Buttercup [H.S]

Chapter Fifteen

My feet are hurting, but when we exit the little snicket between two houses and a large, open field with grass that reaches my hips spreads out for what feels like miles in front of us, I forget about any pain or complaint I may have had.

"Do you remember-"

"Yes," I nod. It feels like the wind has been knocked out of me. "Of course I remember."

2011.

It's been five days since Harry has spoken to me. Not a word. Not a single note, or secret smile or quick glance across a room.

The weekend since bumping into Harry outside the dress shop, where Cara had treated him like a beetle squirming about underneath the weight of her shiny shoe, had been long and silent.

Usually the weekends were an extension of the week, where by day I spent my time placating my friends and Jason, but the nights were for Harry and I. We had a routine. Wait until my parents had finished screaming for the night before I would then sneak out into his van.

But for the first time in a long time, that hadn't happened. He hadn't returned my calls or replied to my text messages. I couldn't cycle to his house to try to get him to talk to me, because I didn't even know where he lived.

I didn't know where my best friend lived.

I was wracked with guilt. It weighed me down, ached my muscles and bones as if I had a sickness, wrestled every thought I had.

The look on his face when I didn't defend him. When he knew I wouldn't be going with him to meet his friends like I said would. Because I was too afraid to be brave for him. Too afraid to be the friend that he deserved.

A very shallow, naive part of me had hoped that by Monday things would be back to normal. That when I walked into the Art classroom that the whole encounter between Harry, Cara and I would be forgotten and that Harry would be waiting for me, earphones at the ready with some funny story to tell me.

But I was wrong. So wrong that when I entered the classroom, expecting to see his bright smile, only to be met with an empty seat it had caused me to pause. To freeze in space, feeling like I couldn't move or catch the air around me into my lungs.

Harry was sitting next to Freddie Hammond on the second to last row. He had his hood up with his wild, long curls poking out around the shoulders and both headphones in.

Despite not looking up upon my entry, the way his shoulders tensed when my chair scraped across the floor behind him, he knew that I was there. I didn't do any work the entire hour. Instead I focussed intently on each breath, making sure to inhale for four. Pause. Exhale.

I stared at Harry's back the whole time, waiting with anticipation for him to turn around. For him to slip his hood down and remove one of the earbuds that we usually shared, and turn to me so that I could see those piercing green eyes.

But he never did. I checked the clock.

Twenty minutes until the end of class.

Eighteen.

Twelve.

Seven.

Three.

The second the bell rang Harry was out of his seat, guitar case already slung over his shoulder, disappearing into the hallway before I could even scramble the breath to call his name.

I barely slept that night, but I didn't text or call him. Because whilst Harry's silence physically hurt - as in actual pain that ached and caused tears to spring in my eyes at regular intervals - I was scared to hear what he had to say.