a mirror in the sun ☼ l.s.

seven - emotional

Friday was like waking up from a nightmare, sharp and disorienting -- except the feeling never went away.

Instead of going to Louis's match, Harry was trapped in a car with his entire family. His siblings were chattering on about something and he kept trying to find the energy to join the conversation but he just couldn't.

He was distracted. All of his friends had gone to Louis's match and then to an afterparty at one of their classmates' houses. Harry wasn't worried about missing the match and the party because he wanted to go to a party; no, no, he was worried about missing the match and the party because he didn't want Louis to think that he didn't care.

But Harry didn't know how to show that he cared; he didn't know how much he was allowed to care; he didn't know how much was too much and how much wasn't enough.

Deep down, he knew that he cared too much. It terrified him.

He kept staring at the texts that Louis had sent him the night before, trying to find the right words to respond. He never could string together the right assemblage of words; they twisted and turned inside of his head, too distorted and disoriented to ever find their way out of his mouth.

Or, in this case, from his phone to Louis's.

It was easier on the phone -- on a call. He liked the idea that he could speak the words into the air and watch them disappear. He liked the idea that the words faded, existing for only a split second before they were gone.

He liked the idea of being something temporary.

But Louis's words stared back at him. They were always there, a written record of every time the older boy thought of him. Harry's finger hovered over the small screen, tilted toward the window so that his sister didn't see. She was teasing Shane about something, but even from the seat right beside him, her voice sounded distant, muffled by his own thoughts.

He had always had a hard time accepting consistency. He had a hard time trusting reliability. He had a hard time believing in anything that wasn't temporary. Everyone around him dreamed of the bond and its permanence; sometimes, Harry only wished that moments would pass by more quickly, that time could truly be as fleeting as the words he spoke.

"You've been quiet tonight, Harry."

His head snapped up from his phone. His siblings went quiet beside him. Harry suddenly became aware of Hannah's arm pressed up against his; the entire car suddenly seemed smaller, bordering on claustrophobic.

"I'm just tired," he replied softly. Even in the small car, his voice barely carried to the front seat. Hannah nudged his arm with her elbow, and he shot her an annoyed glare.

"You sound upset," his father said. It wasn't a caring observation. It was an accusation, almost a threat. "Tell us about your day."

"That's alright, Father. It wasn't anything out of the ordinary."

"Tell me," the older alpha repeated. His dark eyes met Harry's in the rearview mirror. "How was school? What classes did you have?"

"I, uh, had a journalism presentation. It was a proposal for a-a study, that, um . . . well, they want to use my idea for the school paper. I mean, if they want to use my idea. There were a few other proposals, but i-it seemed like they liked mine, so I-I'm not sure --"

"Take a moment to think before you speak, Haz," his mother cut in. "If you let yourself breathe for a second and think through what you're trying to say, you won't have to stutter so much."

He obeyed, inhaling a shallow breath. "Yes, Mum. So . . . after my presentation, I saw some of my friends. One of them actually had a sparring match tonight, but I'm not sure how it went. I hope he did well, b-but . . ."