More than a Melody (H.S) ON HOLD

31

thirty one

Sleep never happened. A not-so-surprising surprise that I was forced to reckon with. For hours I traced dull fingertips over the freshly made cotton sheets and stared at the partially opened closet doors and checked the window five, six, seven times to ensure it was locked. I glanced at my phone and saw nothing from no one. Not that I was truly expecting anything. Shit hit the fan a little after midnight and I had already spoken to Miles once. And he made it clear that he wouldn't breathe a word until he was in Oregon. Two days.

I heard Harry walking around as soon as the sunlight began creeping beneath the window's blinds. Despite the imminent golden rays, everything was blue. Blue. The blue matched the curtains and my mind and even though I was eager for answers, I didn't move from the bed for several hours.

It was 8 AM when he lightly tapped on the frame of the door, calling out to me softly as he did so. I stirred, pretending I had just woken up, but it was blatantly obvious from the wideness of my eyes that I had been up for much longer.

"Hey," he's wearing a plain black t-shirt and sweatpants, a yellow mug in his hands, "d'you manage to fall asleep?"

Harry stands awkwardly near the end of the bed, more towards the door, waiting for permission to come in fully. I sit up and give a wave, the comforter draped over my knees as I gently take hold of the mug he holds out to me.

"Not a wink." Knees folding inwards, I pat the bed and he takes a cautious seat.

"Me neither."

He's toying with his rings again, odd random circles in odd random directions. Continuous as he looks down shyly. I do the same, gazing into the mug, searching for a safe haven in the pastel coatings of nebulous paint.

Harry was both a trigger and a waving white flag of truce. And I knew he could see that he was. My conceptions were a sonnet he memorized so deeply that I could merely blink and he would be able to break down the syntax of my lashes.

So it hardly surprised me when I opened my lips to speak and he swirled the words right from under my tongue.

"I'm scared, too."

"I'll be expecting the worst." I blurt out in response, swallowing all the other words down. I ran through the possibilities all night. The worst being a serial killer or human trafficker. The mere thought makes bile crawl within the linings of my esophagus.

I knew it was bad, whatever it was.

"Are you?"

He says this as if he's unsure whether my version of the worst is on the same spectrum as his. Doubtful, ambivalent, vague, hazy, oscillating. Every word in the dictionary that was synonymous with uncertainty- that was Harry. And that was me. What will happen after? Once he confesses to me who he is? Where will I go, if I'm not safe both out in the world and with him? Not with Miles, or Silas, or Zayn, Danny, Delilah, no one. Where will I be when this is over?

"I think so." I can feel my voice crack and I hate myself for that. I really, really do.

"Are you ready, then?"

No.

"Yes."

The end of the bed is no longer cushioned inwards as he rises, and I know he can see the way I shake because he carefully relieves the temperate beverage from my hands. My knees -in their brash numbness- unwind, fully extended, toes sweeping the floor.