I stare distractedly at the dent that Harry made in the wall when he threw the spaghetti pot. He left a good twenty minutes ago, but I'm stuck here looking at everything that reminds me of him. I bite my lip so hard a drop of blood escapes.
I never pegged Harry to be one of those people that yell at you for something that you've done when they've been doing the same thing, except ten times worse. The Harry I know from four years ago never would have done that. I know that for a fact. People change, I guess.
Finally, I force myself to go upstairs to my bedroom. Bad idea. When I walk in the door, I immediately see all of Harry's home renovation and décor stuff scattered haphazardly on the floor. I pick up an empty picture frame and run my finger over the smooth wood. Was he going to put a picture of us in it?
I spot an overturned photo on the floor a couple feet away and I bend down and pick it up. When I see what picture it is I swallow hard and close my eyes.
It's the picture of Harry and me in front of the Eiffel Tower. It was the same day that Harry called me his boyfriend for the very first time.
Slowly, methodically, I tear the picture in two. I take the halves and rip them in half. I do this until there are at least fifty pieces laying on my floor, destroyed beyond repair. Just like my heart.
Seeing the torn up photo triggers something in me and I start to cry. At first, the tears come haltingly, just one or two sliding down my cheeks in mismatched zigzagged patterns. But after a while the tears come full blast, racing down my face and dripping onto my shirt.
It feels like I might never stop crying; like I might keep going until the day I die, but eventually my breathing evens out and the tears subside.
I notice a folded up piece of paper sitting atop the dresser and I frown. What's that? I reluctantly stand up from my fetal position on the floor and walk over to the dresser.
Harry's scrawl fills the paper, and my eyes fill with tears. I will not cry again. I will not cry again.
I don't know when you'll find this, or even if you'll read it. It's me, Harry. I wrote a song for you, Louis. I don't know how to say this but you're my inspiration. When I'm feeling sad or down I think of your smiling face and your blue eyes and automatically feel better. I hope this song cheers you up if you're feeling sad, just like you do for me. If you want to listen to the song, just turn on your laptop and play the CD that's already inserted. I love you forever and always. -Your Hazza
I decide to listen to the song. Why not? I turn on my laptop, impatiently hitting the keyboard when it takes too long to boot up. When my desktop is finally open on the screen I play the CD.
Harry's husky voice immediately fills the once silent room, almost like he's there too, serenading me.
Now you were standing there, right in front of me.
I hold on it's getting harder to breathe.
All of a sudden these lights are blinding me.
I never noticed how bright they would be.
The song's words hit me hard and I gulp. Harry must have worked so hard on this. It even sounds professionally produced. I close my eyes as he continues to sing and when he stops I'm disappointed. Then I catch myself.
Does he seriously think a song can fix what he did? He cheated on me for weeks, yet he yelled at me when I kissed that guy Chad one time when I was drunk. I don't think Harry has a valid excuse for what he's done to me and to my heart.
A tiny, minuscule section of me feels a little guilty for kicking Harry out because he doesn't have a real home nor a proper job.
He can go stay with his second significant other, I think bitterly.
I walk over to my closet, one goal in mind. I'll go out tonight, maybe flirt with a guy or three and perhaps even get a boyfriend. A temporary replacement. A rebound. I stare blankly at my clothes and wonder if the guy Harry cheated on me with knows a lot about Harry.
The way he shifts closer to me when the Abominable Snowman comes onscreen while we're watching Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.
The way he hogs the covers at night without even realizing that he's doing it.
The way he hates meatloaf with such a passion that whenever he sees it on a menu in a restaurant or hears someone mention it he wrinkles his nose and says, "Gross."
The way he smiles sleepily at me when he first wakes up, his hair messy and staticky.
The way he matches my pace when we're walking just the two of us.
Does he know how Harry sometimes gets really sad for no reason and the only way to fix it is to buy some Ben and Jerry's and watch cheesy romantic movies until he feels better? Probably not.
I doubt he knows that Harry only uses one kind of shampoo and fusses whenever he has to use another brand.
And I would bet money that the guy doesn't know that Harry cried when Dumbledore died in Harry Potter.
I know all the small things about Harry, the things that people don't always notice right away, if it all.
My whole attitude towards this situation surprises me. Ten minutes ago, I was curled up on the floor crying my eyes out over the loss of Harry. Now I'm imagining myself hitting on other guys and seeing Harry lie down in a bed that isn't mine.
Focus, Louis. I turn back to my closet. I need to get over Harry. It's over, we're over. For good.
I choose my nicest pair of jeans, the only pair that isn't faded and/or ripped at the knees. I also select a plain green hoodie, opting for a simple look instead of an extravagant one that screams,
"Look at me! I'm trying too hard!"
I go into the bathroom to mess with my hair and see one of Harry's shirts laying on the floor. I kick it away quickly. Out of sight out of mind, right?
When I walk out of my house the sun is shedding its last rays of light on the brick path that leads to the driveway. I jingle my car keys in my hand, kind of excited to be getting out of the house.
"Hey, Tomlinson!" an angry voice calls.
I whip around. "Ronnie? What are you doing here?"
He points at his nose, which is now black and blue and a little crooked. "I want revenge."