Red Volkswagen || h.s.

cardigan

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Peter losing Wendy

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HARRY'S POV

Nights like these are when reality hits the most.

Alone in the hotel room with nothing but my own thoughts to accompany me in any way they please. They pretty much always choose misery.

It comes in different forms. Strong flashbacks, dreams, the urge to do anything I can to forget.

All of it builds up and then comes crashing down in the form of paralyzing regret, and there's absolutely nothing I can do.

Tonight's not really any different.

If anything, it's worse.

Everything is hitting twice as hard as it normally does.

My journal sits lazily in my lap and I'm hardly holding the pen as I sit and stare at the wall across from me. I know it's just my inebriated brain, but there's a really pretty swirly pattern on the paint. If I tilt my head just a tad to the right, it looks like a flower.

The small empty bottles from the mini fridge are sitting next to me on the bedside table; there's no more. I sit against the headboard of the queen size bed with the pillows propping me up, not even my own body strength. I have no idea what time it is. All I know is that we came back to our rooms after the show and we're not allowed to leave.

It's an unfortunate reality. An unavoidable truth. What can you do?

Sort of funny, isn't it? This whole situation being a scary parallel to when she left. It's impossible not to compare the two and pick out every similarity. The same headlines, the same tense fights between everyone, the same lack of control anybody feels like they have over the situation. I want to laugh at myself because I can't believe I've ended up in this situation twice. And both times, it was a person so important that I've found myself sitting here, washing away the feelings while simultaneously trying to put them down on paper. A weird oxymoron.

I've tried to write several things tonight but they're all sitting on the floor, crumpled up. I went back through and read some of the stuff I wrote right after she left. Some of it is usable, I think. I'm trying to build on it. Everything's just sort of...fuzzy.

If I could fly
I'd be coming right back to home to you
I think I might
Give up everything, just ask me to

Pay attention
I hope that you listen
Cause I let my guard down
Right now I'm completely defenseless

Maybe it's something to work with. There's something else, though. I flip the page.

We can meet again somewhere
Somewhere far away from here
Will we ever learn?
We've been here before

Why are we always fucking running from the bullets

I stare at the words, waiting for anything to come to me so I can write it down.

Every time I've found myself in this exact situation– sitting with my journal and a fuzzy brain– I'm always thinking about her. Always. Shocking, I know. Sometimes it comes randomly, in spontaneous daydreams that send me through a shockwave of emotions. She's always the thing that prompts the most jarring combinations of words to hit my paper.