Wrong

If I'm being honest, I thought I was completely over him. I had moved on, found a new guy that I'm head over heels in love with. I hadn't thought about him and how he hurt me in a while...

And then I heard the songs he wrote about me.

Instantly, all of the memories came flooding back. The good ones, the bad ones, and everything in between. I listened each and every song and cried the entire time. He even included my voice in several of his tracks. I'm flattered, but also pissed... why now? After so long, why is he dredging all of this up? Is he doing this just to fuck with me?

Well, it's working. After nearly an hour of his songs taking me for a ride on an emotional roller coaster, I miss him. I miss his raspy voice, his mop of curly hair, the smell of his Gucci cologne. I miss sipping coffees at the Beachwood Cafe, taking bubble baths together in my giant tub, discussing the books we've read, trying to teach him French. He told me I was the first girl he truly loved. I truly loved him as well. It's like he was the male version of me, and I the female version of him. We were perfect for each other. But then he had to go and mess it all up...

I pick up my phone and tap on his name. I look at his contact photo, a picture of him playfully sticking his tongue out at my camera lens, liveliness bright in his eyes.

Those were the days.

But, no. I can't call him. I love Theo now. He's absolutely amazing and is so wonderful to me. And yes, I do call him baby, and we do walk around his parents' gallery. I love doing both of those things. I love Theo. I'm his now.

But I can't help myself. After hearing those songs, hearing how much regret he has, my body is longing for him. My heart is longing for him. I can't help it.

I press the call button and hold my breathe as the phone rings. It's almost midnight; he's probably asleep and won't pick up. But then...

"Hi, honey."

I gulp when I hear his deep voice again for the first time in months. I imagine what he looks like on the other end of the phone; probably in a robe and slippers, hair all messy and eyes half open.

"Hi, Harry." I whimper.

"I take it you listened to my album?" He asks. When I don't reply, his voice gets seductively lower and he asks: "What did you think, Cherry?"

That. Damn. Word.

Cherry. His old nickname for me. It still makes my heart melt. I'm immediately taken back to the time we were laying in his bed together, entangled in each other's arms, and I was trying to teach him how to say "honey" in French.

"Chéri." I'd say.

"Cherry." He'd repeat.

It was so damn cute how he couldn't get it right. He sounded like an idiot; I couldn't stop laughing. After a while he gave up and pulled me in for a long kiss. "Well, my love," he said, "Cherry suits you."

"Hello? Camille?"

His voice on the other end of the phone snaps me back into reality. But now I miss him even more.

"I... Harry... I..." I don't know how to say what I'm feeling. In fact, I don't even know how I'm feeling. Hearing his voice after listening to the lyrics he so clearly wrote about me has me so conflicted, so torn.

"Shhh... it's okay, baby girl." He says softly. "I'm coming over, okay?"