It’s not that he doesn’t feel it. Because by God, he does. 

And that’s the kicker, isn’t it? That’s the problem with him, what’s always been his problem: he falls too fast.

His mother calls him soft hearted. His sister calls him an idiot. His friends often call him a sap, a pansy, a hopeless romantic. He doesn’t know what to call himself. Most often it’s alone.

And he had learned to live with his romantic affliction, for the most part, when he felt himself slipping off that cliff into the land of no return, he made sure to catch himself and get out before he got himself hurt for the umpteenth time. He’s never cruel, but he keeps his relationships shallow, has as much ‘fun’ as a strapping young lad such as he should have. He’s young, rich, and well-liked, he doesn’t have time for a million broken hearts.

Until you came along and knocked him head over feet, sent him spinning off course and unable to right himself ever since. He’s not sure that he wants to. 

Harry sensed the danger in you, he felt the immediate pull in his heart that wanted to be closecloseclose to you all the time and hold your hand and kiss your face and wake up with you and make sure that you’re alright and aren’t with any other boys and that was really, really scary. People around him were noticing your presence in his life, small phrases of yours that he was picking up, the way he slipped quietly into his bunk to share a video call with you and show you some tiny trinket he picked up at a rest stop in the middle of nowhere that made him think of you for some odd reason. His mother said he looked a little ‘dreamy eyed’ the last time she’d seen him, and although she looked as happy as a clam at the thought of her baby in love, Harry felt his insides twist into knots.

The big L word was trying valiantly to make itself present on his tongue alright, driving him insane at the end of every conversation when there was the huge empty space between “I’ll talk to you later, be safe” and “goodbye”, and when you would look at him with those big giant eyes that made him turn to mush and want to sprout wings and fly to you so he could bundle you up into his arms, and when you did something for him for no other reason than to make him happy, like stop waking up early to make him breakfast because you know he likes it more when the two of you wake up together and giggle around the kitchen getting smeared with pancake batter. 

But if he says it, it makes the danger real. If he says it, you can take those words from him and shape them into a dagger to ruin him with. So he keeps them hidden so deep that he can’t even see them. And it kills him when he sees the flicker of doubt go across your face when an opportunity for the first “I love you” passes the two of you by once more, when you duck your head to try to hide your insecurity, it kills him that he can’t bring himself to tell you how hard you make his heart pound, how difficult it is to keep his mind off of you. 

And when one night he catches you wiping tears from your face, he curses his cowardice and vows to himself that one day he’ll be strong enough to tell you. One day he won’t tuck his tail like a frightened child at the sight of your hopeful eyes.  

He pulls you into his arms and thinks one day his heart will be open for you. One day. 

***

Harry remembers being very young, probably five or six, so excited to finally be allowed to play in the pool with his sister and cousins at the big barbecue. He still had his floaties on and his mother was watching him vigilantly but he didn’t care; he could splash and kick and doggy paddle his way around to his heart’s content, pretend he was a pirate or a merman or even a whale, spitting chlorine flavored water at his sister until she screamed at him. He remembers how quickly it had happened, how fast, one moment he saw his mother go inside to help with the food, he saw his opportunity to slip his floaties off and be truly free, and the next he was head down underwater and all he saw was everyone’s feet. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think.

Young Harry thrashed, opened his mouth to yell and panicked as water rushed in, but even then everyone was too busy to notice, no one was there to help. It was only when he had begun seeing his vision narrow, when he saw the sun filtering through the surface of the water above him and he wondered if he would see God when he died, that he felt, dimly, what seemed like a hundred hands pulling him up and out of the pool. His mother had clutched him to her chest and cried and cried as he coughed up water, and she didn’t let him leave her sight the rest of the day. He sat on her lap, towel draped over his shoulders as he nibbled on a hot dog and sipped some soda.

Harry felt such a strong deja vu the day that you left. How quickly it all happened. He knew you were unhappy, he knew you doubted him, uncertain about how he felt but he swore to himself it would just take one more day, one more week, maybe one more publicity tour, and then he would tell you. He would make sure you understood, he just needed some time. But, it happened so fast, so fast, you sat down opposite him at his table, your face carved from stone and your fingers shaking. He barely heard the words you said, your explanation, your reasons, he only saw your eyes refusing to meet his, your chin wobble a little. And Harry did panic when you slid your purse on your shoulder and stood up, he opened his mouth and lodged in his throat were the words he knew would stop you from leaving him to drown, but instead, his lungs deflated and he let his hands fall to his side, helplessly.

“I’m sorry,” is all he said, his voice frail, and again, he wondered about God. When the door shut behind you with such finality that his head spun, he wondered why God didn’t just take him back when he was six.

***

There is no one to pull him from his hole this time, and so he’s left alone to call himself an idiot in so many different ways that’s he’s lost count. One Direction finishes a tour and goes on a break, but Harry doesn’t want a break. He doesn’t want to be alone in his house where there’s a thousand reminders of you, the toothbrush he always kept for you, the stain in his couch from when you spilled your soda laughing too hard at something he said, so many memories imprinted in everything you touched. And he doesn’t want to go out and get drunk, listen to the lads tell him it’s time to get over you, find another girl to bring home. It doesn’t matter what he does or where he goes, nothing would ever be right unless he was with you. But he’d already completely fucked that up, hadn’t he? He had realized far too late.

It’s a deceptively sunny day when he sees you again for the first time, it’s bright but chilly, and that’s how Harry feels when he sees you breezing through the market with a basket hanging off one arm and staring hard a hand written list. He blinks hard, sucks in his breath, takes three or four hard looks before he decides to stop questioning himself and rushes to catch up to you.

“Hey,” he says, tapping you on the shoulder. When you turn and look up at him, your mouth falls open and all you do is stare at him, your face reflecting utter shock, and maybe under that, something deeper and sadder that makes Harry’s heart hurt.

“Oh. Oh, h-hi. Hi, Harry.” Harry stuffs his hands in his pockets to keep himself from touching you, nodding as he responds to your greeting, then looks down because he has no idea what to say that isn’t the long, long list of variations of ‘please come back, I know I’m a twat but I promise I’ll make it right and I need you’ that he’s come up with in his head. You clear your throat and shuffle on your feet. “Well, uh, how are you?”

“Good.” Harry responds after a beat. What else could he say? Miserable? Desolate? Unable to look himself in the eye? You always told him he beat himself up too much, what would you say to him now?

“Good. I’m the same.” You bite your lip, and the silence stretches between you like miles. Harry swallows hard, pulls one hand from his pocket to push his fingers through his hair.

“Hey, can I buy you a coffee? If you’re free, I mean.” Your eyes flicker with doubt, and he can practically hear the cogs working in your head, debating if it’s a terrible idea or not, and he almost smiles to himself because he remembers how many kisses he used to press to your temple to help you decide between this or that.

“Yeah. I’m free.”

And it isn’t until he’s seated across from you with the hot drink cupped between his palms that he takes the time to really take you in again after all this time only seeing you in his memory. His eyes pour greedily over that piece of hair right in the front that you can never figure out whether you want to go right or left, the delicate bridge of your nose, your skin tone that’s a little bit tanner, your collarbones peeking from under your shirt. He can’t believe he had forgotten about that birthmark, that freckle, the curve of your eyelashes.

“Harry?” You’re looking at him with wide eyes, hesitant and almost frightened. “Do I have something on my face?”

“I miss you so fucking much.” You look like he had just took a swing at you, and stare down at your tea, moving your hands to your lap.

“Don’t say stuff like that here, Harry.”

“When should I say it, then?” His throat locks up and he can barely push the words out. “When do you reckon I’ll be seeing you again? It doesn’t matter where I say it, it’s gonna be the same.” He flops back in his chair and watches you blink rapidly, feels his chest constrict when he realizes you’re fighting back tears, that he’s still hurting you.

“I…I don’t know what you want me to say. It had to be- the way that it was. You know that. We weren’t- it wasn’t-…” You pause and Harry’s eyes burn holes into you, hanging onto what you’re telling him. “We weren’t going anywhere. I told you that months ago.”

“You didn’t really give us a chance, Y/N.”

“Is this what you wanted to talk about? I don’t want to do this, Harry. I can’t.” You stand so abruptly that you shake the table. “I’m sorry.” And Harry’s elbows hit the table as he rakes his fingers through his hair, curling in on himself because he can’t watch you walk away from him again. His stomach writhes inside him, self loathing coating his veins,why is he letting you go again? That water is surrounding him again, plugging his ears and airways, he can’t breathe, can’t think. When was the last time he felt like his head was above the surface? Probably the last time you kissed him, the last time he was able to press your head against his chest.

The wind has picked up when he rushes outside, it’s the only way he spots you, your bright yellow scarf is trailing behind you as you walk briskly down the street. You’re already a couple of blocks down and Harry is for once thankful for his gangly legs, they allow him to catch up with you quickly.

“Harry, please, let me go, I told you, I can’t-”

“I love you.” In his head, he didn’t think he’d confess his love for you in a somewhat crowded street on a Wednesday morning, but in the end it didn’t really matter, because he watches your expression melt into something so beautiful that he wishes he could bottle it and keep it forever.

“Don’t just say it. Don’t say it if you don’t mean it.” Harry cups your cheeks, makes sure your eyes are on him and only him.

“I mean it. God, I’ve always meant it. I’m sorry it took me so long. I was scared.” His thumb catches a tear at the corner of your eye before it can fall. “I tried…I tried to show you, with kisses and those little gifts, but I know it wasn’t enough. I love you, Y/N, and if you give me a chance I’ll tell you every day. I swear on my life.”

When you fall into his arms, Harry finally understands how his mother must have felt back then, holding his gasping, quivering, blue-tinged self so tightly to herself. He knows why she cringed to let go of him, even when he whined and complained that he had to use the loo. Harry holds your hand just as tightly as his mother had that day, he lays with his arms wound around you that night so that in the morning you have to wake him up and pry him off of you just to get out of bed, but you don’t seem to mind that much because he presses kisses to your skin with a whispered ‘I love you’ behind each one.

And for the first time in so long, there’s no more water in his lungs, no more spots dancing in the way of his vision. Everything is clear, and everything is you.