More than a Melody (H.S) ON HOLD

23

twenty three

For hours nothing felt real.

The ceiling fan, the drywall, the closet door left open, the clothes that I wore now strung across the floor, the ringing of my phone which was beginning to die along my nightstand.

Nothing.

Miles came home, begging me to talk. I told him I wasn't feeling well and he brought me soup. Funny he assumed it was a cold. I wonder if the congestion of my crying or the sudden loss of my voice gave this away. Maybe.

It was one in the morning now, food untouched. I've had six panic attacks. Back to back and so debilitating that I was convinced I was going to die. I couldn't breathe or think or feel and I clung onto the sheets and pressed my face into the pillow, waiting for it all to end. But it didn't. It hasn't.

Harry's name kept appearing on my phone's screen. He responded an hour after Easton left saying he was okay, and that was all I needed. I never replied. I couldn't steady my hands enough to.

I checked his messages, though, to ensure he was okay but all of his texts were asking whether I was. I didn't say anything, it would all be a lie.

He called once, around nine, and I almost answered, I really did, but then I couldn't breathe again and I felt my chest tighten and his name across my screen no longer felt real, either. So I let it ring.

For the past twelve hours, I've watched the door to my room with glossy and isolated eyes, waiting, expecting. And when Miles opened the door, Vincent soon after, I felt the chambers of my heart collapse. Anything can happen. I waited for it, for him, but neither came.

On Friday morning I was struck with the catastrophic pitfalls of guilt. A guilt that felt silly in comparison to the plague of fear that encroached me. But guilt nonetheless.

Harry called and called and Vincent encouraged me to eat, to just take a bite of breakfast and then lunch but I could hardly move. I refused, claiming that I was nauseous and my throat felt like razors when I swallowed- and so he brought me a cup of medicine.

He waited, wanting to watch to ensure I took it, but with a sunken voice I asked if he could call Harry and let him know I was sick.

He agreed, and when he wasn't looking I dumped the liquid medication into the bowl of forgotten soup.

Vincent said he would be back in the evening to give me a second dosage. He brought me water and the IPad for Netflix, but I touched neither.

And, not but a couple of hours after Vincent left, Harry appeared beneath the frame of my door, bags in his hands and worry flooding through the pools of familiar emerald.

Vincent never locked the door.

"Hope you don't mind, but I'm your designated nurse for the weekend."

So much for his teacher training session in Portland.

I don't look at him, I don't smile at his attempt to humor me- I only tug the blanket up further, undeniably cold, seeking refuge in its layers.

Harry sets the bags down and I briefly catch sight of romcoms, vitamins, and veggies. A clove of garlic rolls onto the carpet as he kneels down, and when he reaches his hand out to rub my shoulder I pull away. He flinches back.