More than a Melody (H.S) ON HOLD

29

twenty nine

Harry, POV

I've stared at that journal for six months now. It's put away on the shelf, has been since she left it on the floor of the room back in February. Yet it stands out. Amongst all of the different colored binds, the blues and reds, white and blacks, yellows and creams, the little brown leather is a bold faced reminder that is more vibrant than any reds or yellows could ever be.

She wrote in the inside cover a simple message, a pre-written reassurance that every word in every page was for my eyes only.

"Harry,
I hope, when you read this, it makes you feel that same 'something.'

Jane ♡︎"

Despite the pages being empty, I felt that something, you know? That nothing and everything. Like when you stare at a ceiling after reading the ending to a book you wanted to hold onto forever- having to accept that that's it, the story is over, the characters are now nothing more than a past experience and there's nothing you can do now but remember.

Probably would have been easier if she didn't leave it behind. Probably easier for her that she did.

"How much?"

Zayn's question is an interjection. I cut my eyes away from the bookshelf.

"For?"

"How much was the last load Rafe settled?"

I rub the nape of my neck, unsure what's more difficult: being brought back to reality or thinking of her and what once was. What a pain they both are.

The drink in front of me is untouched. I want to down it, and another, six more or even seven, but something in me tells me not to. So I don't. I just stare at its caramel luster.

"$28,950. Small delivery. Trying to maintain a low profile west of Oregon."

"And the shipment in Nevada?"

"That's in the wake. Thursday at the latest, I suspect."

Fuck it. I lean over and grab the drink. I take a sip. Something to distract my hands and mind. My insides are warm, tequila running marathons down my splintered throat. Zayn's quiet. I curse under my breath to what he says next.

"You know I can only do so much, Ez."

I sink into this sofa. Eyes momentarily drifting to the ceiling before falling back down- rings tapping into the glass.

I knew that before he even said it. Of course I did. Time is relative but it's relativity was running low and I couldn't not be there when that moment arrived. Because when it did, it would be an avalanche of unexpected expectance. That's how they worked.

"I like her, she's a sweet girl, but this was only supposed to be temporary. You and Miles need to get your shit together. Andreas is already beyond suspicious. You're lucky he's been as preoccupied as he has been."

"Hmm." I hum. Hopefully appeasing the dull ache that comes and goes at the mention of her. I've felt sick since I've met her. As melodramatic as that seems, it was melodramatic sincerity.

She spoke softer than the waves and the wind and that made me sick because the inconceivable perfection of such a voice, in itself, seemed to be a theatrical resolution. I was sick when I became swarmed with her whirlwind of honey and olive. Olive. I was sick when she first poured the bits of herself and myself into this beautiful fucking compound of tenderness and poetry. I was sick knowing she knew nothing of her entire life and I knew it all, it wasn't fair to know. Wasn't right that I knew more of her than she did herself but I did. It wasn't a choice I made, it was one that was brought about to my awareness and I felt sick that I could say nothing. I was sick the moment, the hour, the second I realized I loved her more than myself because it didn't feel right to love someone who spoke softer than the waves and the wind. All I've ever been, and ever will be, is sick. Sick has become a symbol of who I am.

And yet, at the very same time, she was the antibody.  A twisted defect I needed to understand, needed to break free from, but selfishly ached and wished not to. I've done a lot of selfish things.

"This why you came by?" Each syllable is a whisper of deflection. I didn't know what else to say to what he said. Things I already knew. But yet he wanted to make me aware as if I had forgotten. As if I could.

"I came by to check in on you. I only ever see you briefly. And if I'm being honest, how you've been acting? Shit's as obvious as waving a red flag in a white room."

"Yeah? This a goddamn intervention or some shit, Malik?"

Hostile without reason. He was right. I hated that he was. But that had nothing to do with him and everything to do with me.

"Being defensive doesn't help your case."

Yeah, I know. I definitely know that. Pinching the bridging of my nose seems to be some impermanent cure. A very quick one that's gone before it's even fully there. Zayn stands and then his steps grow further from me and closer to the front door.

"Eventually she has to know."

I hear the door shut.

"Yeah," I say, even though he's gone.

Eventually.