Wednesday's nanna had always told her that the key to a clean mind was clean surroundings. That being surrounded by messiness and clutter would only create chaos inside of our own minds. She'd always said that spring cleaning was the best way to create space in your environment and in your mind.

So, that was exactly what Wednesday decided she was going to do that particular morning. Her house had long since needed a deep clean and a sort through, and her mind...well, her mind had been in a state of permanent haze ever since the therapy session with Sade a few days prior. Not to mention that the impending day of Harry leaving for the states was looming like a black cloud, getting closer and closer, coating her in a cold bleakness.

She needed a distraction.

Pulling out her wide range of cleaning supplies from under the sink, she hit play on her music and got to work. First up was the kitchen, where she swept and wiped and mopped along to Michael Jackson, occasionally singing into the brush as she attempted to moonwalk over the cold tiles.

Next was her mini studio and the living room, where she dusted and hoovered and organised along to Billy Ocean, letting her voice blast at full volume as she sang along to Love Really Hurts Without You with as much gusto as she could muster.

Once the bottom floor was done, she moved her mission upstairs. The bathroom was scrubbed and polished and anti-bacced with the sound of Amy Winehouse in the background, soulfully coating the whole room with the calmness of a Sunday morning. She stepped back to admire her work as the tiles sparkled and surfaces gleamed, the smell of sweet lemon and vanilla filling the space.

The two spare rooms, one of which was nothing more than a place for her to paint, were spruced up, the bedding changed, and floors swept. By this point, she needed some music to inject energy back into her and so she selected the only person she knew could drag her out of lifelessness—Miss Britney Spears. As soon as Gimme More was played, a new lease of life and determination was injected into her, helping her to finish the spare rooms as she swayed her hips and pretended for just a moment that she wasn't Wednesday Green at all. She was some type of exotic dancer in a New York club, trying to rake in as many tips as possible.

After that, there was only one room to go. Her bedroom. The one she'd left until last, partly because there were so many clothes and hoarded objects to sort through, and partly because she knew if there was any one room she would find constant traces of Harry in, it was that one.

She sighed as she stood in the doorway, looking at the room that desperately needed life administered back into it. Breathing in deeply, she allowed herself a minute to garner motivation before hitting play and letting the addictive chords of Highway to Hell by AC/DC blast out. If anything was going to help her through cleaning her bedroom, both mentally and physically, it was going to be hard rock.

The first task she undertook was rearranging the entire layout of the room. It felt stale, boring to look at the room as it was. As it had been the entire time she'd lived there. Nothing had changed, nothing had moved and yet, she'd changed and grown and evolved so many times in that period that it only seemed right to move the furnishings around to match her current self. So, she engaged all of the extremely poor core strength she had and began to drag the furniture around to where she wanted it to reside. Sweat dripped down from her forehead onto her upper lip through the mixture of summer heat and the complete body workout that pulling heavy wooden furniture that was three times the size of her turned out to be.

Eventually, she stood back to admire the new positioning of entire room, smiling in accomplishment. She'd moved her bed to be pushed against the wall opposite to the window, so that when she woke up, the sun streaming through the curtains would be the first thing that she would see. Her bedside tables, chest of drawers, dressing table and wardrobes were all placed into new positions—even the rug and mirror were moved to accommodate the new layout. But it was worth it. Looking around the room, it felt airier, lighter.

More like home.

She then stripped her bed, trying not to imagine the scene of Harry wrapped up in her sheets, sprawling tattoos on tanned skin against the cloud of white bedding. The scene of so many sins that had felt so good, so addictive. Despite changing her covers every week, it was like the shape of his body still lingered in the creases, the smell of his musk still attached to the fabric no matter how many times she put the bedding on as high of a wash as it would go.

She moved onto the chest of drawers, taking everything out so that it could all be reorganised and refolded, with any items she didn't want to be added to a heap that she could take to a women's shelter. Every time she found one of his odd socks, her breath hitched in her throat. And every time she was sure she'd got them all out, one would pop up hidden amongst the folds of a t-shirt. Like the last pieces of him that were near her were clinging desperately for dear life, keeping the memories of what they'd had alive.

Once her drawers were organised and free of any of Harry's belongings, she turned to her wardrobes with a worried stare. It had been hours of cleaning, hours of work that had left her shattered, and now she'd reached her Everest. The looming unknown that was her wardrobe. The one place she'd not organised for quite some time, choosing to shut it and ignore the mess of clothes, accessories, shoes and god knows what else kinds of clutter that resided at the bottom. Glancing inside and seeing what awaited her, she decided she needed some type of further energy boost for that task alone—neither Britney nor any rock band would be enough to keep her energised for the task at hand.

Jumping in the shower, she padded downstairs once she was clean and in a fresh set of joggers and hoodie, making herself a bagel and a large cup of coffee for lunch to kickstart her determination. As she sat at the island counter, she picked up her phone nervously, skimming over Harry's name before locking it again and trying to pretend for a bit longer that him leaving any day now wasn't happening. Cleaning forced her brain to focus on something other than him. God knows he'd occupied her brain constantly since their last run in, and since her session with Sade, consuming anxiety had eaten away at her with every slow moment.

She'd tried to discern the facts. Tried to make sense of the warzone that was currently wagering on in her mind. She loved him. He loved her. She was scared. He was leaving. She had a decision to make. It was all or nothing. And it was the knowledge that she needed to make that decision sooner rather than later that forced her into a state of denial and avoidance. Because if she was constantly busy, she didn't have the time to sit down and actually consider an outcome where Harry wasn't involved in her life anymore. Or even more terrifying; an outcome where he was in her life, and she would have to give him the last piece of herself and hope to god herself that life wouldn't have any nastier surprises in store for her.

Dropping her head to her hands, she rubbed her eyes in exhaustion. Exhaustion from the entire morning of cleaning. Exhaustion from the endless cycle of questions spinning around her brain. Exhaustion from the near week of nausea riddled anxiety. She wished she could give someone else the ability to make her decisions for her. Somehow, it would seem a lot easier if she didn't have to make them herself. Instead, she could just be pointed in a direction and told 'here, this is the path you're taking'. It sounded glorious.

Pulling herself from the stool, she traipsed back upstairs, ready for the final hurdle.

Opening the first set of wardrobe doors, she stared with a tilted head at the clothes on the rail that were packed in tightly, each item squished by the next. At the bottom were the boxes of photo albums and miscellaneous items, things she'd thrown in there and forgotten about when she didn't know where else to put them.

She sighed, dragging the first and largest box out onto the floor before sitting down next to it. Peering over, she stuck her hand in and weaved through the items like she was swirling her hand through water, leaving ripples in her wake. She grabbed onto the most random of items; books she hadn't yet read, a massage gun, curlers she hadn't used since 2015, a bag she'd been looking for for months, three gift sets she was sure she'd received two Christmases ago.

But then as she looked down into the rapidly clearing box, she saw something small laying at the bottom, half concealed under the weight of other items. It was the glint of the light bouncing off of the exterior that caught her eye and as her eyes focused on what it was, her stomach soon tensed. Picking it up as gently as she could out of the box, her eyes focused on the handwriting she knew so well that was scrawled across the front of it.

Wednesday's Songs.

The mixtape Harry had made for her birthday all those months before. The one he'd been so shy to give to her, the one he'd instructed her to open last. It was so personal and so thoughtful that she'd nearly burst into tears when she'd seen it laid gently in the box. Music was his life. It was how he expressed what he couldn't speak, how he connected with others. He lived and breathed sound, revelled in the happiness it brought. He himself was a melody, the sweetest one Wednesday had ever heard.

It therefore hadn't been lost on her just how special it was to receive a mixtape from him. Something he'd curated, made with his own two hands, put time and effort into to make her happy. And if that wasn't enough, he'd selected songs that reminded him of her. Not just songs he thought she might like, or songs that would make her happy. No, he'd selected songs that made him specifically think of her when they played.

Something about that fact made her heart ache and her eyes glossy.

In all the passion and newness of hers and Harry's relationship at that time, she never did get around to listening to it. As their romance went from strength to strength, the reminder to listen to the mixtape kept getting pushed to the back of her mind, until it was forgotten about completely. Left in the darkness of her mind and the box in the cupboard where it had been placed for safekeeping.

She turned the tape over in her hands, checking the back to look for a track list that wasn't there. And then it hit her that that was exactly as Harry wanted it—a surprise. He wanted her to listen without any idea of what song would be coming next, completely engrossed in the mystery.

Rubbing her finger tenderly over his writing, she decided that the time had come to listen. It would hurt her feelings and wash her with a coat of sadness and maybe even make her cry, but it was a task that had long since been overdue. And selfishly, in the absence of having Harry, she wanted to know the songs that he thought of when he thought of her. What song would conjure images up of her in his mind, laughing or dancing or being silly. Maybe she'd know if they were still together, maybe he'd have revealed it himself at this point. But they weren't together. And so, this was the closest she would get to knowing more about him, to getting a look behind the curtain.

Standing up, she walked to the guest bedroom and reached up to the top of the left wardrobe, feeling around until her hand landed on cold metal. With a victorious grin, she grabbed the handle and pulled down the item that was ladened with dust. A retro CD and tape player she'd bought at a charity shop years before when she'd rediscovered a load of old CDs she wanted to listen to.

Wiping the dust away, she walked back into her bedroom, setting the machine down onto the floor and plugging it into the wall. With furrowed brows she pressed to open the tape player, watching it pop open. Tongue caught between her lips in concentration, she opened up the cassette from its clear box, making sure she had the right side facing out towards her before gently slotting it into the player. Clicking it closed, she turned the volume up slightly, fully aware of the anxiety that was increasing with every second closer she got to listening. And then, with nothing left to do but press play, she took a breather and pressed the button with a shaky finger.

Instantly, the crackles of the start of the tape sounded out from the speakers; jumpy, unnerving, loud. Almost mirroring her current state of mine perfectly. She bit her lip, anticipation for whatever song would spring to life through the speakers first keeping her pinned silently to the spot, scared to even breath in case she missed a syllable.

And then, through the shakiness of the tape, the sound of an electric piano blasted from the speakers and Wednesday instantly recognised the chords. The uplifting, sunny, bright, heart-warming chords, followed by drumbeat, from a song they'd sang to each other on so many occasions she'd lost count.

"Ooh, you're making me live," Queen crooned through the speakers for the start of You're My Best Friend.

She swallowed back the lump in her throat, staring down at the small music player with a feeling that no words in the English language could summarise. Her heart felt like it was dropping at the same time it was soaring, shooting around her body in every which way like a balloon that was rapidly deflating. It didn't take long for her eyes to gloss up, directly in contrast against the large, amused smile that had grown on her lips. But it was a perfect representation of the consuming chaos ensuing within her.

Sadness battling happiness. Love fighting fear. Her mind versus her heart. Civil war was unfolding within her, and all she could do was sit back and let the song sink into every inch of skin, every inch of her.

She found herself not wanting the song to end as she sat, stupidly smiling and stupidly crying when the last guitar chords sounded out, fading into the crackling. Pulling her legs into her chest, she rested her head onto her knees, waiting for whatever would be coming next. She smiled at the image of Harry sat making the mixtape, lip between his teeth, eyebrows drawn together, mumbling curses when he hit record too early or got the tape caught.

A sad laugh broke from her lips when the riff of There She Goes played next, her lip wobbling as she smiled at the machine. Rubbing her nose, she laid her head back down and closed her eyes, surmising that despite the crushing weight of the love poured into the tape, he'd also picked some incredibly good songs so far.

Songs she also realised would forever be tainted by heartbreak from this moment on.

"There she goes, there she goes again. Racing through my brain. And I just can't contain, this feeling that remains."

It was impressive, how a barely three-minute song with no verses, only a repeated chorus, could make the hairs on her arms lift and paint all of her surroundings in sweeter colour, honey glazed walls and floors and furniture. It could turn the bleakest of days into one of summer happiness. It could turn the worst of moods into the best of moods. It could turn the turmoil within her into a soothed contentment.

Butterflies exploded at the next song. Swarming, fluttering, stinging butterflies. It was like her body recognised it before she did, the pain of every memory associated with it firing at her at once. Her parents in the kitchen, slow dancing and looking at the other like they were still doe eyed teenagers. Harry singing along to it gently in the car, soothing her in a time where she desperately needed it.

A fresh tear spilled from her eye, slowly running a line along her cheek.

"Because you're gorgeous, I'd do anything for you. Because you're gorgeous, I know you'll get me through."

She sniffed, rubbing her nose. She already felt so overwhelmed with emotion that the question of how she'd get through the rest of the tape was at the forefront of her mind. With each new song, it was like simultaneously being dragged under the water by the current and managing to scramble for a gulp of oxygen above the surface. Victory and dread at odds. Fighting to be the ruler of her mind, her heart.

Slow, smooth, sad piano replaced the craziness. The hectic making way for the calm. It was a song she knew well. And it was a song that had seen some of her lowest lows. A song that told her all the things she wished she could see in herself. Kacey's voice floated through to her like an angel cutting through the clouds, singing words that felt like they'd been written for Wednesday specifically.

"Well the sky has finally opened, the rain and wind stopped blowing. But you're stuck out in the same old storm again. You hold tight to your umbrella. Well, darling, I'm just trying to tell ya that there's always been a rainbow hanging over your head. If you could see what I see, you'd be blinded by the colours. Yellow, red, and orange, and green, and at least a million others. So tie up the bow, take off your coat, and take a look around."

As the words produced that unease within her that always happened when something felt just a bit too relatable, a bit too close to home, she wondered whether that was exactly why Harry had picked it. He'd once told her that he wished she could see what he saw—someone kind and funny and beautiful. The mixtape was made before he ever knew the extent of her problems, but maybe a part of him had always known her lack of self-confidence ran deeper than the surface. Like the seaweed you see in a lake, harmlessly peeking out of the water, but the further down you go, the darker and denser it gets.

For Wednesday, the song was more than surface level. And maybe that was something Harry had worked out entirely on his own.

Despite the tears that had steadily been rolling down her face, leaking out due to the heightened emotion of the tape and the bittersweet circumstances surrounding her and the man who had created it, she had so far kept it together. Held the crumbling pieces of herself together with all the strength she could muster. The tape was a tornado, circling around her crickety, broken house. And so far, she'd held off getting sucked into it fully.

But when the sound of She's Always A Woman drifted through to where she sat, crackling piano and Billy Joel's sombre voice, the tornado hit the house at maximum velocity, ripping it out from the ground completely to swallow it into the vortex. A sob broke from her lips as she buried her face deep into the fabric covering her knees. Wracked, painful sobs that felt like they were being pushed up rather than pulled out.

"She can kill with a smile, she can wound with her eyes. And she can ruin your faith with her casual lies. And she only reveals what she wants you to see. She hides like a child but she's always a woman to me."

She didn't know how to feel about the knowledge that Harry thought of her when he listened to the song. It was so personal. A whole love letter turned into a song. Wednesday had always wondered what kind of woman could have an effect that great on a man for him to pour his heart and soul into a song like that. For him to acknowledge all the ways she was flawed and still live and breathe her love. She had to be someone great. Someone unforgettable. An enigma.