the long way home [ h.s. ]

Twenty Three | 23

twenty three | 23

☓

The room is quiet.

Painted light blue.

Harry's breath hitches when we enter; I can feel his grip on my hand tighten at the sight of books piled high, a jacket thrown over a chair, and the bed still half-made.

It's like walking into a world of unspoken thoughts, and dreams that hang much too high for you to grab onto.

I wish there was something I could do to make this less heart wrenching, but I don't think it's possible. If someone didn't know about Elliot, they would walk in here and think this place was still occupied.

The sheets are waiting for a boy that won't return to them.

That thought grips my stomach, and twists it round and round.

"Oh, Harry," I say, noticing the redness of his eyes. He gulps, swallowing all of the pain, all of the suffering. I reach up to comb through his hair, and he sighs into my fingertips, looking like he wants to disappear.

"I'm alright," he insists, although his voice wavers. "I'm alright. I promise."

"Breathe."

He complies. My hand travels to his upper back, rubbing gentle circles into the fabric of his tee shirt. I can feel him inhale, and release it into the space around us.

He repeats this again and again for a few minutes.

My heart races as my eyes travel from the curtains to the rug; I'm suddenly filled with so many questions, all of which can only be answered by him.

But I don't want to ask.

I don't want to intrude.

Luckily, he saves me from it. I watch as he steps forward, releasing his hand from mine. The absence is hollowing at first; but then he makes his way over to the dresser.

A single book sits on top of it, separate from the piles of others that cover the desk. The front and back are a plain turquoise color, with no markings.

I realize that it's a journal of some sort.

He picks it up, but he doesn't open it.

"Elliot was bullied," he says, turning to look at me over his shoulder. "It started when he was in sixth grade and never really went away. It was mostly verbal teasing, in the beginning. And then it became more violent as time went on."

I listen with a heavy heart.

In the back of my mind, I see Thomas's bruises; the small purple and blue dots. And I imagine what Elliot must've gone through to feel so alone.

So empty.

"That's horrible," I whisper.

Harry comes closer, and studies me as I stand in the middle of the room. A guilty smile rests on his face.

"Would you like to sit down?" he asks, gesturing to the bed.

"Is that okay?"