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The (First) Crisis

June 2013

London is cold.

Harry knows this, considering he's spent most of his life here. But in the days, weeks, and months following Nora's departure, Harry can feel the coldness seep into his skin with much more vigor than before, and he wonders if it's due to the hollowness inside of him.

He misses her.

And there's nobody to blame but himself.

Although his reaction times have always been problematic, Harry tried everything he could to explain himself to Nora before she stepped off English soil for the very last time. He nearly tackled Niall into the pavement when he heard his friend utter those dreaded three words.

Mate, she's gone.

If Harry closes his eyes tight enough, he can still hear Niall's melancholy voice echo that statement inside his head.

Looking back now, Harry's not even sure how many traffic laws he broke trying to get to Heathrow in time. All he remembers doing is parking his car in the disabled space with the keys still in the ignition, throwing his credit card at the airline worker to purchase the first ticket he could that would get him into the international terminal, and barely putting his boots back on after running through the security line with nothing but his wallet in one hand and his heart in the other.

But he's too late—he's always too late when it comes to Nora Priestley—because by the time he reached the gate where her flight to New York City was being boarded, the door to the runway was already sealed shut. No amount of begging to the pretty brown-haired air hostess could save him, because after his fourth please and sixth need, Harry watched with tear-filled eyes and a heavy chest as the plane jolted off into the grey morning sky, carrying the other half of his heart all the way across the Atlantic.

He couldn't even find a way to contact her afterward, because Nora blocked his number and unfriended him on Facebook. She deleted any form of connection that binded the two of them together, and Harry reckons it's probably for the best.

Because he can't love Nora in the way that she deserves. Christ, he can't even love himself. And that is a permanent stain ruining his half-beating heart that Harry isn't quite sure he can remove, because learning how to love starts from within—and working through all the twists and turns that live inside the deep concaves of his chest is a battle that Harry isn't quite sure he's ready for.

He isn't quite sure if he even wants to be ready for it at all.

Because with Nora gone, what's the point of even trying to fix himself? He's already accepted the fact that he's incapable of love, because the moment he made it back to his flat with tear-stained cheeks and lifeless eyes, his father was waiting for him. He didn't bother asking Harry if he was okay, instead, simply just told him to get into the shower and prepare himself for a work function he was meant to attend.

Choosing to not feel anything is better than the alternative, so as usual, Harry does what he's told. He disconnects from everything around him, reverts back to the shell of a man he once was before Nora entered his life and warmed him up with her sunbeams and showed him a kaleidoscope of colors that made him feel infinitely free for a short moment in time.

Before he ruined it all.

Because ruining things and living in a perpetual state of self-imposed misery is something Harry's known almost all his life.

The first step to feeling nothing is to begin by removing any and every trace of Nora from his life. It seems almost impossible at first, considering Harry can feel her in every corner of his flat. He can smell traces of her scent on his pillowcases, he can see strands of her dark hair tangled in the fluffy pieces of his shag rug, he can notice toothpaste stains on his favorite Eagles shirt that he used to let her borrow when she spent the night (although it always ended up on the floor), and worst of all, he can still feel the impression of her body curled around his when he lies awake at night.