A/N: Chapters can be read in any order as they're written so that they can each stand alone. I'll put warnings and notes at the beginning of the chapters when I need to.
Enjoy. :)


DISCLAIMER : I do not own the rights to the song mentioned in this chapter.

Summary: The most beautiful of love songs are meant to reach the hearts of people, whether it be one, a few, or millions. Have you ever wondered as to what kind of story they might have come out from?


Behind the Lyrics

by Adrienne Black

...

ONE

"Distance" by Christina Perry feat. Jason Mraz

...

HARRIET

It was the worst hangover of my life. The undeniable truth hit me real hard the moment I opened my eyes and felt like the late morning sun had suddenly grown arms and punched me in the face.

Squinting my eyes despite the splitting headache, I struggled to make out my surroundings. From the looks of things, it seemed I had fallen asleep on the Cleopatra bench facing the east windows of the condo's living room.

I groaned, rubbing my face with my hands and stretching my muscles which are now sore from what most probably was an uncomfortable sleeping position on a hard wooden surface. What the hell happened last night?

I raked my brain for a recollection of the previous day's endeavors, ignoring how it made me feel worse and nauseated.

I remember answering a knock on the door to let a few friends who were supposed to be coming over in. There were five of them - Rosalie, Gemma, Sandy, PJ, and of course, Enzo. They were the same group of people I usually hang out with at the university and we sleep over at each other's places all the time - sometimes to do school work, other times just to spend some free time together and talk, but most of the time to drink, jam, and have a great night. The previous night had been the same - somebody, I wasn't sure who, went out and bought three bottles of vodka. Next thing we know, we're all being our usual stupid, intoxicated selves.

Like any other drinking ensemble, we all had our own roles we fall into place to when we have alcohol in our system.

Rosalie was the life-of-the-party kind of drunk, which was what started our habit of avoiding bars in the first place. With the red-brown hair she always wore loose cascading down her back in waves and bottle-of-coke body, she would start dancing at the first sound of a tune. It didn't matter whether it was ballad or RnB, she would keep on swaying, bouncing, and gyrating until she puked. And then once her stomach had nothing left to offer, she would start drinking and dancing again. It was an exhausting process to watch; even more so to keep tabs if she's being dragged by sex-crazed weirdoes one after another to some dark, isolated part of the club.

Gemma was the resident lesbian - the girl with the boy cut and baggy clothes who we all love. She was normally soft-spoken; so much so that you literally have to bend and cup you ear towards her so you can hear what she's saying. With a bit of alcohol though, her voice rises up a few decibels, just enough to allow a normal conversation without anybody asking her to repeat herself after every other sentence. A bit more and she'd be so wasted she'd vomit and lie to sleep beside her own mess.

She was the crime-scene-victim kind of drunk. There was one time when we actually traced her outline on the floor with a light rock and took a picture before and after the guys carried her from her position on the dirty concrete floor outside Sandy's house. We took pictures and showed her afterwards. True enough, she had absolutely no recollection of what happened. We had a good laugh making her panic with all the false stories.

Sandy and PJ were the hard-core drinkers. In all our escapades, I only got to see them wasted at least once - Sandy, when she'd been drinking every night for a whole week and then went ahead and finished two big, for-sharing bottles of beer in less than an hour on the night of her birthday, and PJ on a rare night we had decided to go out to try the newly opened, cozy little bar near the university and he drank pitcher after pitcher of their homemade cocktail just cause he couldn't taste the alcohol mixed in.

Maybe it was because of their same high tolerance to alcohol, which meant that they usually kept each other company after everyone else was already wasted, that they'd become inseparable. We call them the "big 10", mostly because Sandy was big and stout while PJ was tall and thin, and they're always seen walking together in the hallways. In fact, there had been rumors spreading before that they were secretly together, only we knew they weren't because of the latter's questionable preference.

With all the fiasco going on, somebody had to take the role of the-vomiting-records-keeper-slash-caretaker drunk - that one person who always remember what happened amidst all the craziness, down to who stained what part of the table cloth, stops drinking ahead of everybody because of a too-small and too-full stomach, which would explain the vomiting, and is ALWAYS the last one left awake to clean up the mess.

Unfortunately for me, I happened to be the one who had drawn the shortest straw. I blame my petite body for my incapacity to process alcohol better.

And then there's Enzo - the shorter-than-normal-but-still-taller-than-me Casanova of the group. He was the type of drunk who flirts with the first girl he happens to lay eyes on, no matter how unattractive she is, and then becomes a war-freak once he's crossed that non-quantifiable alcohol threshold of his before he literally passes out and forgets everything that had happened. And believe me, that ruggedly handsome face of his had put us in more trouble than I could count. He's the second reason why we stopped going to public places to drink.

But if you ask me, it became more of a problem when we did.

See, because there were no other girls to flirt with, he has now taken a bad habit of making us his targets, and because I lacked what Rosalie, Gemma, and Sandy had - a life-long training on how to avoid sex-maniacs when intoxicated, a body that looked like it belonged to a man and a heart to match, and a "1" that's always by my side - it was always me at the other end of his exhaustingly numerous advances.

If not for my rational nature, maybe I would've fallen for the guy already.

Seriously.

Well, who wouldn't? He was handsome, smart, easy to talk to, fun, talented with the guitar, has an amazing voice - should I go on? We actually would joke to him about having just about everything if not that he's a little short on height.

So imagine that almost perfect guy looking at you like he wants to kiss you, his deep brown eyes staring at your own in a slight daze as if saying that he wants you drown yourself in them. And then he would put his strong, athlete's arm around your shoulder, pulling you close at first, and then the other would come around the side and he would hug you tightly like he doesn't want to let go. His face would then bury itself on your shoulder and when nobody's looking, he would brush the hair covering your neck and plant a small kiss there. He would smile into the kiss as if reveling on a happy memory and then he would take a few deep breaths like he's trying to commit the smell of your skin into mind. He would then let you go, but not completely, his calloused hand tightly holding yours. Then he would entwine his fingers with yours, his thumb caressing the back of your hand, and tuck it under his leg or the table. He'd turn to you with those hazed eyes and he would smile that heart-melting smile as if to say he's happy of the secret he's only sharing with you.

I sighed at the memory that was still fresh in my mind as it had happened the night before - not to mention the last ten drinking sessions. For the first time in my life, I was happy of what my role was in our little group; it meant I had complete control over my emotions and that I was always aware of what's happening and why, no matter how drunk everybody else got.

I just couldn't imagine handling the situation if my head wasn't where it should be, with or without alcohol. I just knew that if I stopped being rational that my heart would succeed in silencing that smart part of my brain and I would eventually fall for Enzo real hard.

It would take just one slip of control and I would be head over fucking heels in love with him.

People would normally ask 'why the hell not?' right about this point. And then they'd go on about how I should follow my heart or some other version of the same nonsense.

Well, let me tell you 'why not' – he has a fucking GIRLFRIEND. And breaking news, she's not me.

So yes, I would continue to tell myself that what he kept on doing every time he got wasted doesn't mean anything – for both his sake and mine; and of course for the sake his girlfriend of eight months. I would continue to believe with everything I have that there's no other reason behind his actions besides that it's the alcohol's fault. And I would continue to ignore what other people kept on blabbering about how a person's deepest desires are let loose when they're drunk. I would latch onto that understanding I have that he's the kind of drunk I had concluded him to be.

If I didn't, I wouldn't know what to call what we have other than it's not love.

I had long before established that this would be the only way I'd be able to process the situation. This way, everybody wins – we get to stay friends and he and his girlfriend can stay the love of each other's lives.

Shaking my head of the unworthy thoughts, I glanced at the wrist watch I never take off and I almost instantaneously jumped off of the Cleopatra bench.

"Shit!" It was past ten o'clock in the morning and we all had classes at eleven-thirty. The condo was an hour drive from the university with traffic and there were only two bathrooms available to serve five people.

I took the few steps towards Enzo's seemingly lifeless body on the floor slowly, my migraine still pounding like a jackhammer in my head. He lay on the bare, wooden floor on his stomach, his head facing sideways, resting on his right arm. I sat next to his head and poked him on his back as I muttered his name. He was obviously still deeply asleep, not a twitch in response to my half-hearted attempts at waking him up. I could practically hear him dreaming.

I glanced around the living room at what seemed like a crime scene – Gemma on the couch, her hands and half her legs dangling at the edge, and Sandy and PJ on the floor in front of the television in each other's arms, empty bottles and glasses around them in disarray.

Turning back to victim number one in front of me, I sighed. "You know I love you, right?"

It might've been the effect of the alcohol that was still in the process of finding its way out of my system that made me said it and my coherent brain that forced the words into a whisper. I was just glad Enzo was still asleep that he didn't hear. 'Cause really, who was I kidding? I had long before crossed that line and went ahead and fallen for him.

What other proof did I need other than the fact that I couldn't stop thinking about him and how his lips felt so soft when they touch my skin, or how I kept wondering what it might feel like to kiss him, or how my heart beat so fast when he holds me close, or how I kept on forgetting to breathe when I'm in his arms?

Objectionably.

I. Am. In. Love. With. Him.

I was just too mindful to let it fuel my every action.

I wasn't stupid, I already knew I loved him; why else would I have let him do the things he did? But what I understood even more is the fact that I have to keep my heart up my sleeves.

If I was being honest, I don't think we'd be able to keep this up. I had wondered about it though, how long it would take before I finally give in to what my heart wanted. After all, a girl could only take so much leading on before she eventually makes a mistake.


A/N: As usual, too tired to proof-read, so if you saw anything please just tell me.

P.S. if you have songs you might want to read a fictional story behind, just leave me a word and I'd try to write one for them.