Kismet

Eleven [The Accusation]

Day 3,642

No new messages. No missed calls. No voicemails.

Harry has been pacing his apartment for nearly twenty minutes now. Four giant steps forward and four giant steps back across aged hardwood is the most that his confined space will allow. Pru hides underneath his dresser and darts out every so often as he passes, attaching each of her ten claws into the fabric of his sock and then disappearing again when he shouts in pain. He hisses and mutters a few unkind nicknames about her being a bitty beast before he picks his phone up from the charging dock once again.

No new messages. No missed calls. No voicemails.

He's beginning to feel insane with the redundant checking, scowling at the generic background wallpaper of the cold and lonely moon before he tosses it onto his dresser again, growing tired of looking at the same empty screen that mocks not only his desolation but also his cowardice. He asks his device to show him the time and glares at the projection cast upon the ceiling, his head falling back as far as possible as he groans and swipes his palms down his face.

He glances over at the shiny screen of his device but refuses to touch it because he knows what insignificance he will find, instead choosing to rip his shirt and pants off in the middle of his apartment to stomp into his bathroom. He stands under the strong water pressure of his shower head with his eyes closed, replaying his last encounter with you over and over again. Your promising affirmations, your euphoric hug, your number exchange.

No new messages. No missed calls. No voicemails.

It has been four days since you watched the sunrise together, four days since he discovered what it was like to hold you, four days since you borrowed his sweatshirt and your smell is barely clinging onto the worn fibers for dear life. When he arrived home from your place late that morning, Pru came bounding and sliding towards the door screeching her little heart out and latching onto the hem of his pants.

He scooped her up, holding her to his chest while apologizing to her scrawny figure, fixing her breakfast of a couple spoonfuls of the wet kitten food that the vet gave him and a few scraps of tuna from work. He scratched her back while she ate from a saucer on his tiny countertop, promising her that she would meet you soon and that she would love you as much as he does.

He pulled his hoodie back onto his torso and hummed at the overwhelming scent and memory of you, kicking his shoes off and climbing into bed while he hugged his pillow between his legs and arms. Now that he knew what it was like to hug you, imagining it in his sheets had become much easier. In fact he has slept an uncharacteristic amount of times since that night but hasn't had a dream about you or a single horrific premonition and he knows that he is due for one sooner rather the later, the reminder leaving him nauseous and panicked with what it's contents could possibly be.

Over the past four days he has picked up his phone, opening up his messages to text you and staring blankly at the blinking cursor while he dug through his mind on what to write. He started and deleted several pathetic sentences, whining out loud and tossing his device onto the bed to watch it bounce and flip onto its face. One instance had his thumb hovering over your name for a phone call, the four letters and two syllables he's repeated to himself an endless amount of times much too intimidating as they stared at him with all capital letters. Clap, clap, pause. Loud and clear, close and distant, his but not.

He recalled the moment your fingers tapped against his screen, your agile and confident movements, that cosmically perfect hug that followed it all up like some sort of taunting interjection, the kisses you left on his face and the residual glitter he felt for at least five minutes afterwards. He has relished and relived each sacred second again and again until the recollection began to liquify, as if he was remembering the memory itself rather than the actual event. Your face blurred and your scent faded and he just wanted nothing more than a visit from you in his dreams but it never came. He has accepted that he is much too spineless to call or text you, so hopefully the universe will deposit you into his lap again. Either that or point and laugh from afar.