When I met you, everything started to change. Your eyes became my favorite color
and the smell of your shirt made me feel safe
and your arms became my home.
You became my everything.
I doodled around the corner of the delicate page in my notebook after finishing a short poem. I swirled the pen over the clean paper, like a figure skater gliding over a sheet of ice. The pattern was interrupted when one of my lines crossed another, which sent me over the edge.
I dropped my pen in the spine of the journal, closed it silently, then brought my hands to my face to catch the tears. With every second, I was sobbing harder than the last, trying harder to keep my crying on the down low from the man living with me. My chest shook and my limbs shivered.
I stood up and walked to the mirror, something I often did when I cried. Mascara lightly pooled under my bottom lashes, making me cry harder.
"I am a mess." I nearly screamed as I walked back over to my journal, throwing it at the items on the dresser. They hit the ground with a loud thud. I looked at the bigger mess I made, but walked over to the mirror again to try and at least clean one thing up - myself. My appearance, I mean. I grab a bundle of tissues, wiping harshly at my under eye to clean up the false advertised waterproof mascara.
The door click open. I know he's looking at the mess on the floor. I only focus on myself in the mirror, too embarrassed to face him. He knows I'm a mess.
"You okay?" He asks, sounding like he isn't bothered by the tattered room.
I sniffle. "Sure."
Harry chuckled. "Brinley? Not being straight forward with her emotions? Never thought I would live to see this day."
He didn't know about a lot of the emotions I was holding in.
When I didn't answer, just kept cleaning up the trails of weakness leaving my tear ducts, Harry sat on my bed.
"What's off." He asked.
I looked at the ceiling. I almost laughed.
"E-Everything." I barely make up, my throat hurting and voice breaking from the stress it was under.
Harry stays silent for a while before talking again. "Well, tell me what's on your mind. You need to get something off your chest, so say it."
I look into my own eyes in the mirror. They looked more blue rather than grey from the mental breakdown.
"I'm listening." Harry spoke again, reminding me.
I clear my throat after a pause. "Well, my only friend is dead." I laugh.
"I'm involved with a gang member, or drug dealer, or murderer, whatever the fuck you are, and I can't live in my own home because of the danger I was put in.
"I have nothing to write about. Nothing. I look out my windows and see snow and trees for miles. I close my eyes and see my dead best friend."
Harry doesn't say anything for awhile, again. "Well, you could wright about this. Write about your adventures while being chased by bad guys. Write about this when it all turns into a happy ending." He swallows. "And I prefer a dedicated member of the international Mafia, since you're wondering."
I sniffle through the silence, Harry reading me like an open book. "Anything else?"
I swallow. "Nope."
"Then why are you still upset." He asks, but it sounds more like a demand to tell him. Not like he knew what emotions felt like.
"Nothing." I finishing wiping the mascara from off my cheeks.
