Aquarelle [h.s]

forty-nine

The next couple of weeks went by in a blur, and the end of June found us driving to Manchester.

I sat next to Harry in his car as he sped down the to him familiar streets of his hometown, a heavy silence determined by the intensity of the situation we were about to encounter hovering all around us. I looked out of the window as we passed a multitude of identical houses, feeling restlessness bubbling down inside me with every second that went by.

All of a sudden Harry turned off the radio, letting us sink into a much deeper and way less metaphorical silence, to the point that I could listen to the beating of my own heart inside my chest.

I turned my head to look at his side profile, but the look on his face was neutral, not allowing the thunderstorm that I knew was going on inside him to traspare from his mint green irises.

I just observed him for a while, resting my elbow on the open car window, my cheek leaning on my hand, not being particularly effected by his behaviour even though he was acting so differently from what I was by then used to. I knew why he was acting like that, and for that reason I knew that I wouldn't have said a word about it, considering it had nothing to do with me personally.

Then, suddenly, he turned into a driveway and stopped his car, the instant change after having spent hours driving leaving me a bit surprised.

I looked up, staring at the bricks of the house right in front of me, apparently so undifferentiated from all the others, but so unique at the same time.

It was a family house. With two floors and a little bit of an uncultivated garden all around, huge windows that gave into the darkness and a little path that brought to the front door, it wasn't hard to imagine a family could've lived in it once, with little children and maybe even a dog to play with. It didn't feel odd to wonder how many times that dark ebony door had been opened each morning as each member of the family went on their daily routine, some to work, some to school to better their education.

It'd been a family house, but now it was the ghost of it, a broken shell with too many memories hidden between its walls, a constant reminder of past happinesses and everlasting heartbreaks.

Harry opened his door and got out of the car and I followed him, a few steps behind him, for some reason not wanting to catch up to him right when we were standing in front of his old house.

I watched him a bit tensely as he rummaged through the pockets of his trousers, standing in front of the door. He took out a key and inserted it in the keyhole, taking a deep breath before turning it, the lock opening with a click.

Harry hesitated a bit, seeming to be a bit unsure of what he was about to do, and then pushed the door open, a shard of sunlight coming into the empty building, enlightening the dust that was settled mid-air.

"Sorry, it isn't the cleanest. I haven't been here in seven months" he shared, his voice quiet and echoing into the corridor in front of us. "You can go inside."

I didn't reply and followed his gently put request, taking a couple of steps into the building and suddenly feeling like I'd entered some kind of parallel universe, the walls so empty but so evidently filled with memories that I almost felt the need to go back outside to breathe some fresh air.

For over five years, I'd been wondering about Harry. About who he was, where he came from, what his story was. It was clear to me that the house I was in was about to answer all of my questions, and I didn't know how to deal with that piece of information. It was everything I'd always wondered about, and because of that it terrified me.

Harry was letting me in, way more than he'd ever done before. He was letting me inside that part of his reality that was so essential to him although deeply wounded, and that realisation scared me. It was so personal, so private, that I could feel my heart ache inside my chest, torn between accepting it and bracing myself for the explosion that would've swept me away if he'd come to regret his decision.