Delude | h.s.

eight

Could you be my best friend?
I'll tell you all my secrets
(Can We Be Friends?) - Conan Gray

♤

Layne

The sun is shining directly in my face. The moment I open my eyes, I wish I hadn't because it is so fucking bright it feels like someone is searing my eyeballs.

I groan and pull the covers over my head.

I really should invest in some curtains.

My head is pounding. I swear I can feel my heart beating throughout my skull. It also feels like my brain weighs a thousand pounds.

I roll over so I'm facing away from the window and blink my eyes open while still under my blankets. My sheets are white, so the sun shines lightly through them.

I feel like shit. I don't remember getting home last night or even leaving the club for that matter. All I remember is dancing with Iris and Jenny. I think I have a vague memory of washing my face, but I'm not completely sure that happened.

Slowly, I remove the blanket from over my head. It's bright in my apartment, but not nearly as bright as it is outside the window. I rub my eyes in attempt to wake myself up and take a deep breath. After I give myself a little pep talk, I sit up in my bed and fully open my eyes.

The first thing I notice is that the clothes I wore last night are folded on top of my dresser.

I have never once folded my clothes while I was plastered.

An image of Harry leaning against my dresser floats into my mind.

I shake my head, trying to get the image out of my mind. When I get up and walk to the bathroom, I'm hit with a faint memory of Harry leaning against the doorframe. I remember seeing him smile while we were standing in the lobby, and I remember him looking distraught over me tripping up the stairs. I can see him in my living room taking off my shoes, and I can picture his body lying next to mine in my bed.

Okay, hold up. What?

Why does he keep popping up at different places in my apartment?

Was he here?

Was he in my bed?

There is no way, it must have just been a dream.

After I'm done in the bathroom, I walk to my kitchen and see a Post-It note on my fridge. I squint at it as I walk closer and read:
Good morning, text me when you wake up, so I know you aren't dead.
-H
There is a phone number at the bottom of the note.

My lips part in shock and I keep reading the message over and over. I want the image of this burned into my brain. It is so innocently sweet.

Holy shit. That means he was here.

Did all of that actually happen?

Oh God. Did he sleep in my bed?

It doesn't matter now because, if he did, it already happened so I can't change it. I wonder when he left. Other than the note and folded clothes, there's no sign that he was even here.

I stare at the note in disbelief and then I realize that he gave me his phone number.

He wants me to text him.

I probably would have sprinted across the room if I could, but since I feel like the world is weighing on my head, I walk at a brisk pace. The second my phone is in my hands, I'm typing the first six digits of Harry's number into my contacts. I can't remember the last four, so I type them in once I'm back in front of the fridge.