Lonely Nights // H.S

12. *

'It's been a while but I still feel the same'

*

There's a light knock at the door, one that's cautious, perhaps not wanting to be heard. My body remains in its seat, facing the entrance with a look of concern and fear, but also the smallest bit of joy. Something I hate to admit, something I shouldn't admit.

The knocking repeats once more when I don't answer straight away, too, this time with more purpose behind the hand that beats the wood. I stand to my feet and try not to pace too fast towards it.

It's been two days since Harry asked to visit. Two days since he spent an evening with his fiancé, and I enjoyed a date. Two days since I kissed someone else and wished it was Harry's lips on mine. Two days since I agreed to see him, knowing that just one look at him would have me falling to my knees for him.

That power, so strong but almost invisible to everyone, maybe even Harry, is something that maims me in a way. Like I don't have as much autonomy over myself, my hear or my body when he's around, because I've been so desperate for him to see me as something other than his friend's younger sister that I've given him every ounce of control.

I'm still not sure what he wants, or why he kissed me, but part of my brain, the side I like to quiet so often when it gets too loud and aggressive, enjoys the mystery. Maybe if we don't attach feelings to whatever is happening, it won't mean as much. Maybe it will save the fallout that is inevitable. And that's not to say that this will go any further; I'm hoping it will not because I can't bear the thought of hurting anyone. But still, that voice, always present, always talking, wants it.

I have feelings, though. Feelings I'd rather not admit to, because it makes me feel somewhat smaller than I already do. Like the notion of having an aching in my heart for him would make me a fool, a joke, something to laugh at. Perhaps he will if he finds out. He'll look at me across the room and his smile will quirk up as the creases near his eyes grow deeper. He'd laugh so loudly it would deafen me, and I'd only be able to hear that in my nightmares. The thought of being laughed at, it may destroy me.

I always seem to think that's how people will react when I tell them any detail of my mood or feelings or life in general, really. I convince myself that not everyone wants to hear it, that they'd rather me not speak at all. Because if I do speak, then maybe it's not that important at all. Maybe I'm not worth the hassle of listening to or caring about.

There's always a lot of what ifs on my mind, I think. Hypotheticals that I get so caught up on and overanalyse to the point that they became factual.

A third knock on the door, my feet now placed on the carpet in front of it. My hand reaches out for the handle, ignoring the way my breathing picks up, and I finally open it to reveal Harry.

Today is somewhat gloomier than it has been as of late. A storm due for the first time in weeks, set to bring in some well needed rain to cut through the humidity. It's still unbearably warm and sticky, the small braid at the back of my head sticking to the skin of my neck, but he stands with a hoodie on, hands buried in the front pocket.

He lets his eyes move over me for a moment, taking a few seconds to look upon the smock dress I threw on and the cardigan covering my arms, then he clears his throat and says a hello. I move to the side to let him in, walking to the kitchen once the door is closed and locked, almost as if I'm scared someone will barge in and interrupt us.

"Do you want a drink?" I ask without looking at him.

"Just a water please," he says.

I busy myself with it, choosing a tea for myself to prolong the silence and avoid the conversation that's needed, but I feel his eyes on me the entire time, longing, begging, hoping I'll turn around and see him. I don't need to be facing him to see him, though. We could be in a crowd of thousands, but I'd know where he was in an instant without even spotting him. It's like my mind searches for him without realising, and the strange thing we have developed between us over the years means I have some sort of radar for him.