Cover Your Tracks [HS][2014 VERSION]

70. Little Do You Know

"Little do you know, I know you're hurt while I'm sound asleep. Little do you know, all my mistakes are slowly drowning me . . ."

I feel foolish at the realization that I'd left the apartment without a key, and that, had he chosen to be cruel, Harry could have locked me out for the night to live out my mistake. My heart thumps rampantly in its delicate cage as I sprint up the stairs towards the apartment. Puddles splash at my every step and soak my ankles until they're damp, but I continue on with strands of hair clinging wetly to my face.

Looking like an absolute love-struck fool, I come to stand at the door. The thick, wooden barrier seems to tower over me, daunting me to attempt entry. My stomach churns at the thought that my request may have long ago been denied when Harry locked the door, slid across the latches, and called it a day. Perhaps he'd decided to leave me out on my own, considering I'd run out on him. Some people were like that. They'd push you away one day and be desperate for you the next.

The curved, metal handle is cool in my damp palms. I glide my thumb along the small pressure plate and close my eyes. Upon applying a bit of force, the barrier swings open and I'm met with darkness. My heart pounds. He'd left the door open for me.

"Harry?" I call quietly, unsure of my current standing in our shared space. The door is closed, lock and latch slide back into place. I feel unbearably self-conscious as a result, as if I was now locked into some sort of lion exhibit and merely waiting for them to tear me apart. The hair along my skin stands at guard and I wrap my arms around myself upon furthering my entry.

The sound of his name plays like a broken record in the small room and the only response is that of the echo that resounds off the walls. Navigating my way in the dark, I manage to find the bed. Crawling atop it slowly, I fail in finding remnants of a body—not even an indentation left in memory. The springs groan beneath my weight as I stretch towards the bedside table. My fingers find the switch of the lamp and then, the room is illuminated with a warm yellow light.

And then I see him.

"Oh, Harry." I move from the bed to sit beside him. His large frame lies splayed out across the floor, legs pulled toward his body, hands tucked beneath his head. He's fully clothed, sporting a black sweater and pair of faded jeans that cling tightly to his legs. I stare for a moment, perplexed by his odd position. His hair is curlier towards the top and less on the ends, suggesting he'd run his hands through it before finding himself asleep there on the floor.

I reach for him, stopping only when my eyes fall upon the phone that dangles from the nightstand and onto the carpet near his head. Slowly, I rise from my crouched position and return the creamy apparatus to its original position. There's a creak in the floor as a result of my shifted weight. Harry rolls over, letting out a soft huff.

Now disturbed, his arms reach out, as if searching for something. In a moment of panic, I snatch a pillow off the bed and place it within his reach. Eventually he finds the plush object and wraps his arms around it, bringing it to his chest. His knees are brought closer to his torso. Hands linked over one another, he ceases movement and relaxes altogether. I watch him with a mixed expression of both confusion and awe, not quite sure how to proceed with the situation.

I want to usher him into bed, but I know that he won't go quietly. There's no doubt in my mind that another argument will come out of his conscious state, and I don't think I'm quite ready to face him after what happened earlier. Besides, he looks peaceful, so I let him be.

Not yet ready for sleep, I change into something comfortable—a clean t-shirt and cotton shorts—before perching myself atop the bed. I gaze down at Harry into the early hours of the morning. He tosses and turns every now and then, taking the pillow with him. The ghost of a smile on my lips comes to life at the sight of him cuddling his face into the substitution of what would have been me, had we been in bed. The pillow is lifeless and a sorry excuse for a bundle of body warmth, but his unconscious state is easily fooled by the artificial replacement.