I want to stay with Zayn so badly. But what does he expect? For us to suddenly rekindle our spark? I'm searching so deep, searching his eyes, scraping the bottom of my soul. There are holes in my memories and glitches in my heart.

It's time for me to start over again. To open to a new page. To forge new paths, describe new adventures. Let it flow until I run out of ink. Spilling my heart out on pages.

It's sad, trying to summon memories that won't come. Lost love and forgotten poems.

Sleeping next to him hurts too much, makes my heart weep. I want to remember what we had. I don't want to do it all over again. It should have never been disrupted. Our love was strong. Our bond was unbreakable. Or so I thought.

"I know what I want Zayn."

"You don't want me," he sobs. His body is shaking. In fear, in rage, in confusion.

I feel a pang of regret but he's still so much of a stranger to me. I need time to remember. It won't just suddenly come rushing back to me.

"You're just like him," he screams.

"This isn't my fault. I never asked for this," my throat tightens as tears well in my eyes, surging out like a dam breaking.

Open the floodgates.

"Just take the fucking job," he spits. "I don't even care."

"Zayn," I try to reason.

"I was your dream. You're my everything. You were my everything."

Tears blur my vision. All I hear is a grunt and glass shattering. My ears are ringing. Blood is trickling, collecting in a pool on the floor.

"Oh god," his eyes blow wide in terror. He's scared of himself. "Harry," he cries out.

And he falls to the floor. A crumpled mess. Wet lashes, a bloody fist, disheveled hair.

Wild, wild eyes. Deranged. Untamed.

"You're right," he swallows thickly. "You should go. Please," he begs.

It's pitiful. He pleads with his eyes. I can't take it.

I threw up on a rug yesterday. Had a seizure. Kept him up all night.

He spilled tea everywhere, was trembling so much I thought maybe he was having a seizure too. He couldn't stand seeing we that way; so weak, so helpless.

It's too hard on him. It's torture. I'm hurting him. He's hurting me.

My head is always throbbing. I'm in excruciating pain.

He's stealing my pain killers.

I'm stealing his time.

I stole his heart a long time.

It's time to give it back.

My mum cries and cries and cries until my shirtsleeve is soaked.

Tearful goodbyes from familiar faces.

Soft chocolate brown eyes.

Piercing blue eyes and sandy hair.

Bleach blonde hair and red cheeks.

Fiery ginger hair and colored tattoos.

I can't stare at him for too long. He's long lashes and jet black hair and honey colored eyes and a sharp jawline. He's chiseled but soft at the edges; has a smile that could illuminate even he darkest of nights.

He's soft pastel pink lips.

He was mine once.

I've kissed those lips before.

"Just leave," he spits bitterly.

It's like the words are poison in his mouth.

His tone is venomous.

But he still drives me the airport, taps nervously on the steering wheel, mutters something about me getting on another airplane.

There's a bandage wrapped around his wrist but he still offers to carry my luggage, doesn't make eye contact with me, just lets his teeth sink into his bottom lip.

"You're chasing your dreams," his voice cracks. "I just know you're going to be successful Harry. Be sure to send me a signed book," he adds lightly.

And he chuckles.

I smile at the change in his demeanor and he cups my face, his lips capturing mine. It's so frenzied, so hungry, I'm chasing his lips, his tongue is trailing over mine. He's tugging at my hair with his good hand. My heart is pounding.

He's desperate. Craves just one more taste.

It triggers something deep in my memory.

I want it too, I ache for it.

For a brief moment.

I can remember everything for that one fleeting moment.

But then he pulls away and that passion is gone, like turning off a switch. And all memory fades.

His gentle touch is lost.

"I love you Harry. I always will. I know this is what's best for you."

I'm suddenly so exhausted. So forlorn. So dejected.

And I allow myself to breakdown, to drench his shirt. He rubs my back soothingly.

"I love you too Zayn. I do. We just need to figure things out. You deserve to be happy."

"We will. Everything happens for a reason."

He clutches onto a journal. It feels important, like it has some sentimental meaning. He gives it to me and then unzips my suitcase, his eyes flicking over a scrapbook. I think he's going to keep it for himself but then carefully tucks it away and zips the bag back up.

"A picture is worth a thousand words."

"So cliche," I joke. He laughs, wiping away the rest of his tears.

"Never stop writing. You've left so much unwritten but what you started was beautiful. You're beautiful," he emphasizes.

"I should promise that I won't forget about you but in a way I already have."

And with those words he lets go.

Lets go of what we had.

Lets go of the grief I've caused him since the accident.

I'm emotional baggage, as heavy as my packed up suitcase.

My heart feels unbearably heavy too.

And as fucked up as it sounds given my circumstances, when I step on the plane a wave of relief washes over me.