Arrangement [H.S]

21

Harry

Lying next to Naomi, I watched her as she slept peacefully. Her earlier distress seemed to have subsided, replaced by the tranquility of rest. 

As I lay there, I realized that I wouldn't allow myself to fall asleep either, not if there was even a remote possibility that something might happen to her. It was an instinct, a protective instinct that had taken root within me over time. I cared about Naomi at this moment, more than I had initially acknowledged, and I wanted to ensure she was safe and well.

My thoughts drifted to Naomi's character, her essence. She was an enigma, a complex blend of vulnerability and strength, of passion and restraint. There was a depth to her that was both intriguing and captivating. I wondered about the experiences that had shaped her, the dreams and aspirations that fueled her spirit.

It was in these quiet moments, in the soft glow of the room, that I began to appreciate the complexity of Naomi's being. She was more than meets the eye, and I found myself wanting to unravel the layers that made her who she was.

The depth of Naomi's feelings and perceptions, as revealed through her description of the movie, took me by surprise. I had recognized her as a sensitive and dreamy individual, but her insights into the film went beyond what I had expected. It was as though she possessed a unique ability to uncover layers of meaning and emotion that remained hidden to most viewers, including myself.

Yet, amid this admiration and fascination, an unsettling fear began to creep in. I was apprehensive that I might be teetering on the edge of a revelation I had long been reluctant to confront—that perhaps I didn't harbor any genuine hatred for Naomi.

I want to hate her, I really want to, it would all be easier then. 

I yearned for the simplicity of anger, a straightforward emotion I could direct squarely at her. But every time anger threatened to surge forth, it was swiftly overshadowed by an overwhelming sense of guilt and apprehension. I feared that my actions might have inflicted pain upon her, and this dread gnawed at my conscience, leaving me profoundly disquieted.

At first, when we met, I didn't care about Naomi's feelings. I was nervous that she was so sensitive, so fragile. The last few times we were arguing, I started thinking about how she might have felt and how she was probably going through all of this. This feeling kills me. I don't want to feel this way.

The awareness that my emotions were not as starkly defined as I had once believed was disconcerting. It left me feeling exposed and vulnerable in the hushed stillness of the room, prompting me to question the very essence of my own feelings.

 Later, it's a stupid question whether she can date others. I don't know why but I got angry. I am not and never have been the jealous type. Of course she can, but the thought made me nervous, even though we had never had anything physical before.

I don't know why I acted like such an idiot that day. After returning to the apartment and finding Naomi gone, an irrational wave of frustration and jealousy seemed to wash over me. Irritated by the idea that she might have been on a date with someone else, I impulsively decided to seek out Alex for answers.

When I confronted Alex about Naomi's whereabouts, she adopted an infuriatingly nonchalant attitude, dismissing my concerns with casual indifference. Her retort, questioning why I cared and asserting that Naomi wasn't my property, only fueled my growing irritation. She had the biggest fucking smirk on her face.

In an attempt to mask my true intentions, I feigned the need for Naomi's presence in a fabricated business meeting. However, Alex, sporting an irritatingly smug grin, saw right through my ruse. She taunted me with the suggestion that my motivations were driven by jealousy, a notion that I found difficult to admit, even to myself.