More than a Melody (H.S) ON HOLD

7

seven

Harry stopped coming by the diner.

He sent one last text that night, around two in the morning. I was awake when I received it.

I can't say a moment's passed since that I haven't replayed it through my mind.

'I understand if you decide our time together must be cut short.
Just know that every minute, every second, has been a pleasure, Jane.

H x.'

For hours I contemplated a response, figuring every intricate detail: Cora's presentiment words, Harry's selfless actions, my own emotions, all spiraling down like an avalanche of over thinking.

Eventually though, around Sunday evening, I messaged Harry back.

The response was painfully pitiful, one that I've mentally groaned over for many days now.

'See you Monday?'

Evidently I presided in the choice of seeing Harry, despite Cora's warnings.

I knew that I needed to start living for myself; Harry wasn't dangerous and he gave off no sign that he was someone I needed to worry myself about. Whatever happened between him and Cora was none of my concern.

And if, for some reason, Harry ever did something that made me question my safety or wellbeing, I would simply leave.

Cutting off Harry entirely for what occurred at the bar that night would have been discourteous of me.

I don't know Cora, I don't know Harry, to put one against the other would be senseless. And with that realization came the awakening cognizance that whatever happened next would be my choice to make.

And so I chose Harry.

Two weeks crawled by slower than a century's time, each second longer than the last, with nothing from him. No text, no appearance at the diner, it was if he simply vanished into thin air.

After a week I chose to accept this, to move on, it was silly to fixate on a fling that hardly lasted but a few days. If you could even call it that. A fling.

I preoccupied my mind with studying, working, and Miles' and Vincent's prodigious drama.

But none of that stopped the diner from feeling so lonely.

___________________

It's five in the morning and Vincent and Miles are standing in my room, grinning goofily while they struggle to hold a multi-layered cake.

Five. In. The. Damn. Morning.

"Happy birthday to youu," they sing in unison, completely out of tune, "Happy birthday to youu," why are they doing this? "Happy birthday dear Olive/Ollie/Olive branchh," okay, that was kinda cute, "Happy birthday to you!"

Two candles struggle beneath an air vent, flickering hastily as they wait to be blown out.

Groaning, I swing my legs over and sit up, smiling softly as I lean forward and relieve the candles of their flame.