Drowning

Forty One;

"Oh my god, baby. I have so much to tell you," I say as I enter Harry's apartment, giving him a quick peck before walking into the kitchen. Harry closed the door and locked it, a new little habit he'd adopted since we had returned back to his home.

"What's up?" he asks, sounding somewhat deflated and looking tired.

"Are you okay?" I ask, a frown setting between my brows.

"Yeah, baby. Just tired. That's all," he tells me. I place my things down onto the island chair and wrap my arms around his waist.

"I missed you," I tell him, kissing his, somehow still-solid torso through the thin fabric of his tee.

"I missed you, too." he says, placing a small kiss to the top of my head. "So, what's this news you've got to tell me?" he asks me, pulling me out from the hug to look at me.

"Have you been crying?" I ask, suddenly noticing the red veins lacing the whites of his eyes.

"What? No," he laughs, looking away from me. He itched his nose, and walked into the living room.

"When I couldn't reach you on my break, I thought something was up," I tell him, following him like a lost puppy.

"I know, babe. Sorry. I've already told you, though; I was sleeping."

"I guess," I sigh.

Harry laid his long body out on the sofa, patting his lap for me to join. Happily, I did as instructed. Harry closed his eyes and pulled my body close to his, a feeling I had missed during the day today.

"What's the news?" he asks me, his eyes still closed.

"Lauren and Luke are sleeping together." I tell him, my good mood now deflated and as flat as his mood.

"Oh, yeah. I know." he tells me. I sit up to look at him.

"How do you know?" I ask.

"Luke told me."

"When? Can you open your eyes, please? It's like talking to a wall," I chuckle lightly.

"When he came over earlier," he says, opening just one eye.

"Are you high?" I spit, judgement thick in my tone.

"Me? No," he huffs. "I'm tired, Zahara. I've told you that already-"

"No, you've been tired for weeks and not once have your eyes looked as red as they do now. So, either, you've been crying or you've been doing drugs. And since you're my fiancé, I'm entitled to know what's going on because I care and I'm worried about you, Harry." I say.

Harry finally opened both of his green eyes, and the bloodshot whites became even more visible than they were in the kitchen.

"Both, then." Harry says after a few moments of having a stare-off.

"Both what?" I dare ask, feeling dread form in the pit of my stomach.

"What you said," he mumbles, looking away from me.

"What did you take?" I ask, my voice cracking slightly.

It wasn't that I was a crybaby. But these past few weeks had been so intense, so stressful, for everyone involved. And now, hearing Harry say those words to me, it felt like a world that was repaired only by bandaids, came bursting through the cheap, sticky plastic and crashing down again. But I should've known. I should've known it would happen because bandaids weren't permanent. They couldn't fix things. I couldn't fix things. And I knew better. I knew better than to believe he was 'okay'. To believe that he was 'coping', because, to be coping, the doors wouldn't have to be locked at all times.