Falling ᯓ★ | L.s

beginning - 1

January 17th - Day 1

I both loved and hated the cancer ward. I loved being there for the kids who had no one to listen, and the ones who didn't know what to say in the first place. To know I could help them in some infinitesimal way kept me going when I lay awake at night wondering what the hell I was meant to be doing with my life.

It was in the cancer ward that I met Harry Styles on January 17th, a gray evening that promised nothing spectacular.

I picked up his file from where it'd been dropped on my desk, weighing the thing in my hands. It was heavy, heavier than normal. My fingers itched to open it, but I resisted, knowing that it was better to go into a first meeting with no expectations.

I entered his hospital room with my normal cheery smile on my face, preparing to meet my new patient. He was laying half-upright in his bed, his bright green eyes glued to the laptop sitting on his thighs, his face drawn and pale. He had a lovely halo of brown curls that arced around his face, the one side slightly matted down like he'd slept on it.

"Hello." I said, drawing my clipboard to my chest and trying to portray a friendly attitude. "I'm Louis."

He didn't move, barely blinking. "Hello. You here to make me all better?"

I wasn't deterred, I'd gotten this kind of reaction before. I found that while everyone wanted someone to listen, no one really wanted to open up. "I'd just like to talk, making you better would only be a pleasant side effect."

He flicked his eyes up towards me, his face still blank. "You aren't the first you know."

I nodded. My supervisor had briefed me on the boy's tendency to send therapists running, but I liked to think I was made of sterner stuff. "So I've heard." I walked tentatively over to his beside, pulling up a chair. "Do you mind if I sit?"

He shrugged. "Go ahead."

I slid into the patched up arm chair, crossing my legs underneath me and watching, trying to get a feel for him. He, on the other hand, was studiously ignoring my presence, staring at his screen like if he tried he could burn a hole through it.

He looked small in his blankets, strong shoulders dwarfed by a pile of pillows and a comforter wrapped up around his waist. He had an air of defeat about him, like he'd looked into the future and accepted his fate. He wore death like a cloak, letting it seep into his pores.

"Do you want to talk, or should I just sit here for the hour?" I asked conversationally, leaning my elbows on my knees and training my eyes on him.

He made a noncommittal mumble, running his finger slowly over the trackpad.

I nodded, accepting his answer. If he didn't want to talk, there was nothing I could do to make him, no matter how much I wished I could. "Okay." I slid open my messenger bag, pulling out my tattered copy of The Great Gatsby from the big pocket.

I opened it to one of the dog eared pages, letting myself sink into its oft read paragraphs. I'd read it for the first time in a freshman English class and had been sucked in by the metaphors and the way the words slid together almost like poetry. It still had my messy pen scribbles asking silly rhetorical questions in the margins, which was evidently annotating and would 'help me understand the novel.'

The hour passed quickly, with not a word spoken in the dim hospital room. It wasn't the most groundbreaking first meeting I'd ever had, and I sincerely hoped I was up to the challenge of Harry Styles. I stood as the digital clock by his bedside clicked to nine, shoving my book back into my bag and closing the flap.