After tossing around in bedsheets and echoed snickers, we finally got ready for the day. We sauntered down to Tiff's, we're still sitting at the counter on our stools. I kick at His feet to propel myself in a circle, each time I'm met with furrowed brows and a jutted out lip.

Grilled cheese and pancakes with coffee and mango milkshakes--breakfast of champions.

Monstrous mountains of ketchup are destroyed by cheddar sandwiches and smiling fries. Forkfuls of fluff are forced down into full bellies that are swimming in syrup.

Bickers back and forth over literature and musicality. The intellectual introspection brought about by both mediums and the limitations placed on the writer or artist. Conversation worth having, syllables committed to memories like the chorus to a catchy song. Thoughts worth having, reason saved to remembrance like the ending of a prestigious book.

The overhead fans buzzing and speakers pouring out melody after melody. Mugs refilled countless times. Spinning, spinning, spinning.

My mind is reeling, the cognizance of my heart still distracting. I find myself unable to peel my eyes away from the sight of Him. His features are the centerpiece of my study and His character the object of my heart.

Each of His movements has my heart pounding and my lips tightening to hold back from shouting out, 'I love you. I love you. I love you to pieces. You pierce my soul and I so sincerely admire and love you. 'I do love nothing in the world so well as you—is not that strange?''

Each inked word on any piece of literature I've consumed, each zealous confession of dedication to one's honor and heart, is not enough to tell Him enough the love I keep burrowed deep in my chest and the infatuation my heart so desperately cries to scream out at Him.

But is it in vain? He's yet to forgo the chains of His past to live whole-heartedly in the present and be consumed completely by the future. He has yet to release the alcohol induced disfigurements of His past. No navigable path visible yet, the singular drop of sunlight not yet enough to illuminate a way through a cell floor enveloped in glass shards.

A lover so hell-bent on remaining in the past, is one that's love will inevitably end in devastating realizations in which there was never to be forever.

I am simply a siren, calling out to the sailor, begging to be sought after. Pleads of mine travel amongst great gusts of winds across the sea to whittle their way into his unsuspecting ear, pleads to be loved. A pitch and tone barely perceivable, its message cannot be discerned but nonetheless entices. The crashing of waves changes against the current with a change in course, a ship falling from its wayward path in the hopes to be met with a muse. My voice spreads the vastness of a shooting star as my lips form the shape of loving hearts, I imagine the sailor being ushers to paradise.

My body having weathered storms unimaginable, I rest upon a rock as I beckon the sailor closer. Closer and closer he comes, to a mirage of a beach with sugar granules for sand, water crests the flavor of buttercream frosting, fondant flora, and a littering of coconuts. The illusion is not one of malice but rather one of expectation--for his anticipated paradise differs from the reality of the sanctuary he may find to be all the more rewarding.

Although not as aesthetically pleasing, a beach that has weathered tropical storms is one that demonstrates strength. The spinning of hurricanes cannot deplete it of its beauty. Spinning, spinning, spinning.

I'm brought back from my internal wandering to find Him standing in front of me with an already paid bill. "We should head out, Sunshine."

"I could've paid," I pout before standing from my seat.

He wraps His arm around my shoulder, "My treat."

"I don't need you to be all chivalrous," I argue, "It's somewhat offensive."

He pushes the door open and guides me through as we walk into the uncharacteristically warm spring air. A scoff brings my attention to His grimace, "Offensive?"

"You've never let me pay, not once. We eat here nearly everyday and I don't remember every picking up the tab. It makes me feel inadequate." I remind Him.

A short snort blows through His nose, "Damn it," He says at the unappealing sound, "You're not inadequate. You have so much more financial responsibility than me, that's all, swear."

"Excuse me?" I ask out of confusion.

He presses a kiss to the top of my head, "With school. I know money is tight at home and that any wages you get either go to school or Teddy."

"Oh." I mutter out as I stare at our shoes kicking the ground.

"Yeah."

A moment of silence falls between us. The scuffing of shoes and His quiet whistles and snaps fill in our gap in dialogue. The air feels heavy, like another heavy rain is headed our way. Spring rain is my favorite kind--it's warm and smells heavenly, full of earth and promised growth, it hits your features softly and leaves behind dewed grass. Spring rain is gentle and sweet.

"I've been meaning to tell you something actually," He non sequiturs. His features appear apprehensive and almost embarrassed.

I look up at Him as I continue to match the pace of His strides, "Tell me something? Clue me, Styles."

"Well," He pauses, running His free hand through His hair, "I," His voice quiets down to a fast paced mumble that makes His words unintelligible.

I can't help but giggle at the sudden timidness brought about by the seemingly fear filled statement He's attempting to disclose. "Sunshine, you'll have to speak up."

"I sent a song I wrote," He blurts out, "To a label in California."

I gasp and swat at His shoulder, "Are you fucking with me?"

He shakes His dropped head and glances at me before looking ahead again, "I don't know what they'll do with it, it was a silly little demo, but there's a chance some artist could pick it up."

I slip out of His grip, spinning to face Him and grabbing Him by the shoulders, "That's fucking incredible. Wow, holy shit, I-"

I can't think of the right words to say. So many thoughts rumble through my mind as I continue to ramble on curses and praises of His boldness. What pushed Him to do this? Was it the song I heard Him singing secretly to Himself in the back of Dorthea's? But the one that has my head reeling most is, why isn't he hoping to get picked up by the label? Does He want to remain anonymous in whatever masterpiece He's found the courage to send in?"

"What's the song called?" I can't help but ask.

His lips fold into a flat line, one of indecisiveness, "Just a Little Bit of Your Heart."

I nod, choosing to end my interrogation there so as to not slam the door He's creaked open to me, "Sounds beautiful."

"We'll see what they think, I suppose."

I'm then brought back to my own desires, to be acknowledged for my writings. I've been preoccupied with Sunshine, His light is so bright and distracting, I haven't been giving my notebook the hearty scratchings that I used to.

I wonder if I could ever even amount to anything with the chicken scratch left in it. Am I meant to be a writer, is that truly my purpose? To take the introspection of alike minds and articulate it into poetic reflections of vague emotions that must be spoken of within such a niche as to properly explain it.

Two mediums that intertwine so easily--poetry and music. Ones whose fingers grip together as to hold the other stable, inspiring and securing the other. Calloused hands grip one another so fiercely to concretely establish the vitality of word. A word can be stronger than a sword, fiercely fought for and beautifully peacekeeping.

The notion of loneliness, the fear of all, is one that is destroyed with word. The profession of inclusivity--the reminder that one's loss is not singular, that there is always a shoulder to cry on or a hand to hold. The confession of isolation--the nudge that each individual is singular, that there is no shoulder so strong as yours and no hand as callous as your own.

The bass beat of a song and the pentameter of a poem--rhythm. The ebb and flow of spoken language that undoubtedly commands humanity's attention. Language, the profound basis of civilization, is the chains forged to link persons together. Without language, we are nothing but singular beings on a purposeless planet, a sea of souls searching for nothing.

My thoughts are taken back when I'm met with the signage of Darcy's Bookstore. I look up to Him, He squeezes my hand tightly before releasing it and mumbling something of, "I'll see you later."

I nod and step through the door. The must of paper and the rank of ink waves around me as I step to the desk, the smell one that gradually becomes endearing with proper respect and acceptance.

Dee gangles over to me, "My dear, the returns have been set out to log and be replaced. I must attend to my guest."

My eyes fall on Edith, her frail body appearing weaker than before, resting in a chair. Her body slightly shivering and her eyes heavy with exhaustion, complexion pale as snow whilst her deep blue veins are displayed through her papery skin and lips quivering uncontrollably. Her state almost pathetic, desperate for some sort of relief.

I nod at Dee and get straight to my work. Fumbling through each book in the box as I shamelessly peer over at the two wrinkled women whispering. Each stolen spotting becomes more somber, more heartbreaking. The words endlessly flowing are without volume but their expressions tell all, their friendship is to come to an end, an unwillingly end.

Fragile fingers come up to wipe trailing tears from each other's faces. Short bursts of tired laughter cut through the silent sobs that fill the store.

It's strange to think, she was here not long ago, so lively and laughing, and now she's been reduced to tear stained cheeks and sleepless eyes. It's clear whatever is eating up Edith is lethal, lethal and devastating.

The crate of returns is taken in my arms as I wander around the aisles to replace the books on the shelves. Quick soundbites of their conversing clues me in as to the root of their grief.

"I'm not to be here much longer, doctors say a few months maybe."

"I'm ready to go, I'm so tired."

"A friend like you, that's all I need."

I can't help the lump in my throat or the quiver in my lip as I fruitlessly distract myself by carefully replacing the books on the shelves. The crate lightening in my hands but the weight in my heart increasing with each step.

Darcy has lost so much and is only continuing to lose more. I need to be a firm friend of hers, I need to be more present in her life. She deserves that, after all she's done for me, at the very least.

As I place the crate back underneath the grandiose wooden counter, Darcy guides Edith to the car that awaits her at the curb. A gentle embrace between the two--weak kisses pressed to cheeks and nimble palms on each other's shoulders. Dee's return was slow and sober, her steps heavy and her spirit low. Her hand comes up to the sign on the door, flipping it weakly to read 'Closed.'

Her grief stricken face turns to meet my sullied expression, "You may leave Phoebe Mae. there's not enough business today to remain open until close."

I walk over to her, my key in hand and twist it in the lock. The click of the lock comes and I turn to her. Her silent tears quickening as she looks up at me. I bring my arms around her and pull her into a hug, "I'm not going to leave my friend while she's sad."

"Oh, my sweet girl, an old maid like me doesn't need to be coddled," she croaks through the frog in her throat, "But thank you for staying."

I pull back from the hug, my hands on the sides of her arms, "Why don't I go pick up something from Tiff's? We can spend the day here and just talk."

She nods and raises her finger up towards my face, "I'd like bananas foster french toast and a sprite, please."

I give her a feeble thumbs up and say, "I'll get two over easy eggs and toast with a black coffee."

A laugh interrupted by a sob forces me to bring her back into my chest, I hug her so tightly without the intention of ever letting go. She deserves to be comforted for the rest of her life, she cannot live a day of pain ever again, I refuse to allow it.

"If it's alright for me to ask," I start, "What's happened to Edith?"

I feel the chill of a long exhale against my collarbone, "She's dying, dear. That's what happens when you're lucky enough to get old."

My mind wanders at her words. I'm troubled heavily by this, I worry I'll die young while I worry I'll grow old. If I live to be wise, then I'll live to see all those I love be lost. If I live to be wild, then I'll live to be lost to all those I love.

"Do I want to get old?" I question into Dee's hair.

She chortles as she pulls away. Her skin shining from tears, "Yes dear, you want to grow old."

I look at her, "Can you tell me why," I pause, "When I come back?"

"Yes, sweetheart."

I unlock the door, step out and lock it behind me. The spring air has a bite to it, a breeze that chills your skin, but when it settles the sun warms your face so well you can't help but look up to the sky and shut your eyes, as to truly feel it.

I walk to Dorthea's first, my eyes welled with tears. I stride straight to find Harry at the back of the store, throwing myself into His chest and letting a few tears stream down my face. "I have to be a firm friend to Darcy."

"Phoebe, what?" He asks as He relaxes His once tensed arms around me.

I lean back into His hold, His hands settling at the small of my back, "I won't be seeing you later tonight. I need to spend the day with Darcy. She needs me, she's going to need me a lot from now on, so I need to be a firm friend to her."

He presses a kiss to my forehead, "Go on, then." A sympathetic smile being a fragmented ray of His light in a dark time.

"I got to go." I say before pecking His plush lips twice.

I wipe the tears from my eyes as I saunter quickly out of the store, my hand brought up in a frantic wave to Dorthea and George as I step out of the door.

The warm biting spring air hits my face as I rush to Tiff's. The crunch of debris on the sidewalk below my feet sounding as I break into an almost run. My hand quicker to find the handle to the diner than my feet were to take me there.

I quickly pad up to the counter and order, Teddy anxiously taking the tab to the window when she hears the order and reads the downtrodden expression on my face.

It's lunchtime, so the diner is rather busy. The rush of plates from the kitchen to tables is swift, the clinking of utensils against plates is abrupt, the pushing past of each waitress with a coffee pot is constant.

I sit at the only open stool at the counter, the one against the wall, and take my notebook from my canvas bag. I shuffle through the pages until I stumble upon His name.

'Every soul on this purposeless orbitor mirroring the actions of everyone their lives intertwine with. The original is obsolete, all that's left are its copies. I am just as much a copy as Harry.'

I tug the pen from its resting place attached to the cover and begin scribbling out words on the only openness left on the page.

'The bloom of wisdom is found with loss,

An experience with heartbreak.

Insight created when two paths cross,

A bond so quick to make.

Respect that a love muscle will so easily toss,

A love that won't easily shake.

To grow old, to be wise, to know on others' behalf,

Is to love so well as to be broken in half.'

My pen brought to my lip as to tap away indiscretions is brought to a halt when a take-away bag is placed in front of me. A drink carrier holding two styrofoam cups--one steaming with caffeine and the other fizzing from carbonation. The boxes radiate heat from the bag as I take both the carriers into my hands after pushing my notebook into my tote and tossing it onto my shoulder.

"Thanks, Ted." I shout as I push the door open to rush back to Darcy.

The clang of my heartbeat against my breastbone rings loudly in my ears, my head pounded in tandem with the almost plapitatonic rhythm of my love muscle. My legs carry me clumsily back to Dee's as quickly as they can, stumbling over litter that was left on the sidewalk from passing cars and pedestrians that felt as though tossing it into a trashcan was too daring of a feat to even attempt.

Wind whips my face as I continue across the street to her door, knocking the bottom wooden panel with my foot to announce my presence and also beg for entry, my hands occupied with the contents of our emotional meal.

She comes to the door, twisting the key into the lock and tugging the handle to pop it open. Her wrinkled hand pulls me in by my forearm and I feel the gentle warm aroma of dusted pages and faded covers invade my senses.

I'm quick to place all of our items onto the wooden counter and unpack the boxes, placing her disposable container and cutlery in front of her before setting the straw atop the plastic lid of her styrofoam cup.

"Thank you, sweetheart."

I simply nod to her as I open up my own food, the steam emanating off of the coffee and warming my face. My meal of eggs and toast suddenly unappetizing as the gravity of this company is pulled to the forefront of my mind.

Each person that has given her lifelong comfort--confidants of her mind and heart--leaving her prematurely to her own demise. It is with a heavy heart that you hold the chilling hand of the one you love as they fade into the light of death, it is with great selflessness that you hide your own sorrow to aid them through their ending moments. Absolute grief envelops you as you see the life drain from them--their skin paling and their breaths slowing to a stop, their heartbeat deadening and their warmth diminishing.

Darcy, and anyone who lost their dearest companions, are truly the bravest people. No matter the route to death--sudden and young, or gradually and elder--it is the fastest bullet through the heart. A hole that may be plugged by the kindness of others, a bandaid over a bullet hole, but will never be healed. The person whom you gave so much of yourself to, lost into the darkness of dirt.

Harry, my Sunshine, is honorably brave. He witnessed the two most important figures in his life, the people He loved the most in this world, perish before him. He was forced to live the grotesque details of their loss, He was forced to continue to live past it in a world devoid of light. He was forced to clear the dust from His darkened path and bury the ashes of the life He once held constant.

Dust to dust, ashes to ashes.

Their memory being the only immortality. To keep someone alive is to tell of their beauty for generations--to maintain the light of their soul through photographs and song, lessen the darkness through stories and favorite dishes.

"Phoebe Mae."

I blink away my thoughts and pull my gaze up to meet Darcy's, "Yes, I'm sorry Dee, I'm sorry."

"No apologies dear, I can see the thoughts running through your head. Neon signs, they are." She croaks out with a slight but sober laugh.

I shake my head, "That obvious?"