Afterlife: Reincarnation

33

July 9

HARRY

From: Harry

To: Lane

Date: July 5

Subject: Since you hung up

Since you hung up on me, I'm going to have to continue trying to have a rational conversation with your inbox.

I know you don't think that guy has anything other than innocent intentions, but that's because you, yourself, are innocent. You always want to believe people are good, and that they wouldn't do something like pray on a pretty girl just because she has a boyfriend.

Trust me. They would.

***

From: Harry

To: Lane

Date: July 6

Subject: Silent treatment?

Lane, come on. We need to talk about this. I know I probably came off a little harsh, but try and think about where I am coming from. I am here, a million miles away from you, knowing some prat is eyeing you. That makes me a little less than thrilled.

***

From: Harry

To: Lane

Date: July 7

Subject: I'm sorry

I'm sorry, okay? I know I acted like a jealous twat, and obviously you are pissed. I get it. But please just talk to me? Id rather be yelled at by you than this silence.

I love you

H

***

From: Harry

To: Lane

Date: July 9

Subject: Missing you

I watched as the cursor blinked repeatedly on my screen, like a taunting little child reminding me of what I fuck up I was. Reminding me of all the things I said wrong, of all the things I did wrong, and how I forced this silence between myself and the only person in my life that mattered.

I had been sitting here for at least half an hour, still in my sweats after a longer than usual run. The heat and sweat from my body had already cooled, chilling me now that I was no longer active. The dampness of my shirt clung to my skin in an uncomfortable manner, and I knew I desperately needed a shower. But right now, I just wanted to talk to her. I needed to talk to her.

I hated, more than anything, that my only form of communication to her was email. I couldn't call, text or anything more direct than fucking letters, like some archaic messenger from the eighteen hundreds. She had the means of connecting with me, she had the phone, the iPads; everything was on her end. Whether she wanted to talk to me or not was completely up to her.

When we were both in New York, if this situation arose, I would just call her incessantly, text her to the point of insanity, or camp out outside her door. Nothing short of stalkerish, if that was what it would take for her to listen to me. Before, I would never have resorted to such means. I would never chase after a girl, and I sure as shit wouldn't be begging for her forgiveness. But this wasn't just a girl. This was my girl. And I hated that I had pushed her away because I was jealous.

And I was jealous. Now, after days of silent reflection, twice as many daily runs as before, and more than enough time to sit back and calm my arrant temper, I could see that. But it stemmed from more than just that she was turning to this guy for support after a horrible experience. It was more than the fact that he was a source of comfort for her.

It was that he was there for her, and I wasn't. He was there, and I wasn't. He could see her, could make her laugh, could show her a different side of life that I couldn't. They had things in common, both of them going off to save the world, each in their own way. They would always share this experience with each other, they would always have inside jokes, memories and thoughts that I would never be a part of.

I was jealous that he was there, with her, and I couldn't be.

I still held by my belief that he was interested in her. I was probably overreacting slightly, a little more emphatic on my resolve than I would normally be. But the distance between us seemed to be affecting me more than I originally believed. And any bump in our road seemed like a mountain.

I just wanted her to come home. I wanted to be with her, to show her how much I missed her. I wanted to know she was safe, that she was happy. I needed the comfort in her proximity, and the solace of her voice.

Why wasn't it November yet?

Rubbing my hands over my eyes, I tried to think of what to say; anything I could say that would get her to respond to me. I hated not knowing if she had even read my messages, having no way of knowing if she had blocked me out completely or was just taking time to cool down.

She was a stubborn girl, strong willed and pig headed. I loved that about her, except when I was on the receiving end of that will. And right now, it was driving me crazy.

She would have to talk to me soon...right? Eventually, she would calm down enough to listen. Well, maybe not listen, but at least agree to speak to me again. It was hard, navigating this relationship from so far away. We knew so much of each other, and yet so little. Our honeymoon period was being spent on opposite continents, the time you took to learn the others quirks, or their triggers, or their comforts. Some of these things we knew of each other, but it would seem we still had a long way to go.

She had to learn that no matter how much she told me she loved me, I would always question myself with her. She was too good for me, and I knew that. It was my natural tendency to believe anything and anyone I cared for would leave...eventually. Fucked up, I know, but that was how I felt. I had already gone through enough therapy to know I was fucked up beyond all recognition. I was still learning to curb my anger, to monitor my words and censor my rash impulses, a skill I was learning was much more difficult in practice than theory. So far, I seemed to suck at it.

I had to learn that if I pushed her, she would push back. Where most times she would appease me, agree just to calm me, if she truly believed something I would not be able to convince her otherwise. And if I backed her into a corner, my beautiful, quiet, innocent girl would fight back. Hard. She was no push over, and she was convicted in her stance. I just had to learn how to read her better, just as she had learned to read me.

But first, I needed to formulate a fucking email to her that would get us over our latest mountain.

I had studied the written word for the last three years. I considered it an art form, and myself a relative master of the subject. Whether written or writing, I knew it was my skill. But here I was, staring at a blank screen, being teased by a fucking little line blinking like a high school bully.

Sighing loudly, I just started typing.

I'm sorry. I was out of line to talk to you the way I did. I have a million reasons why, but none of them are an excuse. I know you are angry, and you are probably trying to show me a lesson right now, and believe me, lesson learned. Because no amount of lines written or detention or even the strap could be as painful to me as your silence.

I wont bring it up again, unless you want to talk about it. But please, talk. I need to hear your voice, and to see your face. I need to know you are okay and you are safe. Even beyond our fight, your silence makes me terrified. I'm not used to having to care about someone, Lane, so please, even if its just replying to this message and telling me to fuck off, just do it. Just let me know you're okay.

I love you so much. And I'm sorry.

All the love

H