Diligence [H.S.]

TWENTY-TWO

Chapter Song: Fire Away by Niall Horan

...

HARRY STYLES

Andrea's behavior over the past three days has not improved. The defensive guard she's maintained since Nate picked her up from Travis' apartment still upholds as strong as ever.

I can deal with her shutting me out. What has caused me to begin panicking is how slowly she has started to deteriorate in terms of taking care of herself. Her appetite was already far from what it should be and has only worsened these past few days. Since then, I have had to persuade her to get out of bed once the time reached noon, and she still hasn't shifted from her spot. I carried her downstairs yesterday because she was so adamant about remaining underneath the safety of her covers. Sleep has taken over her for too many hours of the day.

I've been forced to question whether or not Andrea is high each time I speak with her. Sometimes, I can tell right off the bat, and in other instances, I'm clueless because of how quiet and inactive she is in terms of mannerisms.

All these factors have brought me here: jolting awake in the middle of the night with a strange feeling swirling in my stomach.

My hands fumble with the sheets under my fingertips while I stare at the ceiling. The house is silent. Not a single noise is to be heard. Not even the television in mine or Andrea's room. Yet, for some reason, I can't seem to force my eyes shut to try and drift off to sleep again.

Something isn't right. I can't pinpoint it. I can't explain why. All I can say is that this hole in my chest can't be accidental. There is a reason it's there.

I take a deep breath, hold it briefly, and let it go. Nothing better. It hasn't helped the first hundred times; I'm not sure why I foolishly hope it will suddenly work.

Since she managed to sneak out without causing me to stir in my sleep, it's made getting any rest near impossible. It was an issue before, but now, there is no point in wasting my effort.

Somehow, I drifted off for...I pick up my phone—almost two in the morning. The last time I checked, it was just past midnight. I managed to drift off for nearly two hours.

I can't shake this sinking sensation in my gut. Nothing works—not even checking to see if Andrea is still here, which she is. Much to my surprise, she was asleep, but I was grateful more than anything. Both of us have been struggling to sleep since that night. The few times I coerced her into leaving her room, she remained in the living room for the rest of the day. Occasionally, she'll sit outside in the backyard, but given the cloudy February weather, it isn't often.

There is only one positive aspect that has come from this situation. Andrea hasn't used since that night.

Three days. She is three days clean and sober.

I wish it were something we could celebrate together. All I want to do is gush about how proud I am, even though her mental state is at a low point. I've tried to console and encourage her since that night, but she hasn't listened. Even if she makes eye contact while I do so, I can see my words go in one ear and out the other.

The day after, I knew better than to do anything more than be there for her. I took on a quiet, nurturing, and caring demeanor to get her through one of the worst hangovers I've witnessed. After that, she became the subdued one.

Now, I'm trying to pull her out of it. I don't know how, but I'm trying.

With a muffled groan, I sit up, my hands pressing into the mattress behind me. The covers fall off my bare chest, and the cool air allows me a brief, refreshing moment before all I'm capable of focusing on is the knot of anxiety settling in my stomach.