Weightless (H.S. BWWM)

Remember

I'm running down a hallway that gets more and more narrow with every step. Panic floods my system as I move, my actions jittery and wild. I'm forced to a halt, as suddenly a wall to wall floor to ceiling window blocks my path. My sprint slows to cautious steps towards the reflective surface. I can't see anything, it's like my eyes are fogged over. Squinting, I try harder to make out the blurry image in front of me and immediately regret it. Dead eyes that look just like mine make my heart race but when those dark brown eyes lighten into a bright green then darken again to match the hue of Harry's I force myself awake. My breathing is faster than I can keep up with – it feels like I'll pass out. Lying back, I try and relax my body after pinching myself to make sure I'm really awake.

The bed is wet with sweat, forcing me to get up and change the sheets. My brain won't stop picturing Harry's dead eyes in my mind. I know I'm doing the right thing by staying away right now but damn do I miss him. I'm flying home Saturday and now I'm counting the hours until I board the plane.

I saw Dr. Greg yesterday to get in another therapy session before I leave and told him all about Charlie's offer to talk. He thinks it'll be a good chance for me to get everything off of my chest once and for all. With laughter following close behind, he advised me to keep my cool when talking to him so I could finally gain some closure. Although I couldn't promise not to get angry I did insure him that I would reach out to Charles. With a few phone calls to old friends, I got his number and set up the meeting for today. Since he has to work I'm allowing him to pick the time and place, hopefully I won't regret that decision.

Seven fifteen shines brightly from the surface of my alarm clock in the darkness of my room and a groan rips through me when I realize I can't go back to sleep. Deciding against lying in bed until everyone else gets up, I roll out of bed and get dressed for a run. Maybe some exercise can help clear my mind before my meeting with the devil.

The streets are relatively quiet for a Thursday morning but I'm not surprised. Most of the neighbors work in Austin or one of the other surrounding cities so they have to leave earlier than the in town workers. My feet pound the pavement, providing the only sound for what feels like miles outside of the occasional bark from a dog in the distance. The rhythmic noise of my feet slapping the ground provides the perfect substitute for my music I stupidly left behind in my rush to get outside. It's like lately I have all of this extra energy inside that I'm dying to let out. I know it's because every fiber of my being is missing Harry. He keeps me balanced – sane, if you will. Without him I have a surplus of emotions with no outlet.

The knot of anxiety in the pit of my stomach won't go away and I can't tell if it's from my upcoming meet up with Charles or the impending showdown Harry and I are bound to have once I make it back to LA. Honestly, I'm tired of fighting. I'm tired of fighting him, I'm tired of fighting my feelings, but most of all I'm tired of fighting the truth. We're either going to be together and find a way to get past our differences or we aren't – it's that simple. This time apart has made it abundantly clear that we can't keep focusing on who's to blame for our problems. Our focus needs to be on our communication; how we do it, how effective it is, and how often.

For instance, I called last week to tell him that I'd be staying a bit longer in Texas. Initially, he didn't protest but he got insanely quiet. Finally, I asked him what was wrong and he told me he missed me. I returned the sentiment but stood firm in us needing this time apart. I don't understand why it took so much extra for either of us to say what we felt. But then there are other times when our communication is so good it seems like it's not an issue at all. Like when we spoke the night of Brady's funeral, his voice was so soothing and sweet I wanted to fly home the next day. He wanted to check on me to insure that I was okay. I didn't have to call him or text him, he just knew. He knew that I needed him because I'd just buried my friend. He knew that his voice – no matter what he was saying – was what I needed to hear to still the storm inside of me. He calmed me, then allowed me to ramble on about the funeral and how it had me thinking about how short life is. I told him to think about us and to write down everything he's never said to me that he wished he had and that I'd do the same. I wanted him to soul search just like I am so that once I get back to LA we'll be on the same page. He agreed but unfortunately, we haven't talked since. Outside of a few text messages here and there, mostly about my agreeance to sign to Oak Market after a lawyer in town looked over the contract Jackson gave me, it's been radio silence. I miss talking to him every day but it seems like, for now at least, we're saving all of our words for when I get back home.