More than a Melody (H.S) ON HOLD

22

TW: uncomfortable scenes relating to sexual harassment, violence

twenty two

I sent Harry a text not long after he left, telling him that I was always here when or if he needed me.

He didn't respond.

I didn't take this to heart, though. He needed a distraction, for the day at least, and that message was nothing but a reminder.

I just hoped he was okay. I really, really hoped he was okay.

It was a little past two now, the rain has subsided and the sun was beginning to peek through the opaque clouds and thickened layers of fog. I sit along the balcony, knees tucked in, attempting to write.

Attempting being the key word.

My mind was far too jumbled to form words in a sequence I wanted. And I swear I've been checking my phone every few minutes, despite having turned my ringer on.

I've had a feeling burrowed deep within me all morning and afternoon- a feeling that berated my nerves and mind with a purpose I didn't know. Something felt off, the sun was dimmer and the fog was denser and I wondered whether the planets were diverting from their paths. And no matter how much I tried to reassure myself that nothing was wrong, the feeling intensified. Everything intensified.

I can't pinpoint the appropriate words to describe this feeling, a feeling far beyond the realms of anxiety. Almost like a warning, a warning from fate that presents itself in chills and nausea and paranoia.

It was likely an accumulation of after effects from the past couple of days. Telling Delilah and Danny and Harry finding out and leaving so soon. I just always wanted everything and everyone to be okay, but that's not how life works.

Life would be too easy if that's how it played out.

The silence and my thoughts are shoved away, though, when four distinct knocks are heard sounding from the front door; hardened fists meeting solid wood. Each drag of the knuckle is quick, persistent, rhythmic intervals that make me jump ever so slightly.

Hope blossoms within me as I set aside my book and peak over the balcony's ledge- in search of one car and one car only.

But I don't see it, I don't see him.

The hope becomes wilted as I trudge to the door.

What I don't expect to see is Easton's face through the peephole: hands shoved in the fronts of his jeans, jacket bulky and zipped to counteract the cold. And the next thing I know, I'm opening the door, a fake smile plastered across my face.

"Easton?"

"Hey, Vincent asked me to swing by. Forgot his wallet."

"Oh, I could have-,"

"I'm already heading to Astoria as is."

La Cachette, right, he no longer worked in town.

"Oh, well, you can come in, I'll go grab his wallet."