After the End: Book 4

22. How to be Happy

Harry POV

"I'm not going to do that," I repeated myself for what felt like the hundredth time. Phoebe looked no further convinced.

The two of us were sitting on the floor opposite from eachother at the coffee table. The game between us, currently Uno, was spread out in a mess of colored cards. Phoebe had recently swiped across the neat stack with her hand, spreading them out. She'd been losing to me rather terribly when that happened. She was a sore loser.

We'd been playing through the games almost the entirety of the day. The stack had been rather large, although it wasn't even half of what I knew I had at home. Louis had chosen them with clear intention. He'd gone for simple games with easy rules. It seemed like he'd aimed for ones he'd seen me play more than once in his living room. It was nostalgic and kind of sad, but also incredibly effective in distracting my mind.

We'd stopped playing after Phoebe swiped at the cards. I'd specifically told her she needed to take a rage break. Lux had to take little breaks too. That's why she cheated so much.

"We can't live on oatmeal," Phoebe pressed.

We'd had oatmeal again around lunch time, although meal times felt arbitrary at the moment. I didn't throw up. I only felt mildly nauseous. I also stomached crackers again. Progress.

"You can eat whatever you want," I informed her.

I started gathering up the cards. My hands were doing that shaky thing at all times except for when I kept them busy, so I was keeping them busy. My body felt sluggish and uncooperative and I was ignoring it for the sake of my own sanity. Phoebe wasn't giving me much of an option anyways. It seemed she'd been specifically instructed to keep me from doing the motionless depressive episode thing, and I couldn't stop the feelings, but I could choose to play board games and hold pointless conversation. It felt somehow easier and harder at the same time. At least with the games infront of me I wasn't thinking about how fucking appalling reality was starting to look in sobriety. The more the brain fog lifted, the worse the last year looked.

"We got all these groceries, and they're going to go bad because you won't touch them," she argued.

"I didn't ask anyone to get groceries," I replied. I'd not actually asked for anything. Except help. I succeeded in gathering all the cards and began shuffling them around in my hands. "I'm not responsible for the waste."

"You're being stubborn," she said.

I shrugged. Phoebe waited for me to respond verbally, but I didn't. Instead I tapped the deck of card on the table to even them up and then started working them back into the box they'd come from.

"You have to start doing things eventually," she continued when I didn't speak. "You can't spend all day watching movies and playing cards. You've got to take care of yourself too."

I narrowed my eyes into a slight glare her direction. I was taking care of myself fine. I had showered. I never showered when I got sober in the past. It was one of the main things I forgot to do when I would get into the depression slump. I'd insisted on being clean. By that measure I was thriving.

Give me my tiny victories please. I need them.

"What's the point in cooking if I can barely keep food down?" I asked again, as if her answer would change. This was a circular argument. I'd rather be in a circular argument than sitting in silence, so I was content with it.

"You didn't throw up today," she reminded me. That was true. I'd been proud of that, but only because she congratulated me again. Tiny victory. "Come on, I'll even help. We can cook together. It'll be good for you."