Baby Honey - H.S.

23

Rosie

I'm not ready. I'm not ready. I'm not ready.

Four years. Four years of hiding away. No communication, no sign of life, no nothing. It's as if I fell off the face of Earth for the past four years.

I normally take steps two at a time but right now I have to drag my feet one by one so I make it up the stairs to the second floor. With each step my heartbeat grows louder and quicker, thrumming inside my ears.

I don't think I can do this.

I really don't think I can do this.

One step forward.

I can't do this.

Another step.

I look up from the ground at what's in front of me and memories come rushing back.

Good memories, not bad ones.

Okay, maybe I can do this.

Step.

Pictures of me running along these corridors when I was specifically told not to.

Step.

Pictures of me helping my nonna carry her groceries up to these doors.

Step.

Pictures of my brother chasing me after I made it up the stairs first and won the competition we constantly played when we went to the store with our parents.

Step.

Soon I'm standing in front of the large wooden door with big windows on it that are covered by lacey curtains. The more things I notice, the more memories come flashing back.

I have to do this. I can't keep running away. They deserve to know the truth.

I was able to tell Harry and the band. I can tell them about it too. I'm strong enough.

"I'm strong enough," I mumble to myself, taking a deep breath to gather courage and raise my hand to the doorbell on the side, hovering the tips of my fingers over it.

Just as I was about to ring the bell, the door flies open, and a tall, brunette man appeared in the doorway. His hair is short rather than the long locks I remember. His eyes are wide with horror as he stares at me with a slack jaw.

He's got a slight stubble going on rather than the ugly beard I begged him to shave. He looks completely different yet still the same.

"Ró-" He stutters, gripping the door handle tighter so he wouldn't lose his balance. His knuckles turn white from holding it so tightly that now the colour of his hand matches his pale face. He looks like he's seen a ghost.

Technically, I am a ghost. To them.

"It's me," I speak up for the first time in four years in my mother tongue. The sound of my voice rings oddly in my ears.

"You-you're-" I think he's in shock and honestly I am too. I don't know what to do, what to say, how to react. I just stand there dumbfoundedly.

"I'm alive, Geri. It's me." His name leaves my lips for the first time in four years and I swear I feel my heart fall into my stomach.

Is this real life? Am I having a nightmare? If so somebody pinch me I want to wake up in the arms of my curly-haired, green-eyed British boy.

He chokes on a sob, grabs my upper arm and yanks me against his chest. His arms around me are extremely tight, making it hard to breathe but I don't seem to mind it. I let him hold me for a few seconds before I wrap my arms hesitantly around his waist and sink further into the embrace.