The sole idea of Harry asking me if I still loved him still is driving me mad. With many worries encased in my mind, I first think of if he loves me, or if that has dissipated as Harry did with Jamie in his affairs. But, have I truly moved on from him, or am I still in the death trap called love?

That's the only question I cannot find an answer to. I did not clearly tell Harry if I love him or not, which probably is making him think about my reply. Hell, I don't even know what I meant; the whole statement spluttered out of my mouth in a blur, and I don't know if it was from nervousness or out of the ordinary. But, in all honesty, it could have been the truth without one thought. My mind has moved on somewhat from Harry's sudden appearance, but cannot get the proposal of love with him.

I went home after the confronted situation, coming home to a loneliness and darkness. That's the usual every night thing, unless Bryan comes over for a visit or to spend the night. But, I've adapted to the idea of being lonely and would not mind it after all, since I lived with it for part of my long life. Currently, it's almost four in the morning, and my eyes are wide awake with memories flashing through them, once again.

My back lays against the cushioned bed, while my heart feels cold; cold from the weather as well as the emotions running in and out of me. Dyed blonde hair is wet from the previous shower I had hours before, clinging to the almost-dry sides of my face. But, my hands; they feel cold too, almost to the point of where they could freeze off, and not because of the weather, yet because of him. The places where he used to touch, they all are to the point of falling off or completely unused; my heart, my hands, almost every single damn thing.

How can just one human being mess up another mentally and physically?

Obviously, I do care deeply about the situation or else I would have already forgot about it. And it is obvious that I have not moved on from Harry. Hell, I am twenty-nine-years-old, in a relationship, and my mind is stuck on something that happened six years ago that was a big mistake. Well, actually, not a big mistake, but something that came to an abrupt end in a sad manner.

Blowing out a breath I seem to have been holding for a while, I turn over on my side quickly and grab my phone. Something needs to be solved, and although it might be a terrible decision, I am calling my ex-lover. It is a stupid idea, but I want to talk to him and have a decent conversation with him, as well as try to find out the truth.

I thought I deleted his contact ages ago, not wanting or daring to look at the name because it would bring me into this dark sadness. But, I am wrong when I see the name of Harry Styles listed, and my finger immediately taps the bold name to bring the phone up to my ear. After a couple rings, I think it is hopeless, but until I hear a loud sigh from the other end of the line, I know I have hit jackpot.

"Brooklyn? Is that you?"

He still has my number in his phone. His voice sounds the usual; husky and rough, but has changed over the lonely years into a more dry tone. My eyes close in victory as I open my mouth to speak.

"Yeah," my voice has the usual sleepiness spotted in it, as well as a slight shakiness. If Harry can hear it clearly, he will automatically know that I am nervous. "Sorry, I-um just couldn't-"

"It's four in the morning, I hope you know," he interrupts me and chuckles. "But, you know that little saying. People up at this time are either drunk, in love, or lonely. And I'm trying to figure out if I'm all of those or close."

Hell, he sure is right on that. Maybe I'm not drunk or in the motion of being in love, but I definitely lonely. I can almost picture the toothy grin of his face, while he is sitting up from this conversation. His dark eyes are probably vibrating off of the small moonlight and the dark ink from his bare chest is radiating. The covers are bundled around his waist from the slight movement of getting his phone and goosebumps line his upper body from the freezing weather of New York City. The long curls are most likely tangled and in the messy manner they always have the appearance to be.

I can imagine that his dark eyes are scanning his almost pitch-black bedroom every second, just thinking about what the hell I am doing at calling him for the time of this hour. Only a near four hours ago had the situation happened, and now, here I am talking to Harry through the phone about somewhat of it.

"You are correct on the first part, that is," I return the chuckle and raise my body. "The second part is explaining my loneliness at four in the morning."

"Interesting," he mutters, and I picture Harry pursuing his lips as if he is thinking about my words. "So Brooklyn, I am guessing that I am being the used one for your profound loneliness," he makes it sound as if it is a statement while a slight chance of a question.

A small smile grinds its way across my face as I look at my snow-covered window. "You got me, you are the victim of it all."

"How terrible," he fake gasps, and I hear a breathy laugh after a moment of silence. "But anyways, what brings you to call me?"

"I-I honestly don't know," I admit halfway true, laying back down on the bed from the fatigue. "Maybe it is all the confusion running through my mind or the fact that I might want to have a decent conversation with you at four in the morning."

I can imagine him running his hand through his tangled locks as I did a few seconds ago from this question. Something completely different from all of the thoughts on our minds from four simple words, which mean very much to me currently. How it takes my brain off of the past things, and for a split second, everything revolves simply around the question with all the problems put aside. But, as

In all honestly, I want to have a true conversation with him, rather than speaking about all the past drama that has happened between us. Although the idea in my mind is crazy, I am indeed the adjective. It's unhealthy for me, I know it is, and there might be a possible chance that it is not the best for Harry either.

"Or, perhaps it is the idea of speaking to someone and hearing their voice, just anyone's," Harry offers, and I immediately frown at his proposition.

And he's right. It is not just anyone's voice who I want to hear, but his. The way of how he slowly stumbles over his words as if he is trying to sound more intellectual than Harry actually is. Perhaps, it is the way of how he speaks in a slow manner, thinking and processing the words running through his mind every so few seconds to approve of what he will let slip out of his lips in the next moments. And sometimes, he doesn't think too long, considering of the past events of our broken relationship, while it would be the same for me in specific situations.

"I don't know," I mutter, running a hand through the tangled blonde locks indented into my head. "It's something, though."

"So," Harry breathes out, a sigh returning shortly after. "How have you been?"

"I've been alright, could be better."

Harry hums as debating on my opinion if it was true or not. Obviously, he could tell, but thankfully did not ask any further. "Well, it is good that you are doing okay," he chuckles in confusion. "I really don't know how to put in words of what I am trying to say, so I am just going to leave it like that."

Another short-lived laugh makes its way through my chapped lips, and I glance over at the small fringe hanging off of my shirt. My eyes widen in realization when I notice that in fact, it is not my shirt, but the victim on the other line of the phone's. What the hell? I thought I threw them all away when he left.

And that is the thing about our break-up. I did not want to smell Harry's scent lingering around our old apartment, and I was very appreciative of when I moved out of that damned place and got my own. There wasn't a want of seeing Harry and I's old photos; all of them were either burned in my small 'sacrifice lover' fire or ripped into shreds with scissors and four glasses of wine in my system.

I didn't drink much until a few months shortly after the break-up. To this day, I do at times when I need a stress reliever such as a few hours ago of when Harry popped right back into my life. My lungs used to be consumed by the deathly smoke of a cigarette as well as weed after the ending, and that usually is the problem solver of these days. Luckily, my bosses don't know nor do my friends because I do it when I am only at home.

"How have you been, Harry?" I question quietly, figuring if I should continue on this conversation.

"Well, I could be better as well, but I guess I'm okay."

I wonder what Bryan would think of this conversation as of now. He does not know about my past relationships, but if he did, what would he do? His jealous aura is very strong, but he can easily control it and himself. Maybe he would feel the way I did when Harry was fucking Jamie, but thankfully, I am speaking to Harry over the phone, nothing ever extreme as he did to me twice. I will never dare to go back to my first love; those were the happy and dark days all at once.

Our relationship is not that intimate and it is strange, considering that we have been dating for nearly a year. It's not love for me, yet, but I have a strong feeling that it's for Bryan. Well, I do know unless he says that he loves me for the hell of it. But, it can really be happening though, Harry did it.

"I will say ditto to one of your earlier replies to lessen the complications," I hear his laugh at the choice of my words and my eyebrows knit in confusion as I think about what I had just said. "God, is it really almost five in the morning?"

My eyes catch the small alarm clock beside me, noticing how the hour hand is nearing the large number. The lucky thing is that it's Saturday and I do not have to go into work today, whatsoever. Weekends are my days off, thankfully, because of the partying I have been brought to on Friday and Saturday nights would lead me into work mornings full of despair.

"It is," he mutters and for the first time, there's an awkward silence in the phone. It's almost as if we are both debating on the next thing to say, either to bring up our past or begin with a new future.

"I really don't want this conversation to be so unorthodox, and maybe considering that it is very late, well-um early in the morning, that might be part of the reason. But, I-"

"I'm really tired, Harry," I mumble, my eyes starting to flutter and I finally let my back lay on the bed. "But, I want to ask you something before I pass out."

I take his longing silence as a move to go on with my question. The imagination of my mind is running wild although my body is coming to steady breaths, meaning that I am almost on my way to overcoming sleep.

"When you look at me, do you see the girl you loved or the girl who left?"

The picture of him in my mind is very clear; Harry running his large hand through his hair multiple times as usual. He is sitting up fully in his bed, back against the headboard with his other hand holding the small cellphone up to his ear while he desperately wants his hand to be pulling at his bottom, chapped lip from the winter air. The covers are no longer stashed around his bare torso, but pulled up to his mid chest, goosebumps plastered across the exposed skin. His dark eyes are zoned out of the reality surrounding him, but only his mind is directed on the one very question I asked.

"I see both, Brooklyn. I can't really choose one over the other because I truly don't know the answer," he pauses and I imagine him licking his cracked lips on his next words. "You left because I ruined it all, I know that. It's etched into my mind that every time I see you, it is the girl I love. I always had trouble moving on because a small part of me believed that you would come back."

"Does it still hurt?"

Mrs. Forman sits across from me, once again, her pen messily writing against the thin paper in her notebook. Her eyes are cast on the paper before her as her foot taps against the scuffed floor impatiently, not enjoying my uncooperativeness. It's quite annoying, really.

"What?"

"Loving him."

It takes me awhile to answer that because I don't know what to say. But then, every moment and memory we have ever shared hits me all at once and it feels like someone is choking me as I tried to breathe in air.

Gasping, I finally answer. "Yeah. Fuck, yeah. It still hurts."

Some people don't change. I would love to forget all that pain and go back to Harry. I would love to forgive everything that he has done, but if he hurt me again, I would not be able to forgive myself for being so stupid. So, I completely dismiss Harry's reply from any further tears or old feelings as I feel my eyelids flutter to the point of where they are almost closed.

And although the ancient words of 'I love you,' almost slip off my tongue as I grant him a goodnight, I never let them fall.