The Me You Can't See (H.S)

33

TW: Use of derogatory and harmful words.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Haven's POV:

Ever since I was young I've always hated storms and liked the rain, but now by that single night alone. . .I love it. I've never felt closer to Harry than I did at that moment. I can still picture his wet mop of hair and piercing green eyes, the eyes that were focused on me.

When I catch him looking at me, it sometimes feels like a dream and I always wonder how long the dream with last. To be the object of his attention is something special let me tell you. He's by no means perfect and neither am I. The way I know he's listening to everything I say or the way his eyes follow every curve of my face. Everything about this man makes me warm and frustrated and happy and guilty.

I feel everything with him, emotions I both want to and don't. He's asked me before what I'm doing to him, but I think the real question is what is he doing to me?

With a glass of whiskey in my hand, I sit in the kitchen with my notebook and pen laying on the table and a lit cigarette between my fingers.

About a week has passed since that night and as the time reads 3 in the morning I take another sip of the brown liquid, sloshing around my glass. Harry had been busy and besides stolen kisses or grabby hands here and there we haven't seen much of each other recently.

But tonight I woke up stuck to the bed, sweat dripping down my face as I experienced another sleep paralysis episode. After so many nightmares, you would think I've gotten used to them, that their effects had lessened over the years but no, they haven't. . .and I don't think they ever will. My eyes burn from exhaustion having stayed up late the past couple of nights, the knowledge of what to come laying heavy on my mind. More specifically what day is to come.

My cigarette is now down to the filter and my pen scratches against the pages of my notebook, something I haven't done in a while. I'd revealed to Harry all those nights ago that I used to compose music with my mom, but writing poetry used to always help with it. That was something that was always just mine, something nobody else knew I did. My muses changed with each day, but recently they have all been centred around the same thing, him. I tried writing about anyone else, anything else, but I can't stop thinking about him. Especially at the beginning, I started off writing about his eyes, his smile, and somehow it progressed into so much more, almost song-like and honestly I don't know if I want to stop.

Closing my eyes, I tilt my head back until my head faces the ceiling and I let out a groan. I'm growing really fucking restless and my ass is hurting from sitting on this hard fucking chair. I look around, do I want to read? No. Do I want to watch tv? No. Do I want to clean my guns? No.

Instead, I do what I probably shouldn't and grab sweats, my keys, my knife, and shoes, and walk out of the house. A walk will do me some good and this time I'm not belligerently drunk so what's the worst that could happen?

It's pitch black outside save for the few street lamps illuminating my way. Walking along the empty street I pass by my favourite spots, starting off with Fleurs. The store is dark but I can still make out the row upon rows of bookshelves. Continuing my stroll, I take the time to appreciate London and all that it has turned into.

It'll be sad when it comes time to go. Really fucking sad.

I've grown to love London, the city, the streets, the stores and especially the people. It feels like home. Like it was always there just waiting for me to find it, and I'm glad I did.