The rain is relentless, I don't think it's let up these past few. The endless showers have yet to wash me clean, the filth of his salt-coated words singeing my open wounds leaving me to stare out into the night, my body glued to the wooden stairs of my home's porch until I'd found my senses as best I could.

Heavy hearted falsifications to Teddy, 'Bob dropped me back here after you called,' and, 'I figured I should be here with you.' The flatness of her features screaming to me that she didn't believe an ounce of my bullshit. She simply shook her head and walked me inside. I spent the night standing in the shower, scrubbing at my skin until it pained me, stepping out only to catch my bare reflection in the mirror. The reflection that told me all I needed to.

'Too fragile, too broken, too burdening, too stubborn, too selfish.'

My hands trace the dip from my hips to my waist, 'Too used.'

A combining of my straw-like hair with my fingers, 'Too damaged.'

A brush against my windpipe, 'Too easily discarded.'

'Asked for it.'

One tear slips.

'Don't fight.'

Another.

'Pretty hair.'

I swipe them away.

'Pretty pussy.'

The quiver in my lip is taken away as it's pulled between my teeth.

'Little whore.'

The lump in my throat grows.

Every redirection I take, every distracting thought I attempt to place in my franticing mind, fruitless. Sunshine to storms. Day to night. Light to dark.

A prisoner to my mind, my three cellmates--my mother, my father, and him--taunt me until I'm forced into a ball of uncontrollable sobs on the cold hard floor, forced to stare at my nakedness, forced to stare at the unhealed trauma that's left scars, forced to see each time I failed, failed to see the neon signs pointing to my derailment.

My mother--sentenced to live in my mind as a constant reminder of the line I so often toe, the line of inhumanity. My father--convicted and sent to startle the monsters in my mind, surround me in my biggest fears. Him--life sentence, a permanent member of my psyche, the eyes that haunt me in the night, the ghost of his mercilessness slapping me around, telling me each flaw that I'd tried so hard to ignore, dragging me back to the floor when I find the strength to stand.

Teddy knocked on the door, telling me she couldn't sleep with the bathroom light on. I coughed back the frog resting in my throat, telling her I was almost done. I shuffled to my room and threw myself onto my bed. I glanced at my tote, the notebook poking out of it, taunting me.

The chains of his ghost. The scalding of his shackles. The weight of the padlocks he left for me to try to unlock. Will I ever find the key? Will I ever escape the arms that keep me standing in front of the mirrors?

Silent sobs sent me into a slumber. Dreams of warm beaches with Sunshine that browns your skin interrupted by the flicking of the switch, darkness enveloping me and a hand held to my mouth to muffle my screams. Rushing to the bathroom in a cold sweat, the emptiness of my stomach only enhanced by the acidic bile tossed into the toilet bowl. Water splashed to my face, a glance up to my sickly figure.

"It's okay, I have them too."

It's okay, he has them too. Even the Sun has seen dark cloud cover, even the Sun sets sometimes. Storms have to settle eventually, right?

It's okay, each flash of his ghost fades his memory a little more, each nightmare shrinks his presence, each day loosens his grip on me. His unwelcome place in my REM induced delusions will be replaced with Him soon, right?

Heavy eyelids and nausea begging to be slept off sent me back to my bed. The delicate reminiscence of His arms wrapped around me, of His heartbeat lulling me to sleep, of His lips rendering out lyric after lyric, a lullaby to my tormented mind.

I awoke yesterday morning to Teddy's body crushing my chest in, I gasped awake as she jumped on the mattress that sits atop a squeaking bed frame. "Wake up sleepyheaded spinster, you still haven't wallowed," she chants between hops, "I have the perfect recipe to heal a broken heart."

Wallow, right. I needed to wallow, accept the loss, accept the conflictions of Him. It's much easier to climb up from a divet in the grass than it is to climb back up from an oceanside cliff. A cliff I'd unknowingly jumped from, a fall that'd been softened by Him, he dropped me though.

"I'll catch you." He shouted as he waited for my descent, arms outstretched to catch what was left of my body.

"I'd always catch you. Pinky." He said as I laid in his arms, adrenaline coursing through my veins from the euphoria of letting go.

He never did say he'd hold me though, that he wouldn't let me go once he'd caught me. He didn't break his promise, he caught me, he just made sure I made it to the bottom of the cliff, he placed me onto the ground as I clung to him like a child. I didn't want him to let me go.

A day of wallowing slowly turned into a day of co-parenting. Music spewed from our dingy old record player as I played peek-a-boo with Eddie. Teddy sees it as this adorably endearing game, her son a perfect player. A mostly toothless smile my reward each time I suddenly reappeared and a love-struck look from Teddy. I tapped out after only a few rounds, how many times can one pretend to disappear?

You do it everyday, Phoebe.

Each paper cover peeled away from a vinyl only casted more clouds over my already dimmed Sunshine. One can navigate the night with a flashlight, use a match-lit torch, but a journey is much more effectively traveled in the light of day. A day was much brighter when the Sun was around, or so I'd thought.

Partly covered skies, the Sun constantly hiding behind cloud cover only to appear moments later. A temperamental climate of storms and Sunshine, temperamental minds, Phoebe and Harry.

Harry.

Sunshine.

I was walking on Sunshine.

Now I just can't wait 'til you write me.

He hasn't written me.

A book absent yet again, not to be returned. I've checked the shelf at least six times, eyes opening wide like sunflowers bursting open to meet the Sun's rays each time I'd thought I'd spotted it.

Could a single rain storm cast the Sun away forever? Could a single day of cloud cover push the world into darkness, eternal night?

I've lived my life in the darkness this long, a flashlight in hand has seemed to be all I can handle anyways. A beacon of light shines until the batteries die. A flashlight can only handle so much darkness, a person can only handle so much burden.

"Bye, sweetheart."

"Goodbye Dee, have a nice night." I shout out to her as the door shuts behind me.

I shuffle reluctantly across the street, splashes of rain patter against my skin, puddles growing at my feet. 'Could you just return this record for me, Pheebs?' being the motivation behind the mission. Theodora, you're lucky I love you. You're lucky I had a record to return as well.

The light cascading out of the storefront, the repaired signage tilting ever-so-slightly yet again, the aurora of music mesmerizing me, Dorthea's Record Store. A place I so fondly desired to avoid for the time being. A single spark of light sends me shuttering, what if he's in there? What if he's not? He is, he always is.

My hand reaches for the knob, tugging at it and stepping inside. A familiar tune humming through the surround system, one that only has me hoping for the clouds to allow the Sun to shine again.

[There should be a GIF or video here. Update the app now to see it.]

Frankie Valli. Can't Take My Eyes Off of You.

Each time I hear this song, I'm brought back to the parading around of Patrick Verona. His gesture of apology, his admittance of unintended humiliation, the internal recognition of mistake and commitment to reconcile it through self-inflicted obloquy. A moment in cinematic history that continuously has set the standards for men higher, at a level that they rightfully should be.

Katerina Strandford was a heinous bitch, I want to be just like her. Truthfully, she may have been seen as tempestuous to her peers but she had something that no one else did, perspective. She saw that people spend so much of their youth subscribing to roles that they don't fully desire or understand, so much of our adolescence is spent conforming to what others want. Conformity was a crime to her, a crime that she committed subconsciously as most of us do. If conformity honestly was a crime, I'd been in jail for life.

The whole movie is very introspective actually, but it's disguised behind pretty faces and quick-witted comebacks. Sure, Patrick was the typical sarcastic, curly-headed brunette bad boy and his accent was.. Holy shit I've fallen for Patrick Verona.

According to my newly found information, Harry should be belting out the lyrics to this song and sliding down a pole any moment now. Maybe Dorthea and George will even chase him around like in the movie.

"Good afternoon, Phoebe." George's worn voice pulls me from my thoughts.

A short snort flies out of my nose at the thought of George chasing Harry around the store as he sings Frankie Valli. My hand flies up over my face as I attempt to hide the unattractive noise as if I were clearing my throat, "Hi George, how's business been today?"

"Rather slow," he shrugs, "I'd say it's due to our lack of stock." He points to the back of the store to who I can only assume is Harry.

I shake my head lightly, "He's stealing all the goodies, huh? He's a real Robin Hood that guy, but he seems to be on the receiving end of that charity."

"I'd certainly say so. He's in the back if-"

I interrupt him before he can finish, "Oh no, that's okay. I just came in to return some vinyls for Teddy."

"Oh, alright. I can take care of that for you." He says with the concerned expression on his face quickly being concealed by a smile.

I slide the vinyls out of my tote, placing it on the counter. "So, if I were to go back to my aisle, there'd be?"

"Probably nothing left." He says through a chuckle. He flips the vinyls to the front and nods at the paper coating, "You seem to have snagged some beauties though."

"Certainly." I blow out through a tight-lipped smile.

He looks between me and the record a few times before raising his hand to cup around his mouth, "Harry Edward, come get these."

My eyes go wide and I stiffen into stone. George, you traitor. I'd really thought that we'd bonded on that car ride, and this is why I don't make friends. My fingers are quick to assault my cuticles, the skin burning from the constant picking.

"Yeah, yeah I'm coming." I hear the accented voice shout back.

Shit, shit, shit. Suddenly, I'm feeling very athletic, I may just go run a marathon right now. Maybe if I started running now I'd make it to the border by dusk. No, don't be a chicken, Phoebe, you knew you were gonna have to face him eventually.

Too fragile.

Too new.

Too important.

That run is sounding pretty good right now.

Too important.

I turn to see him huffing under his breath as he makes his way to the front, a scowl sketching that familiar deep crease between his brows and a pouty lip. He looks quite childish, an air of innocence about him, I can't quite place it though.

"Why couldn't it just wai-" He starts groaning out but stops when his glimpse catches mine.

We're mirror images of one another, both stiff bodied and wide eyed, both internally panicking, both ready to make a break for Canada. Mmm, poutine.

"Just put the damned records away, Harry." George meets Harry's annoyed tone.

He nods but doesn't move, his feet glued to the floor as he stares at me, "Mhmm, right."

"Harry."

He snaps his sight over to George, his eyes squeeze shut as he appears to be attempting to blink away my presence. He saunters over to the desk and picks up the vinyls, Teddy's return testing atop mine, his fingers wrapping around the edges as he cradles it like a baby.

I dart my eyes to the floor, looking at the different marks of the store's history scattered across the linoleum flooring. Each scratch, each shoe scuff, a memory of music. Music is the universal unifier, the constant persuader to come together and celebrate or call for change. John Lennon's 'Imagine', 'A Change is Gonna Come' by Sam Cooke, Michael Jackson's 'Man in the Mirror.'

It's absurd that no matter how much things seem to progress, they always manage to stay the same. You'd think that equality would be simply instinctual, but instead we're still unable to achieve decency.

Reflections, a writer's life.

I hear Harry's footsteps fade, my eyes cautiously returning back to George. Dorthea appearing from behind me, "Glad to see you here, dear."

I jump at her sudden appearance, turning to her with a hand over my chest, "Hi Dorthea."

"I'm afraid if you're looking for anything, it's been stashed away already." She teases and points to the back of the store.

I can't seem to help the smile that turns the corners of my mouth up, "So I've been told."

"I'd really ask H about that," She smiles, "I'm sure he'd be more than happy to get whatever you're looking for."

I nod. My tone broadcasts my discomfort, "I'll be sure to ask him."

Dorthea puts her arm around my shoulder, "He's really seeming to find his place around here." She leans towards my ear and whispers, "He's awful giddy about you, ya know."

"Finally." George adds, "He was such a grouch."

I pull away from Dorthea, "I'm glad he's feeling more at home." I start to step towards my aisle of comfort, "I'm just going to take a peek."

"Good luck." George says with sarcasm.

I rush back to the aisle, a wave of relief washing over me as I escape from their view. I mumble to myself, "Not so giddy anymore." My fingertips find their way to my hair, tugging at the ends as I pace back and forth.

Did he tell them? Am I really that clueless? Was I the only one keeping it a secret? Was it ever supposed to be a secret to begin with? Why did I think I had to be kept a secret? Secrets don't make friends after all, or whatever Harry is, a not-friend. "Stupid, stupid girl. You idiot. This is why you can't have nice things."

"Talking to yourself? That bad, huh?"

My gape shoots up to find two jaded irises looking back at me under a furrowed brow. My hands fall from my hair as I freeze into stone. It's really unfortunate I'm not wearing running shoes, I'd probably be able to mad dash my way out of this. "Straight jacket worthy."

"Truly?" He asks as he takes a step closer.

"Truly." I affirm as I take a step back.

His eyes follow from my feet up to my face, pausing at my lips before finding my eyes, "Is this really how it's going to be?" He asks as he closes the distance between us.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I deny as my feet fail to take me backwards.

His hand reaches up to grab my waist, it hovers there for a moment before falling back at his side, "I know I shouldn't have snapped."

"I shouldn't have snapped either." I mutter out, looking to the side to avoid his sight.

His index finger finding the underside of my chin and pulling me to look at him, "So we agree? No more snapping?"

"No more snapping." I agree.

His eyes dart between my lips and my eyes before settling on my lips, his hand sliding up to cup my jaw. I feel the breath hitch in my throat and the goosebumps erupt over my skin. A kiss of Sunshine seemingly the only thing on my mind, but a palm leaf flying up in front of my face stops me from reaching the warmth of its kiss.

"It's not that simple, ya know. You can't just say that and kiss it all better." I say as my hands push on his chest to stop his advance.

His arms snake around my waist as he huffs out an irritated exhale, "Yeah, but why can't it be?"

"There's more to it than that." My forearms pushing on his chest to keep space between us.

He shakes his head, "Can we just kiss and make up already? I'm dying over here."

"Plotting more like it," I joke as I point to the nearly empty shelves around us, "What were you gonna do? Hide all my records until I gave in."

His eyebrows raise, "That's a great idea, Sunshine. I'll have to remember that one."

"Mmm, Sunshine," I hum as I lean forward to press a peck to his lips. When I pull away my attention is brought to the repeating song, it's been playing since I came in. "Say, how long has this song been playing?"

He shakes his head, "No, kisses instead."

"Sunshine, how long has this song been playing?" He leans forward to press his lips to mine but I place my palm on his lips, "No way. I need an answer."

His head falls onto my shoulder, turning into a sulking puddle of curls, "All day."

"All day?" I nearly shout.

"All day. I was going to have a whole dramatic display to win you over and everything. Well, until you actually came in, then I lost my cool." He admits as his eyes lift from their hiding place on my shoulder to meet mine.

Another short snort flies from my nose, "No fuckin' way, Verona, are you shitting me?"

"Woah, I'm honest and suddenly you lose all your manners." He teases as he pokes my nose.

"Honesty is a virtue." I retort. My hands find their way to his shoulders as a smirk slinks across my lips, "Can I still get my dramatic display?"

"Fuck off."

My Sunshine, He's back. "Can't I at least have a semi-dramatic version?"

He slowly sways us back and forth to the beat of the instrumental apology, "Absolutely not."

My fingers fiddle with the curls at the nape of his neck, my eyes flash between his beautifully jaded irises and his perfectly pink lips, my hips rock as I follow his lead. "Pretty please," I pout, "With a cherry on top?"

He shakes his head in declination, "Nope."

I brush my lips over his, "And why not?"

A low hum tugs at my heartstrings, "I-"

"Oh my Nelly," Dorthea's voice cuts off Harry's. We jump apart, my hands flying behind my back as Harry brushes his hair out of his face. We glance at each other from the corners of our eyes, cheeks reddened to an embarrassing degree. "Is this what I think it is?" Dorthea's joy explodes as she asks the dreaded question.

"Well," he looks over to me, that dimple deepening as he smiles, "I couldn't let a crooner girl slip out of my hands."

A flutter of butterflies swat at my organs, my heart hit the hardest as my stomach tightens into knots. Thousands of chrysalises burst open in my mind, childish moths moving through a forest of fears to push a path of pleasure, a guiding force towards the light of day. My lip is taken between my teeth as I lean into Harry's shoulder, his arm finding its home around my waist and pulling me close.