Symptomatic

9

Harry sat at the counter, staring forward at the dark kitchen. It was three in the morning and the boys who weren't out were all asleep. Even Jj had managed to drag himself back from the studio by midnight and pass out. As a matter of fact, the only person still out was Ethan, who had planned to hang out with some other friends.

It was almost infuriating how sociable Ethan was. He had just about as many friends as Jj had, and he always found a way to drag his social gatherings out for several hours longer than he had announced. He was probably at some bar or hanging out at someone else's house at this point.

Harry felt lucky to have a couple of friends outside of the group, let alone an entire army. Sometimes he would sit around and picture himself meeting new people without awkwardness- no stiffness, no stuttering, no depending on his friends to take the focus away from his shifting gaze and incessant fidgeting.

Maybe the frustration was caused by his lack of sleep, or the fact that he spent all day every day fighting against Josh's desire to make him take time off. The incident at the studio had seemed to make Harry's relationship with Jj much different, as well. Every time the older looked at him, his eyes looked slightly paranoid, as if he expected the younger to collapse onto the floor any minute in a heap of grief and insanity. He had even tried hugging him at one point, which ended very awkwardly.

The only person who treated him the same was Vikk. Harry suspected he was trying to make up for the days where he'd cry late into the night about how their friendship group was 'going to shit' on Harry's shoulder, and how he would listen, depending on the younger's friendly antics to feel remotely normal.

The world would start spinning every few minutes. Harry would be sitting there, enjoying the clarity of momentary sanity, until a feeling of cold, painful dread would rise in his body and send his vision out of whack. His head would swim in a way that felt relaxing for the first millisecond, then quickly shattering into nausea and anxiety in the next. His hands and feet seemed slightly numb all the time, as if he had rubber bands around his limbs, cutting the circulation. His wiggled his fingers and toes angrily, trying to get the feeling back, but all of his efforts were meaningless because he was fairly certain the entire thing was psychological.

But if it is psychological, that must mean nothing is really wrong with him, right?

Every time the dizziness faded, Harry would eye the fridge, feeling as though he may have the stomach to eat more than the ridiculously small portions of bland, easily digested foods he had been forcing himself to eat for the past few days. So he would stand up to open it, looking forward at the illuminated drawers and feel his appetite quickly vanish, replacing itself with a queasiness that he wasn't really certain was queasiness.

Was it normal to feel sick in your heart? Probably not. Nevertheless, it wouldn't go away, and it refused to share its home in Harry's body with food.

When Harry was starting to believe that the only way out was through secretly taking some of Josh's insomnia medication and throwing himself on someone else's bed, the heard the front door open. And after a few seconds, a short haired, annoyingly handsome man stepped into the room, sliding his shoes off as quietly as possible and shut the door behind him. He looked up, mostly likely expecting to see an empty and quiet house (aside from the snores that filled the bedrooms) only to jump slightly at Harry's dark, solemn figure that now stood silently in the kitchen like a statue.

"Shit, you scared me. What are you doing up?" He whispered lightheartedly, smiling through the mixture of tiredness and the extroverted high everyone but Harry somehow obtained after being smushed into overbearing crowds, talking to people without a care in the world. Just seeing their expressions made Harry feel left out, because never in his life had he felt like that. It made him angry.