Estranged • h.s.

09

There was not a single thing I wanted less than to be stuck in a room alone while staring up at a blank ceiling, again. 

I could have continued to do this for a little longer, I think, if the night hadn't turned out the way it did. I could have pushed a little harder for just a little longer. Not after the harsh reality check that Cecily served to me on a silver platter, though. 

Hate. She hates me. 

I'm a shell of someone who seems to still be living in a brief timeline of bliss, still looking at the world with Cecily-tinted glasses. Appreciation of beauty or some shit. What the fuck is wrong with me? She told me, as clearly as possible it seems, that she doesn't love me anymore. Somehow, I still want her. 

I haven't yet decided if I'm a selfish asshole or someone good who wants to help the person they love. Maybe she won't ever love me again, but I need her. Even if she is simply my friend one day, I'll take that. I can't just give that up, right? 

I groan, my abs flexing as I sit up, feet dangling over the edge of the bed. 

I scrub my face with my hands, ignoring the completely inappropriate action in my underwear while I continue to picture the site of her holding a knife to my throat. Such anger, such beauty. Not even an ice-cold shower when I got home helped.  It's an inevitable reaction to a woman who I've loved, do love. 

She's the most independent she's ever been, somehow more beautiful each time I run into her. How can I not admire that? 

I sigh loudly, briefly glancing at the clock on the nightstand that reads 5:43. It's been less than 6 hours since she told me how much she hates me and I'm a pent up mess of anger and confusion and everything else in between. 

I thumb through my clothes and pull on a pair of gym shorts, determined to work out to both distract my mind and my fucking dick and fight some of the energy coursing through me. Seems easy enough, right? 

A t-shirt and water bottle dangle in my hand as I slip shoes on, quietly opening the front door to the apartment while Louis situates himself on the living room couch, slightly snoring with the movement. I slowly click the door shut, the lock snapping before I head for the elevator, slipping the shirt over my head. 

The gym is dead, with soft music playing through multiple speakers while the lights provide a soft buzz through the space. 

I hop on the treadmill, letting my phone play music out of the speaker since the Sun isn't even up and a total of 15 units exist in this building. The odds of me bothering anyone, or anyone else bothering me, are incredibly low. 

I run for a long time, barely listening to the sounds around me. Instead, my brain tortures me with a mental picture of Cecily every single time my feet slam onto the moving tread. I try to challenge my thoughts by making myself feel like shit. 

She hates you. 

Stop thinking about her, it would annoy her. 

She would laugh at you, pity you. 

I don't want to think these things, but part of me is convinced they're all true. That she was arguably being the most truthful she's ever been when she used that word. 

So many questions rumble through my mind, enough to make me want to write them down so I can remember the next time I see her and she seems open to answering them. Why is she so angry? What does she know? Why won't she fucking talk about it? 

If she would give me 5 uninterrupted minutes of her time I could explain everything but she's so goddamn stubborn. 

I shake my head, trying to rid myself of the negativity. I need to see a goddamn therapist. Cecily is not the problem here. Give her space, Harry.