There's A Light On

As he walked heavily on the pavement leading to her door, he knew that he was going to blame the speech he was about to give on alcohol. He would say that he had stumbled out of the bar with vodka fresh on his tongue, and that it was speaking for him. And he knew that he would be a wonderful actor because he had practiced desperately in the mirror for days, all the while imaging her own beautiful face instead of his own repulsive reflection. Ever since he had left her—messed it up so terribly—the mirror haunted him.

He mouthed his practiced words carefully as he made his trek up the stairs of the building. Upon reaching the inside of the hallway, seemingly endless doors lined the walls. His body is washed over with the loneliness that only three o’clock in the morning can provide, and he spots the familiar door on the left. He stops in the middle of the hall.

To an onlooker, he would appear perfectly sober, but maybe a little confused. His long legs are clad in black jeans and a plaid shirt is stuck to his torso. A simple flower is hanging out of his back pocket. It looks rather silly, but after all, it’s three in the morning and there’s no one there to see him. With the top few buttons undone of his shirt, his tan collar bones are exposed and he looks miserably stunning. Despite his surprisingly good clothing taste, that’s the least gorgeous aspect of his appearance. His hair alone was alarmingly breath taking with the way it curled perfectly atop his head and allowed the occasional curl to slip out of place and over his eyebrow subtly. His lips were lazily frowning as his eyebrows furrowed together, his green eyes piercing the door ahead of him.

He breathed in so slowly that it wouldn’t have been too far fetched to assume he wasn’t breathing at all. In that moment for Harry Styles everything was in slow motion.

He picks up his lead fist and knocks as carefully on the door as possible, as if he doesn’t want her to answer, as if he doesn’t want to see her face--dark circles around her eyes.

The seconds waiting are killing him. He is sure his heart has reached his throat and then he wishes he was actually drunk because alcohol would treat him far better than he could ever treat himself—this was torture.

He sighs and the words come out with no warning.

“Val,” his voice breathes out. He coughs slightly and unexpectedly and then rests his head on the threshold by her door. “Valerie, I know you’ve got yourself a boyfriend. And I know I’ve screwed this up far beyond repair. I know that I’m rubbish and a complete asshole and I know these things won’t change. I just think about you all the time—lay in my bed at night after seeing thousands of faces, and yours is still the one I see when I close my eyes.” After the words have fell off of his lips, he shuts his eyes tightly and his fist hits the wall above his bowed head gently, repeatedly. “I know that —are you listening? God,” he breathes in, “I hope you’re listening.” Silence drowns him. His eyes are sore. He realizes she’s not coming to the door. “Sober, drunk,” he begins, “conscious, unconscious—it’s always you,” he ends.

He brings his coat closer to him, hangs his head, and turns away.

When he has reached the pavement that he began his journey on, there’s something going on in the building that he will never know.

She has opened her door with searching eyes, and sees nothing. He’s not there. As she goes to hang her head low with heavy thoughts of him, her eyes fall to a simple flower on the floor.