither was Gemma, or anyone else in my family. It was my little secret, and the internet words stung more and more.
Eventually, Harry started dating Taylor Swift.
Haha, I have sixty-nine subscriber now.
“Right,” I said, measuring the now bigger gap between where I sat and where he did. “I’m an idiot.”
“Do you still get discounts at the bakery?” he asked, gulping a little.
Of course he changed the subject, brusquely, averting his gaze to a verdant-leaved tree.
“Yeah,” I smiled. “I work there now. And I go to college now. I’ll graduate in a couple of years, or more, depending on how much I want my mom to suffer.”
He laughed, teary-eyed. He could be a sadist at times as well.
Needless to say, we wallowed in our usual random talk, while I rotted in disappointment somewhere in my throbbing chest.
By the end of the day, Harry escorted me to my hotel room, where we quickly exchanged cheek-kisses, the friend-zoned kind, and I dialed my mom’s phone sometime afterward when Gemma was out of earshot.
“Hello?” It was my aunt Elizer who’d picked up the cell.
“Hi, auntie,” I smiled in a way that could be heard in my voice. “Can I fly back there?”
“What, dear? Here in Holmes Chapel?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, no...” she trailed off. “You’re not pregnant, are you?”
“Yeah, you caught me.”
“Who’s the father?”
“Darth Vader.” I cracked a sly smile.
“Nice try, Rosie, but your jokes are still lame,” auntie laughed, nullifying her remark.
“But I’m serious about flying back there,” I said, my countenance suddenly flickering to the opposite of happy.
“Oh? Run out of Skins episodes to watch?”
“Lordy, yes.”
“Alright, you’ve suffered enough, you poor child.” And then she hung up, leaving me with the assumption that she’d arranged my return to my beloved England.
My rotten aunt did not in any way make any effort to at least pick up the phone and book a flight for me. She did, however, call up Gemma and made her aware of my current situation, saying, “Oh, make sure she watches some Skins, okay? She needs it like how we humans need oxygen.”
But I was bound to go home, with no victory to take pride in. It was wrong to say that I went to Ireland solely to sort of woo Harry Styles.
Each night after my birthday (the day Harry openly rejected me), Harry would bring one girl back to the hotel after another. They were all blondes, and I was pretty sure I got the message there.
I went home to England empty-handed, and maybe with some of Gemma’s determined words. “This isn’t the end of it,” she’d said; we both picked up the hesitation from her tone.
People online also weren’t giving me a break. They mocked and ridiculed me, only because pictures of me and Harry on my birthday were taken by some fans. They had thought Harry and I were dating, but some people also called me a beard. Some people made internet memes with my face, saying some degrading things.
There was even a blog that was out to specifically pinpoint my physical flaws. My countless freckles, my lack of cheekbones, and there were also some ginger jokes. I was accused of not having a soul; it was awful.
Harry was not aware of this, neither was Gemma, or anyone else in my family. It was my little secret, and the internet words stung more and more.
Eventually, Harry started dating Taylor Swift.
Haha, I have sixty-nine subscriber now.