Book of Love

Peter Gabriel

Stories, a Harry Styles oneshot written in his P.O.V.

Our English teachers teach us one valuable lesson: well-written stories never end. Good stories live within us, we become those characters: fighting evil, breaking rules, and most of all, falling in love. I drowned in her stories, fascinated in how she told them—how she would tuck a tendril of hair behind an ear as she started, how her northern accent would sneak out from time to time—and in her stories, I was in love.

“Characters need time to fall in love,” our English teacher Mr. Cook lectured the class. “The characters need obstacles to overcome, need a reason to love…” She never failed to listen, chewing the end of an eraser and focusing on the chalkboard. She loved English, and thus, she loved stories, loved to create her own.

“There once lived the incredible Princess Lux in a distant village,” she recited to Lux, tucking her under a large, white duvet. “She was beautiful, had the softest hair and most contagious smile.” She tickled her, causing a smile from Lux to emerge. “And with her Uncle Harry, she would fight evil!” Lux continued to listen with close ears. With a small lantern illuminating the room, she continued to recite one of her stories as I watched, leaning against the frame of the door. How could a woman be so beautiful?

“In order to be relatable, however, the characters need flaws,” Mr. Cook noted. With creased brows, I failed to understand. Could some characters be flawless?

The night cracked as we embedded ourselves in the sand, listening to the waves of the ocean. After a long night of celebrating six months together, we were exhausted, and I found myself blurting out words without caution. I told her I loved her, told her she made the words in romance novels come to life. Instead of returning the words, she frowned and muttered a soft, “Promise to fall out of love with me.” Before I could answer, she scuffled from the sand and hurried home.

“And of course,” Mr. Cook continued, leaning on his desk, “sometimes love is not all it seems. Some characters are unable to love, unable to feel such raw emotion…” She thought to herself, writing the notes in her notebook. Little did we know, she would understand more than I ever could.

When Mum and Robin married, I invited her to come with me. After Mum and Robin exchanged rings, I stood there and wondered if she would ever fall in love with me. Later in the night, when I asked her to dance with me, she shook her head and smiled, “Can we tell stories instead?” I nodded. As the others danced the night, we remained in a corner of the room, sharing secrets and stories over tall glasses of wine. God, I remember her laugh, smooth and fluid like alcohol.

Though I heard a thousand stories, I knew there were some stories missing, some she stored in herself to never tell a soul, and in those stories, were the reasons she was unable to love. “Find out those stories,” Mum instructed me one night. “Find out those stories and love her for them.”

Before graduation, we wasted the night in each other’s arms, tucked under a thin sheet in front of the T.V., our skin sustaining warmth amid our bodies instead. Anxious to tell her, the words leaked out once more, causing a frown to form across her features. “I said to fall out of love with me,” her breath hitched.

“Is there a reason?” I asked, searching for a clue in her clouded stare. She told me she was abused, mistreated—taught not to deserve love and because of it, she never learned to love others. I vowed to change her, to show her a better ending to stories.

Throughout our time together, I showered her with love and adoration, taught her I would never hurt her. Our kisses were invigorated with love, with sentimental value, more than words could ever describe. The night I made love to her, she stared at me, hands shaking, and muttered, “I…I am not sure I can do this.” She meant love, afraid to hurt me down the line, to fail us. I dismissed her negative thoughts with a tender kiss, sure she would never hurt me.

“However,” Mr. Cook added, “sometimes the characters do not make it. One leaves the other, or even worse, students, one dies.” She cocked her head to the side, recollecting her thoughts. At the time, neitherof us even knew what was coming, the wave about to crash.

She was losing herself to an illness, one which takes life from our hands, cold and without reason. Before she died to leukemia, I visited her in room 201 each night, making sure she told me one of her stories each night. Instead of telling me the usual stories, she told me the missing ones, the stories of her abuse. Each night, I learned more about her, learned the collector’s edition to her life. I engraved those stories into me, reminding me to fight, to love, to treat others with a kind heart.

Some would assume she died without loving me, but she loved me. She did. She loved me in stories, loved me in more words than three. Some would even think she left me, but stories can never leave. Her stories fought demons, her stories shined light, her stories were frontline at war, and it is in her stories how I fell in love—not from one short chapter, but from each sentence, each word, each damned semicolon and letter.

Her stories were within me, alive and urging to be told. She might be gone, but her stories are here, never-ending and fighting me alongside battle. As our English teachers taught us: well-written stories never end. 

Therefore, I will not end this with a “the end” but rather a “to be continued” because even with her gone, there is so much more to love, so much more air to breathe, and so much more stories to be told.

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Author’s note: So the concept I wanted to show in Stories is even though our loved ones die for whatever reason, we must store their stories in our hearts and continue to share what we were taught, and it is even more important now to share stories with our loved ones to bring us so much more closer. Hope it was good! Let me know what you thought here (✿◠‿◠)