Muse [h.s.]

46. fine line

🎵Light — Sleeping At Last
🎵Golden (Instrumental) — Piano Dreamers

Harry's POV
a year ago

"You haven't picked up a guitar in weeks, dude," Mitch says, thrusting the instrument in my hands again.

I immediately shake my head, pushing his hand away as I rise from the sofa. I'm not even deserving of looking at the guitar, much less picking it up and touching it.

"Don't wanna," I mumble, walking away as I head into the kitchen. When I get to the island, I pour myself a glass of water as I watch out the window, staring aimlessly at the palm trees swaying with the soft breeze.

Even they seem to carry more life than me these days.

Numb — I've felt numb for the past few weeks now. It almost feels like I've forgotten what emotion is and how to convey it.

I've only allowed myself to feel the basics; hunger and tiredness. Anything else, anymore more — I don't know. I've suppressed it.

Mitch, of course, follows me into the room. He scowls, slamming his hand down on the granite counter. "I've freaking had it!"

"Huh?"

"I've had it with you!" He shouts, his long hair flying across his face as he shakes his head. "I've been nothing but patient with you, I haven't been pressing or pushing you for the past month. But you've gotta help yourself, man."

I think this is the first I've heard Mitchell shout in all the time I've known him.

If I had any energy in me, I'd almost laugh.

Mitch shakes his head again when I don't respond, pulling me from my thoughts.  "You and I both know music and songwriting are your outlets. Don't do it for an album, don't do it for anyone else but yourself, dude. Please," he adds, speaking much softer.

He walks around the island to clamp my shoulder with his palm. "Pick up the guitar, Harry. It'll help, let it help you."

Mitch gives my shoulder a squeeze before he mentions something about Sarah, saying that he'll swing by later.

I barely register it when the front door slams shut, leaving me alone with my thoughts entirely.

It's awfully quiet in this house, too quiet. I've tried putting on music last week to try drowning out the deafening silence in my mind, but even that doesn't help; I've resorted to just forcing myself to stay with the thoughts.

I'm just a shell of man.

There was a stage a month ago when all I'd do is shut myself up in the bedroom upstairs and cry, holding a shirt of hers that I forgot I had. I'm not ashamed to admit it, to admit the tears that streamed relentlessly down my face.

I had left countless voicemails, sent numerous texts, all with no response. It hadn't even said delivered; I don't blame her for blocking me.

I deserved far worst.

In the coming weeks after, however, I didn't cry or even hole myself up in my bedroom. I went out to dinner with Mum and Gemma when they visited, but I wasn't...there.

I wasn't here nor there.

I've just become empty. It's been far easier than allowing myself to feel this emptiness, to feel the pit that's in the middle of my stomach, the hole that she left, that only she can fix.

I set the glass in the sink as I head back into the living room, sparing a glance at the instrument that's laid against the sofa cushions.

Almost as if it's inviting me.