Flat 51

~Emily

Please come back for me.

Please come after me.

Please, Harry.

But he didn’t come.

I spent the first day sitting on the floor against my front door, waiting for the tall, curly haired life-fucker to knock on my door and say he loved me. Or at least that he wanted me back. But he didn’t. He didn’t. In the most cliché way possible, he broke my heart.

I didn’t eat. I didn’t sleep that night. I didn’t want to. I just wanted him back. I wanted him to want me enough to come after me. I was intoxicated by the very thought of him, much less by the bourbon I was ingesting. I stared at my phone. Should I call him? Hearing his silky, cat-like voice would do wonders for my aching lips, the lips that only wanted his. Maybe just a text. I grabbed my phone and opened the messages, but then my fingers froze. I couldn’t. I couldn’t just leave and then text him. That would be awful. Just as I was about to put it away, it rang. But it wasn’t him. It wasn’t that stupid, sexy, idiotic, gorgeous man in my head.

“Daphne?” I answered, putting the phone to my ear. I briefly flashed back to the awful dream I’d had that happened to include her decking Harry, but ignored it.

“Hey hot stuff, wanna have a movie night? It’s been years!”

“It’s been three weeks.” I didn’t want to be silly. I was tired of pretending to be happy. I mean, I was happy, but not right now. Not since he fucked up my life and I went and fell in love with a complete jackass.

“Woah, what’s wrong? I’m coming over with ice cream and Love Actually. Be prepared.”

I ended the conversation and hung up the phone as the tears gathered in my eyes. It hurt so bad. Why did it have to hurt so bad? Then a line from one of my favorite movies came into my mind…

Because it was real.

~Harry

The next day the word ‘hungover’ was an understatement. I was angry. I was depressed. I was in pain. And I was in Paris all by myself. Without that girl. The one I was trying to drink from my memory. I was sat on a large, cream-colored couch, staring out the window with the radio on foolishly loud. I didn’t care what was playing. I just wanted some kind of white noise to distract me from her face. Her voice. Her laugh. Her eyes.

But as the next song began to play, I felt my alienated body rise and suddenly I was standing directly in front of the speaker, the beer in my hand unmoving.

Pull the shades. Lock the door.
Drag your feet across the floor.
Memories hang in the hall.
Pull them down off the wall.
Cuz it’s done, she is gone.
Long gone.

She was long gone. She was in London. I was in France. But she was still branded into my mind.

There’s not enough whiskey in the world tonight.
Not enough whiskey for you to see the light.
Not enough whiskey to make it all alright.
It’s time for you to say goodnight.

Not enough whiskey. Not enough to make her get out of my head. Why wouldn’t she just leave me alone? Why wouldn’t she just let me die? As the song continued, I felt tears brimming in my blood-shot eyes. I don’t understand how a stupid girl could have such an effect on me. I’d never felt this way. Ever. I never did relationships. It was go home, satisfy each other, leave, never speak again. Always. But Emily hadn’t let me touch her the first night I was with her. Nobody had ever said no to me, and then I was intrigued. I wanted her even more. I wanted to take her so bad, sometimes I had to leave the room and take care of myself before speaking to her again.

But then she left. And suddenly I realized something, as the chorus to the song began again. I didn’t miss her body. How could I? We had never gone far enough. I missed… I missed her smile. I missed her laugh, and her hair, and her voice, and her nose, and her lips, and her frown, and her grumpy face. I missed… her. And I had to tell her. But I couldn’t.

I couldn’t. She didn’t want to speak to me. She hated me.

“Harry?” I heard from the door. I wasn’t drunk. I had been trying to get there, but that song… “Harry?” it came again.

“Lou,” I said, suddenly unable to withhold those damn tears. “How? Tell me why I feel like this!” I cried, the bottle sliding from my grip. I held my hands out expressively, trying desperately to show him what I felt. “Tell me why it hurts!”

“Because you didn’t realize what you had until now.” He came over and sat down on the couch, resting his elbow on his knees.

“It’s too late, Louis. It’s too late. There’s nothing left in her for me.”

“I don’t believe that for one fucking second. While you were drunk off your ass after you heard about Zayn, I told her about you, and she told me about her. Harry, she has barely had a single person show affection to her since she left home. She came to a foreign land. She left everything she knew. And then you came. A little late, sure, but you came. She said she’d never felt happier than when the two of you were fighting about food, or music volume, or the fucking telly channel. And you know why?” I shook my head, refusing to meet his eyes. Why the hell did he have to know me so well? “Harry, look at me, you shithead.” I almost smiled, remembering the first thing he ever said to me. I’d just moved in when I’d accidentally gotten in the way of his front yard game of football and made him miss a shot. And that obscure memory gave me the courage to hold his knowing eyes.

“She loved every minute of it because she felt like she was here for a reason. She felt like if you didn’t have someone to fight with or to come home to than you’d be sad, and she was the same. She fucking loves you. But she was too blind to realize how deep it was, and you fucked shit all up when you went and pushed her away because of Zayn. Would he want you to lose the only chance at true happiness you may ever have? Would he?”

I slowly sank to my knees. She loves me? No she doesn’t. I was using her. I only wanted her body. She left me. Because I was such an ass. “Would he?” Louis whispered, placing his hand on my shoulder. I ran my fingers through my hair and pulled, wishing I could punch my frustration out on something.

“No.”

“Then go make it right.”

“I… I can’t, Louis. I can’t. It’s too much, I-I… I’m not ready to love someone. I can’t. Not… no. I don’t know how to love someone. I don’t know… how to love a girl. I know how to fuck and get wasted, that’s who I am. I can’t love a girl like Emily. I’ll just hurt her. I’m no good for her. It’s better this way.”

Notes

I'll have you know I rewrote this section about fourteen times with different outcomes and it took everything in me to keep them apart. I wanted to end it with "Then go make it right" but I couldn't. they need to be apart longer. They need to hurt in order to realize how badly they really need each other. Also, listen to Not Enough Whiskey by Kiefer Sutherland. It's amazeballs XD

I LOVED THE NEW UPDATE FOR WMYB

And I'm going to try and work on the next chapter in City Boy. We've been so busy, ugh.

Quick thing... The reason my characters all have big brothers, and two are Marines, is because my big brother and best friend is joining the USMC this year. It's so hard for me. I don't think he can ever understand how hard it is for me to let him leave. I cry every time I think about it. I'm crying just writing this. But yeah. That's why. Thanks for reading all my emotions crap XD

Em XO