Chapter 32 - Engagement Ball Part 1

                                    

                                          
{In the midst of the madness, I only pray that I will find you. And when I do, I promise I will never let go.}
                          
*Charlotte's POV*
                          
I felt like a princess.
                          
My hands refused to leave the embellishment at the waist of my dress, my restless fingers constantly picking at the beads that shined like the stars, along with the sequins that were patterned around them. Red like the pigment of a rose, the dress captured my waist with its silk material and panned out into a beautiful ballroom style.
                          
I never imagined myself wearing a dress such as this one. One that not only made me feel like one of the princesses I only dreamt of being, but made me look the part. And there was no way of denying that Harry had a hand in how I felt tonight.
                          
Forget everything you've heard from the tabloids--completely wipe your mind clean. Because falsely word-proclaimed player Harry Styles sure knew how to treat a girl.
                          
Granted, we were friends and nothing more, but Harry's personality was of a romantic nature. He was the cheekiest yet sweetest lad anyone would ever come across, making me question why he liked someone like myself.
                          
I feared that after confiding in him about my feelings for Louis, we would once again drift apart, the truth that betrayed me also impeding our friendship. But I was wrong. So wrong. Our friendship only strengthened and though Harry was shocked with what I had to tell him, he was insanely understanding.
                          
My eyes were fixated on the vase of roses just to my right. With careful fingers, I picked one out and brought it underneath my nose, the soft petals tickling my skin. The days leading to the engagement party, Harry had sent over a dozen individual roses to where I was residing, Danielle's house. Not just any roses--because Harry didn't seem to be particularly fond of doing things the normal way--the roses he sent me were coated in sequins and always accompanied by a heart-churning note. And when I questioned his sweet gestures, he only smiled a smile framed by dimples and said:
                          
"They match your dress."
                          
So maybe he was childish and silly in every way, but maybe, he was also just what I needed the entire time. A friend.
                          
With one final look at the mirror, I grabbed ahold of a silver clutch from the dressing table. In the process of doing so, something fell out from inside the open purse and clattered to the ground. My eyebrows knit, I bent down and wrapped my ring-graced fingers around the familiar white plastic box.
                          
The last time I had used the same clutch was the day I met Louis, at one of the infinite glorious parties my parents hosted. I stood back up, the empty box of cigarettes still in my hand. Memories of the night flooded my mind, reminding me of the monster that Louis had prevented me from becoming. He had caught me at the brink of time--when I was just about ready to give up and throw my (somewhat of a) life away.
                          
It sounds strange, but I wouldn't change anything about that night. I didn't regret talking to Louis. I didn't regret being so eager to see him again. And the weirdest part yet--I didn't regret falling for him. It wasn't the kind of love that poets described. It wasn't the kind where two beating hearts began to beat just for each other and soon became one. It wasn't luxurious, sweet, or anything in between.
                          
It brought me many tears, but there wasn't a single way to deny that it brought me just as much happiness.
                          
Louis was the reason I had quit smoking; the reason I cleansed my life of the drug. When I had nothing left to live for, he gave me a reason. How could I possibly regret that?
                          
A very small part of me couldn't quite believe that I had resorted to smoking, but another part screamed in contradiction that the very fact wasn't as sad as the reason for why I pulled out my very first cigarette. I remembered perfectly how the small and cylindrical tube felt foreign to the gap in between my fingers. And now the vacant box was the one that seemed so foreign, yet familiar and enticingly sinister as it lay on top of my palm. A fraction of my old instincts remained, urging me to reach into my pocket where I used to keep a lighter.