Lighthouse

“Sit. You look dead.” I huffed as I threw my boots off and eagerly settled down on Harry’s old leather couch, facing the opposite end and tucking my legs in. “It’s cold.” I shivered, rubbing my palms together absentmindedly.

“It’s really not that chilly.” Harry shook his head, laughing slightly as he collapsed before me. “You did not dress properly for the occasion.”

I nodded vaguely, he was right. ”What’s the deal with you and flowers Styles? Whenever we meet, you are always carrying flowers." I asked, gesturing to the bouquet in his hands which he placed on the coffee table before us. Although it was not true, since this was only the fourth time I had seen him with flowers.

Today was the 10th day in a row that I had spent at Harry’s place. I think we have known each other for four months now, but I wasn’t counting of course. Becoming fast friends with someone was not my specialty. Except Harry’s company was more or less something I had begun to crave. He was probably the only person I knew who I enjoyed spending time with; we never ran out of things to talk about, and his presence never bored me.

"My girlfriend likes flowers," He answered. "We often get into fights so I usually gift her flowers to make it up to her," he explained softly, breaking our eye contact to glance at something behind me briefly. Harry closed his eyes as I noticed how dark his bags were, and felt guilty. We had spent so much time together lately that I was always keeping him up late, and then he couldn't get enough sleep before work.

In fact, he had just come home from work and I was already here, with Indian take out for the both of us. I'm not sure if Harry could cook, but I had almost always seen him eating take out, with the exception of the time when we had dinner at my place, and I had cooked for us last month. Despite feeling responsible for Harry’s weary state, I inwardly also felt good that he had been too busy and drained to finish his lighthouse painting. At least then I could admire the unfinished work before he gifted it to his girlfriend.

I nodded, "She's a lucky girl, and you have a great heart."

“A great heart? For buying flowers?” He laughed softly, shaking his head. “I’m sure any man would do that. Anything is better than facing the wrath of your angry girlfriend.”

I smiled at him, “But you don’t do it to avoid her anger do you?” His smile faded slightly. “You do it to appease her because you don’t like seeing her angry," I tilted my head forward, "Not because you’re afraid to face her anger.”

Harry opened his mouth to object, but then paused for a moment. “You’re right,” he agreed, a small smile returning to his lips. “I don’t like it when she is anything less than happy.”

I watched him stare at me intently, then I slowly turned around to look at what had caught his eyes earlier for a fleeting moment. The lighthouse painting. He had finished it. I felt a small pang of disappointment in my chest. It was even more beautiful than his unfinished version that I had fallen in love with, but it was not for me.

“What flowers do you like?" he asked after a while. I looked back towards him as he cocked his head to the side in genuine curiosity. However, a nagging feeling in my chest wondered whether he was trying to distract me from admiring the painting. I guess it did bother him quite a bit, he hates disappointing people.

I shook my head, scrunching my nose in mild disgust. I barely caught a hidden smile on his lips before I replied, ”I don't like flowers." Harry’s smile faded.

He looked surprised. "But you said that forget me n-"

I interjected, "Yeah, besides that lot, I don't actually care for flowers." I shrugged nonchalantly, not wanting to delve into the backstory as to why exactly I did not like flowers.

He nodded, seeming to understand. “But why forget me nots?"

I laughed softly. "Isn't it obvious? You're the one who seems to have done a PhD in what each and every flower represents. I'm sure you know.” I waved away his question with a shrug of my hand.

He smiled, consciously. "You don't want to be forgotten."

I nodded my head in agreement, "I don't think anyone does Styles." I stated softly, glancing down at the contours of my palm. I remembered my senior year in high school, and John, the only boyfriend I had ever had. Honestly speaking, I had no idea why I thought we would work, we were never friends, we barely knew each other.

One fine day he gifts me a posy of flowers and asks me out, and I thought that was going to be the greatest moment of my life, ever. When you’ve had a crush on someone for four years, you’re bound to have run through so many scenarios of how your first conversation would go.

I know I did.

By the time we broke up, or rather, he dumped me, I realised how important it was to have a friendship to base your relationship on. But since then, I have never bothered taking another chance. It was never worth it, they would all forget me eventually.

"Not true. I wouldn't mind." I looked up, breaking out of my thoughts and felt slightly awed and surprised. Little did I know that he wasn’t one to be easily forgotten, at least by me.

He read my questioning gaze and elaborated. "I mean, what's the point of being remembered? A hundred or so years down the track almost everyone will be forgotten. Unless you're associated with something big." He shrugged, "If you're a scientist who made the most important discovery or breakthrough, or if you're a hero in an account like the Trojan War. I just don't see the point in being remembered. I'm happy to be forgotten."

"That's not how I want to be remembered." I mumbled, shaking my head, but completely understanding his argument.

"Then how do you want to be remembered, Piper?” I decided I particularly liked the way he spoke my name. It was plain and boring, but he made it sound poetic. Everything about this man was so poetic.

I looked up, opening my mouth hesitantly to answer his question. Did I want to explain myself? I paused, closing my mouth, allowing a different answer altogether to escape my lips. "Never mind, don't worry." And he didn't worry. He didn't ask me again why or how I wanted to be remembered. He didn't ask anything at all.

In that moment I really wished that he would have asked again. I was beginning to grow disheartened when he didn't. I cursed myself for pondering why he didn't ask me again. I hadn't told him because I didn't want to, then why did it bother me?

That day Harry Styles did not ask questions. That day I truly figured out why I wanted to be remembered. And it hurt.