Harry Styles

I can't sleep.

Maybe it's because of the bed that I'm trying to stay in only one position. If I turn to my side, the springs underneath the mattress create a loud squeaky noise, which is definitely heard even in the hallway outside. Now I'm stuck laying on my back, and I've finally found a spot where my back doesn't ache unbearably.

Or maybe I can't sleep because of the guilt I'm feeling. I can't really tell.

Technically, I should be sleeping like a baby because I've been busy every night this week.

Hayley and I broke up today. Again.

It happened right before I had to head to the airport. I told her I was tired of being purely her fuck-buddy, and she got mad. Really mad. She grabbed my luggage and dramatically threw my clothes all over my apartment.

"Please don't call me ever again, Hayley." I sighed, knowing what usually happens a week after these quarrels. She's usually the first to message me, and I, like an idiot, give in. Then a repeat of today happens all over again.

"You're seriously going to regret this. I'm not kidding this time." She scoffed while gathering her stuff. She pushed a strand of straight blonde hair out of her face, getting out of the door as fast as she could. She took the taxi cab I was supposed to go to the airport with, discarding me like a cigarette.

I had to call another taxi while quickly gathering all my stuff. Halfway through collecting my belongings, I realized that something was missing.

She took my pink glasses.

Mad and annoyed, I arrived at the airport already late with a dickish attitude. And, well... the rest was just a fiasco.

Somehow, I ended up laying in the same bed as Amber.

My head turns to the side of the bed she's sleeping on, and I can't help but just stare. Looking at her peaceful features, guilt fills my veins for making her feel disappointed in me today.

I feel guilty for making her miss her flight.

I feel guilty for giving her that attitude.

I feel guilty for being caught in the public restroom.

I feel guilty for getting the wrong tickets for the ferry.

And... I feel guilty for not responding when she had whispered something in the dark.

I'm really glad I decided to walk into Beachwood that day too.

I watch as her eyelashes flutter with each inhale she makes, and the more I gaze at her, I notice some facial attributes I hadn't paid attention to earlier. For example, I didn't know she had freckles on her nose and upper cheeks. They're really faint but they're definitely there.

This is getting weird.

Suddenly, she stirs in her spot, and I shut my eyes in reflex to not get caught staring.

A minute or so passes by in silence, and I'm about to open my eyes again but I hear her breaths getting more shallow and rapid.

I feel her stir again, and this time her lips leave small mumbles, which my ear can't quite catch the wording of. Gradually, the mumbles turn into whispers, sounding something like, "Please don't!"

Is she having a nightmare?

She repeats that phrase over and over again at a fast pace, so I squeeze my eyes shut even tighter to pretend I'm asleep.

It's only a matter of seconds before I hear her jolt up from her spot into a sitting position while letting out the same "Please don't!" in a louder manner. While doing so, her hand grazes mine, and I feel goosebumps crawl up my skin at the way her hand is shaking.

Pretend you're sleeping, Harry.

It isn't until she lets out a really faint but noticeable whimper that makes me shoot my eyes open but she's already gone out the door with the squeak of the mattress.

"Shit," I mutter under my breath, cursing at myself for being such a coward.

With ruffled hair, sleepy eyes, and a worried frown, I exit the cabin in hopes to rush after her. I heard the panic in her gasps — God knows what she could be doing in her state.

Having entered the hallway, I can't seem to spot her. I try rushing one direction, then the other but end up just doing stupid circles.

I have to take a moment to gather my thoughts and think thoroughly to figure out where she could've gone. Logically thinking, she couldn't have gone downstairs because there's nothing but dozens of cabins stretching through the lower decks.

She probably needs some fresh air. The only place that could provide such a thing is... the top deck. Of course.

In a matter of seconds, my feet have already flown over each other, taking double steps onto the steep staircase. My back feels sweaty from the exercise the damn strides are making me do.

With the last steps approaching, I reach for the door to the upper deck with a bit of apprehension. My sweaty palm slowly pushes the handle, and my breath is taken away from my lungs because I don't see her at first in the dark.

I stubbornly take another look over the wooden-floored place, with the help of the starlight finally noticing a gloomy figure standing pressed right to the railing.

I pause for a moment to take in this shocking sight as this is the lowest state I think I've ever seen her in — her shoulders are shaking but I don't think she's crying. Her palms are pressed against her eyes, and her back is turned to me, showing herself in quite a vulnerable way.

The most off-setting thing about this situation is that she's rocking back and forth to gather her thoughts but with each sway, more than half of her figure is bent over the guard rail.

I don't think she realizes how close she is to falling.

Instinctively, my feet carry me to where she's standing. Without thinking, I let my hand touch her shoulder, and it makes her flinch, so I immediately pull back.

She stops the swaying from shock, and removes her hands from her face, turning around to where she felt the unwanted touch. She looks at me through glassy eyes, and it's like she doesn't understand if she's still dreaming or not.

"Amber, what—"

"Please, go. I'll be okay on my own." Her tone is empty of every emotion, though it's quite convincing. If I had just met her, I would've absolutely believed her, and gone back to the room.

Though, something about the way her shaky hands push against my chest to nudge me out of this place tells me she has something else on her mind.

Her voice usually has a golden rasp to it but now it's just blank. Her eyes usually confine courage but now she's afraid to hold eye contact for more than a second.

I gently take her shaky hand in mine and softly pull her down to sit along with me onto the wooden floorboards of the deck. They're uncomfortably stiff and the metal railing is digging in my back but it seems safer this way.

I slip my hand out of her loose grip, and distance myself from her, now sitting a few feet apart from her.

"Can I just sit here next to you? I promise I'll be quiet." My question doesn't invoke anything in her, as she just nods in response.

She then continues to blankly look at one particular brown board and stares at it for minutes. She inspects it so deeply for so long that I get the sense she's really lost touch with reality.

Silence stretches between us, and I want to fill it with a dozen questions, but I'm determined to keep my oath of being quiet.

A minute passes. Then two. We sit there vacantly in absolute quietude, only the motor of the ferry and the soft wind to be heard.

I've always hated the wind, but right now it doesn't bother me that much with her warmth by my side.

My eyes fall to a sudden quiver of her chin, right as a soft sob breaks past her lips, only to be continued by a heart-wrenching wail. "I can't take it anymore." She buries her face in her hands. "It's all too much."

I don't know what to say on this occasion, so I just listen to her soft cries, as I'm confident her tears are saltier than the ocean. I'm sure she'll have bruises on her knees from the way her skin is dragging against the wooden floorboards — it's like she doesn't mind the pain the splinters cause her.

"Hey." I can't help but speak up, breaking my promise to stay quiet. "What you saw wasn't real, okay?"

"I wish it wasn't, Harry." She desperately tries to wipe her tears, hiding her vulnerability.

I want to reach out for her hand to let her know it's okay, but she probably doesn't want to be touched in this state. "What's real is right now. Think about the good things — what do you want to do when we get there?" I try to bring her back to reality, and it seems to be working.

She thinks about my question long and hard. Once she's gathered a good enough of a response, she breathes out, "I just wanna sip on a shit ton of Margaritas. And watch the sunsets. And... go on a boat. A wooden one."

Her response makes me smile. "Good."

"Jesus." She's laughing at herself now, obviously being ashamed of herself. "I'm so sorry."

I feel my eyebrows furrow at the sentence. "Don't you dare apologize or feel embarrassed." I reach for her hand on impulse, her freezing skin contrasting with my hot one. "Would it make you feel better if I told you something I haven't told anyone before?"

I instantly regret the offer but a tranquil smile finds its way onto my lips at the way the golden specks in her hazel eyes ignite and flutter around from my suggestion.

She carefully glues her gaze to me through her damp eyelashes, and it makes me want to spill all my heart out if she'd keep staring at me like that endlessly.

"I hate gifts with a passion," I admit, and she has to give me a comical look because she'd probably figured that out already. "It's... mainly because of my drunk father," I reveal, and she gives me the most empathetic look without saying a single word.

I muster up the courage to share my story with her. I suck in a sharp breath and continue in a quieter voice. "You know, in movies or books... they show that kids are abused by their parents under the influence. But they never mention how it can also be quite the opposite."

Her baffled look tells me she doesn't understand how the story about my past connects with the fact that I hate presents. But in encouragement, she leaves gentle strokes with her thumb on the skin of my hand still intact with hers.

"On Saturday nights, my father would always come home totally wasted from a pub he'd been at with his mates. He'd stumble inside joking and always laughing at something he'd said earlier." I close my eyes for a moment to keep my composure.

"He would come to my and Gemma's room with the biggest smile he could assemble, and talk about his problems. The seven-year-old me thought I had no choice but to listen to his rambles about how he could barely cover rent for the two-bedroom apartment we were living in, or how the taxes were too high. I bet he thought he was being the best dad ever; having bonding time with his kids." A tinge of anger is heard in my words.

Amber just sits there and sweetly listens, giving me her undivided attention.

The more information I give her, the more I want to talk. This is the first time in a decade that I've talked to anyone about it.

"I remember once watching the TV with him still intoxicated, and a commercial came up on the screen. They advertised a whole collection of overpriced 'Winnie the Pooh' stuffed animals, and I watched in awe, telling him that I wanted one like that.

The next Saturday, he'd walked into a toy store on the way home from the pub. I remember his prideful grin when he handed me a soft toy. He slurred something like, 'Look, son! This is the toy from the TV, right? I recall you wanting one for a while.'" I mock his accent with exasperation.

"I quickly pulled the plushie out of his hands. It smelled like whiskey from being in his grasp for so long. I had wanted the bear for so long, that I couldn't be happier.

Except... when I finally got to take a full look at the soft toy... I realized that the bear I'd wished for so long, wasn't actually from the 'Winnie the Pooh' collection. It was a regular mustard-yellow teddy bear with a creepy face. One of its eyes had fallen out, and its ear had a rip in it.

Even though the plushie wasn't what I had initially wanted, I loved the bear for what it was. I remember making the teddy a shirt from red paper, and writing the name 'Pooh Bear' on the back of it so that the teddy would feel valid. I stayed up the whole night learning how to sew on a button as an eye. I even fixed his ear. Before going to sleep, I even watched the cartoon series with Pooh because I thought he missed his friends.

One Friday, my dad came into my room and took the teddy bear away. He returned it to the toy store without a blink of his eye. His excuse was he had to pay the rent somehow, and he had to get the money somewhere. At that time, I believed it and felt guilty for him, but now I'm sure he just couldn't afford his drinks at the bar otherwise. I cried the whole night thinking I wasn't worth even a fucking teddy bear.

Over time, his drunk evenings on Saturdays turned into Fridays too, and he'd bring more and more gifts home. I think the guiltier he'd feel about being in his drunk state, the bigger gifts he'd bring. I mean, he even bought a bike for me once. A week after, we had to return it to the store again.

Every week, he bought something for me. Like a fool, I thought the present would stay every time. And it inevitably was ripped out of my hands and returned back to the shop." My eyes fall down to her soft features, and I notice her eyes becoming a bit glossy from my confession.

Is she seriously about to cry?

No one's ever cried for me.

"My point is... I get too attached to gifts. Every fucking time." I look up to the sky to keep my calm and become aware of a set of stars scattered between the dark. "I've learned that you can't get hurt if you don't accept gifts. I'm not worthy of them."

Throughout the whole story, I saw Amber slowly moving closer to me inch by inch. Now she's right next to me, daring to rest her head on my shoulder.

My story has left silence everywhere. Even the damn wind has calmed down for a moment to listen.

Her head is still placed softly on my shoulder, and she finally speaks up without looking up at me. "You're worth every gift in the world, Harry."

The moment the words slip off her tongue, a place in my chest trembles, and it feels like a giant rock has fallen off my heart at the words of reassurance I'd wished to hear my whole life.

I'm glad Amber's looking somewhere else because she has no idea what effect her words have given me.

It's not just the sentence she said — it's the empathy and the soft tone that made her words feel genuine.

In this moment of calmness, she decides to shoot up from the sitting position, and stand on her tiptoes to get a good overview of the water. She stretches out her hand to me, and I willingly take it, both of us standing side by side with each other.

And for a moment, our eyes meet. We look at each other in absolute silence, but both our gazes express gratitude. I feel her thanking me for sharing my story with her. I thank her for letting me be there with her in a low moment. One corner of her lips tugs up at the sight of us, and I feel myself doing the same thing.

Who would've known the best form of communication could be done in silence?

Her shy smile turns into a grin, and her giggle rings through the air before she twists back to overview the ocean's white foam created by the ferry's feet, her curls flying around as she did so.

"The water's so calm." She sighs, observing the tranquility of the saltwater.

"I don't think it needs any chaos right now." The words rush through my lips, and I suddenly feel some kind of deja vu for a fleeting split second. She snaps her head to mine with her eyebrows scrunched up, and I get the sense that she felt it as well.

I swallow the feeling down, and look at the ocean again, spotting some tinges of yellow at the horizon. I sigh, understanding that once the sun appears, we'll have arrived at our destination.

To top it all off, the alarm in my back pocket rings, so I pull my phone out from my jeans, seeing the numerals '5:35' appear on the screen.

I take a last glance at her in the pretty starlight before turning back to the door leading to the staircase. "Let's go. The sun will come soon. Everything will be okay."

***

THE URGE I HAD TO MAKE THESE TWO KISS WAS ALMOST UNBEARABLE AHHHH
(I want the moment to be perfect, yall)

ALSO, my heart broke for Harry when writing the story about Pooh.