After the End: Book 3

68. Seperation Anxiety

Sorry this feels so much later than normal...
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Harry's POV

You might have a drug problem if your addict friends are telling you to get sober, but if that doesn't clue you in enough then there's plenty of other ways to catch yourself becoming a problem. For example, getting so high that you start giving your drugs to your non-addict friends for safekeeping might be indicative of something. Fair warning, they don't give your drugs back. Assholes.

As promised, Becca woke me up bright and early for rehearsals. I woke up to her sitting on the floor next to me, calling my name in a gentle voice. I was embarrassed to admit it was pleasant. I was getting tired of thinking fondly of her. I had started this entire process trying to be as cold to her as I was to Louis and although neither of them deserved it, Becca made it significantly harder by being the worlds most positive, professional and composed person. She was too difficult to rattle and it made bullying her more work than it was worth. It made sense why Louis liked her. She was nothing but encouraging at her core. I wished I hadn't handed pills to her the night prior. Even with my eyes closed, I knew the warm soft hands that had touched mine were hers.

I was tired and groggy when I opened my eyes. The opiate hangover kind of sucked. I never woke up without craving for them the day after using, and wanting to be stagnant already didn't help. Naomi hadn't even gotten up for the day yet, so I knew it was early. The issue with nodding off because of drugs during your daily check in is largely that you have no idea what to expect the next day, because you aren't lucid enough to ask questions.

When I blinked the sleep out of my eyes, I saw her crouched there. She wore a pantsuit as usual and her hair was down. She was smiling at me like I was a small child being roused for school. I would have found it comforting if it wasn't humiliating.

"I don't want to go," I mumbled. I pushed into a sitting position anyways and pulled Lux's blanket around myself tighter. At my feet, my cat looked at me for a moment before walking off. I guess I was unimpressive.

"I know," she agreed sympathetically. Then she gave me a look that felt genuinely hopeful. "I like to think that sometime in the future, you'll be happy that you went anyways. Try to look at it like that."

She rose from the floor before I had a chance to respond to that. I was glad. It gave me a moment to attempt to internalize it a bit. The problem was, the future didn't mean that much to someone who fantasized about suicide the way I did.

The first thing I noticed when I rose was the bean bag chair was that my feet still hurt. I hadn't planned on walking home from the tower the previous day, nor had I planned my detour for narcotics. I'd told myself I was staying away from the opioids because I liked them too much. Clearly, I'd failed in that conviction. I wasn't sure what had possessed me to to do it, but not considering my own intentions seemed to be a reoccurring problem. At least the Vicodin had given me the sleep I wanted. It was unfortunate that I'd handed off all of it the same evening.

Thinking about the previous day made me want to curl back up on the bean bag and refuse to move, but I didn't. Everything Cory had said in addition to my complete inability to maintain self control, were thoughts much too big for me to process. And Becca was standing there waiting for me to follow her. I pushed the thoughts from my mind and followed after her without even shaking the blanket off my shoulders or changing clothes.

Becca acted like we were already running late for something but I was genuinely too dazed in my post sleep haze to register her explanation of the days events. Normally, when she was tasked with waking me up, she always made me stop to eat. Instead, she pulled me right to the door and insisted we be on our way. I smoked as we walked down the stairs. In all my years of living with Louis, I'd never done that. It occurred to me that I hadn't been smoking much in my depressive haze. When smoking became too much effort, it was always a warning that I was in the bad place.