Inside a Notebook ≫ Harry Styles a.u.

a story in which a damaged and anxiety stricken boy and a poetry and risk obsessed girl take on adventures together in the least likely way possible. will they survive their adrenaline filled, edgar allan poe influenced, intoxicatingly romantic adventure filled with love, challenges, heartbreaking memories and hope for each other?

(based on lily and dash's book of adventures)


2. Right ≫ The Havoc

i honestly have no idea how this is going down (especially since i have approximately a hundred unfinished and unsuccessful fanfics under my sleeve *sigh*). i hope this fanfic will be a piece of literature i can share with many people for them to love and hold especially since i am writing this story loving and holding the queer idea that came storming into my mind that has now materialized as the story below. now, without further delays, i present to you, a creation from which i used a keyboard to form using 26 repeated and limited characters that i then shared to our online web of writers, readers, dreamers, creators, and of course awesome people like you,


Inside a Notebook by Yours Truly


The Right Side

"And how are the meds working?" the doctor asked me, like he always does in our weekly sessions. "Fine." I replied with my head hung low as I started to fiddle my thumbs. He wrote something down on his clipboard for the thousandth time for the past hour. He closed his folder with an exasperated sigh and leaned forward from his chair. He placed his hand on my knee and I flinch at the contact. He removed his hand from my knee, noticing my tension.

Looking at me dead in the eye, he started talking. "How are you going to get better if you don't cooperate?" and his lecture continued. I've had this lecture every single week for the past few years, just with different doctors so I got used to it. My eyes wandered to the frame of the old man's glasses. His bushy white eyebrows were being covered by his circular spectacles. His eyelashes framed his brown eyes that had a splash of gray in them. He had wrinkles all over his face. My, from all the years of veteran work, of course! One of the best in the country, they say. Helps everyone out in just a few weeks. I wonder now if it's true though.

The fish tank behind his head were filled with many different colored fish. I wonder how it feels like living in a glass box filled with water and artificial beauties just to be spectated by everyone for your entire life.

But maybe I do know how it feels. Feeling as if someone's always watching you or the good things are just fakes and you'll never get out of your prison. Oh I know that feeling, very well. Fish tanks held metaphorical messages, especially the one in the therapist's office.

I took a quick glance at the clock. It was almost two PM. Jesus Christ, when will this end. Thankfully, Dr. Jensen was almost done with his speech of cooperation. "Do you understand, Harry?" He asked me, eyes filled with a sort of medical concern. "Yes, sir." I replied as positively as I possibly could.

"Then we're finished for today. I'll see you again next week." He informed me. "Thank you, sir." I shook his hand and made a beeline for the exit of the room. I quickly grabbed my coat from the hanger beside his door, needing to get out of this place. In the corridors of the hospital I was finally able to take a breather.

At the waiting area was the blonde girl, with bracelets covering her wrists and simple yet expensive diamond earrings on at one of the best psychiatric offices in the country because of her filthy rich family, waiting for her turn. She had the appointment after me. We have never talked before and I don't plan on it soon. As I'm about to exit, she raised her eyebrows at me and I nodded, signaling her turn was up with Jensen.

I entered the parking lot and found my Land Rover among the cluster of cars. I slid into my seat and turned the ignition on for the heater to work. I opened my glove compartment and got a hold of my leather bound journal. I feel the weight of it in my hands. I untied its leather straps and flick through the pages from years and years of writing.

My eyes scanned their way through the pages quickly. On good days, my penmanship was clear and neat. On bad days, well, just imagine the opposite of my penmanship on good days. Let's just say about seventy five percent of them are nearly illegible.

I rebound the journal and slipped it back into the compartment. I put the car on drive and quickly got out of the parking lot I've come to know and resent. It's a Tuesday today and everyone is either at work or school. I already got my GCSEs and my uni made exceptions for me on Tuesdays due to my special condition that needed special attention as well.

There was no traffic so in no time, I found myself across the old bookstore in downtown Holmes Chapel known as the Havoc. True to its name, the Havoc was a quite sizeable store overflowing with disorganized and randomly shelved books and old records and films and anything else a hipster could want from donations and lost & found items. Unfortunately, I wasn't one for the hipster lifestyle. All I wanted was a latte and the Havoc was the place for that.

I parked my car at the front of the green park across the street from the store. Nobody really minded. I hopped out of my car with my wallet in my jeans pocket and my coat securely wrapped around my waist and my beanie protecting my head from the cold weather.

I crossed the street to the Havoc. When I opened the wooden door with OPEN signs hung up on them, a small bell rang and signaled everyone on the ground floor about my entrance. The sound made me shudder involuntarily. Thanks to my ever special condition.

The walls of the store was lined wall to wall with shelves of books and records and films filed according to category. There was a purple haired guy, no older than I am, covered with tattoos I'd dread to have and piercings all over his face, at the far right corner of the store with his feet kicked on top of the table with headphones in his ears and a comic book in his hands. Against the counter was a three foot tall chalk board advertising Café and More Records & Books Upstairs in colorful fonts.

I walked past Billy Joel vinyls and old mystery novels and took a right to where the old fashioned wooden stairs were located. I jogged up its length. I got to its landing and was faced with even more vinyls and books, the newer ones. I took another right turn and found myself on the main shop floor where hundreds upon thousands of book and vinyls were stacked or shelved or put into clearance baskets or just scattered around. There was an elevated area to my left that served as the café.

There were coffee tables and chairs that were unoccupied other than an old business man typing away at his laptop with a black coffee in hand. I walked up to the bar that served as a counter and told the barista my order. She had the world's most distracting bright pink on her lips.

I heard the flirtatious tone in her voice and saw the way she perked up and forced a quite scary smile on her face. "And can I," she lingered on the I but just wanted to puke. "Uh, get my name?" Her pause came out to far. She nodded eagerly. I told her.

"Harry?" She asked again to get it right. As if she could get it wrong, she's been staring at my lips since we started talking like they were something to eat. I nodded. "What a sexy name." She ran her finger down my forearm. I'd rather be paying for overpriced coffee at Starbucks than listen to her. Jesus, if their coffee wasn't so good...

I cleared my throat. "Uh, yeah, so, how much?" I asked with an uncomfortable tone. "On the house." She winked at me and I just gave her a small smile.

She told me she'd bring me my order when it was ready. I felt the sudden urge to look at the books. I walked over to a shelf and saw collections of poems by e. e. cummings, Jane Austen, Robert Frost, Oscar Wilde and Mark Twain among many of them. This just spelled out poetry lover's heaven.

The books came from all different time periods and their spines justified for that. I was about to pull out a random book filled with the works of Shel Silverstein when my fingers brush again a notebook filler that you usually put in your binder.

I pulled it out. It had folded covers and pages but other than that, it was in relatively good condition. The cover was purple and it had no name on it. On the lines for the name it said Open me if you want an adventure. and so I did.

I'm a girl by the way. Just in case gender anonymity bothered you. My name's a secret for now.

I love Edgar Allan Poe, it read, so you need to first fall in love with his words as I have. Follow my steps, okay? Ready? Now, turn to the right and face the section filled with books that start with a B. I do. Nextcontinue walking until you reach the wall where all the books starting with E are. I see books with E for the start. Now, please take a turn to you left where books starting with F are located. Sure enough, there they were. Please locate the thin leather bound book with a small gold fairy on it. I found it. I ran my fingers against its smooth leather. Go to page three and read the lines written on it.

The book read: 
Dim vales- and shadowy floods |And cloudy-looking woods,|Whose forms we can't discover|For the tears that drip all over!|Huge moons there wax and wane-|Again- again- again-|Every moment of the night-|Forever changing places-|And they put out the star-light|

I looked back into the notebook, not knowing how I should comprehend the lines.

I know, pretty deep shit, right? Well, its a lovely poem and you may want to continue reading it but for now focus on these lines. They say that Mr. Poe was describing the night sky, and it sure seems like it but I want to see what you think. Beauty is in the eyes of the beholder they say. So tell me, what does this poem mean to you. Write it down here.

When you're done, please give this to Joshua (the guy with purple hair) downstairs and right your number here ________. I won't call you, don't worry. Just give it a shot.

In no time, I started thinking what it did mean to me. Dim vales? Huge moons and wan and wane? What in the world did that mean to me? I reread the poem once. Twice. Three times.

Just as I was about to give up, I figured it out.

I ran back to the café and picked a table. I slipped out a small pen that I kept in my pocket at all times and started writing.

The barista arrived just as I was finishing my note. She placed a paper cup and a torn piece of paper on top of the lid. Slip me your number maybe? ;) Here's mine. Call me xx 539-7618.

I used one of the napkins and wrote a little note to her. I grabbed my coffee and the notebook. I walked over to where she was observing me and slipped the napkin across the counter, I heard her squeal. She winked at me and I started jogging off downstairs to give the notebook to Joshua. When I handed it to him, he just nodded. I decided to buy the fairy book so I took out a few quid for that. He rang it up on his cashier and told me it was good for me to go. So, I got out more anxious than ever to hear from whoever it was I just wrote a note to in her mysterious notebook.

And maybe this time, it was a good kind of anxious.

The Barista's Side

He slipped a napkin across the counter and a little squeal came out of me. He gave me his number! He smiled at me in a sexy way he probably didn't intend. He left me there running downstairs. I planned on texting him right after the bell rang to signal his exit.

Finally it did. And I opened the napkin. My mouth dropped.

It read:



ps please do not forget to tell me what you think, even one little comment really pushes me into putting more effort and dedication to this story. the comment box won't bite so why not give it a shot? :) x

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