From The Dining Table [H.S]

Promises

Harry's POV:

I'm tired.

I'm more than tired - I'm exhausted.

This section of the tour has been a colossal train wreck. I miss my girl more and more every day as I slowly count down the weeks, days, hours, minutes, seconds until I can be back home with her again. Currently, my band and I are situated in New Zealand, performing our final show of the continent before we fly over to Japan for the final three shows of the 2017 leg of the tour.

Despite Mitch's comforting words of wisdom, I'm struggling more and more to smile, to stay happy, to be happy. The once consuming buzz I felt before I went on stage is now nothing more than a sheer tingle in my fingertips, soon to be washed away by the memory of the delicate hand that once laced so perfectly with mine.

Out of respect for her views on the topic, I've avoided calling or texting her unless she does to me. I know how much she values the sentimentality of a letter but, there's only so much a letter can say. More than anything, I want to call her and ask if she's okay, ask how her week was and ask how things with Angel are, yet, I can't.

She can't write me back. Not when I'm moving around so regularly.

The other evening, she messaged me to ask how my show was with Victoria's Secret. Our conversation was nothing more than a brief sharing of information and a goodnight - even though it was midday for me from the time zone difference. It makes me wonder if she actually wants to call me, or whether I'm an obstacle. Asking that seems like a massive overstep, but sometimes I don't care.

Sometimes, I stare at her phone number, playing out a fabricated conversation in my head of what me telling her how I love her would actually go. In my mind, we talk for hours - utterly lost in one another's voices as we forget identification of where we are, who we are and what we are doing. That's the affect she has on me. It's consuming.

When I'm thinking about her, talking to her, writing to her, it's the only thing I can see. All my focus falls onto this one, beautiful soul much too precious for the world we live in, and far too good for someone like me. In those moments of weakness, I forever long to tell her that I love her, and to hear her say it back to me. It's not until somebody forcefully snaps me from my daze of false reality that I come to my senses, and decide not to call her.

That leads me to where I am tonight: sat alone in my hotel room in the middle of the night, Primrose's phone number looking ever more appealing, and nobody to break me free from my thoughts.

The soft flesh of my cheek rested in between my teeth as I chewed on it. Against the floor beneath me, my heels tapped in unison, bringing a constant noise to the silence surrounding me. All the noise was in my head. Questions fizzed the space, bouncing off of one another in desperate attempt to be chosen by me.

Do I call her?

Does she love me?

When should I tell her I love her?