ghost » styles au

3

u n e d i t e d

1974. Two months before.

Harry paced around the room impatiently, his foot making thump like noises as they hit the carpeted floor of the dimly lit room. He's been waiting for her for about an hour- or was it an hour and a half already? This is not the way he thought he'd be spending his 2 years anniversary with his so called girlfriend. If only I could contact her, he thought, but he knew it wasn't possible.

He wondered where would she be, more importantly, with whom and why. What would they be doing, what would she be thinking? Why would she betray him like that? He didn't know what he had done to her, but was it really that bad to leave him alone on their 2nd year anniversary? He wondered if she was with that guy again – if he gave her flowers again. He looked over to the red and white roses he had bought for her, and without a second doubt, he threw them to the floor. I bet he bought her a bouquet of red, pink, white and yellow roses, he said to himself, this is not enough for her.

He looked over to the big wooden desk; it was painted a golden color, with red and silver details over it. He looked at the letters that were over it – for years and years he'd be saving this letters he'd written about love, friendship- but more importantly, about his feelings for her. They were all folded neatly and wrapped with a cord and decorated with a pink and red stamp. He wasn't keen on showing anybody his letters, never mind, showing someone so close to him. He never wanted people to think he was crazy or obsessed. He never wanted someone so important to him to see what he was really feeling and thinking. Though she did; after years of knowing him, he was already warming up and opening up to her, so he started telling her how good it felt to love and be loved back, for he'd never been loved that way, not even by his own parents.

He grabbed the letters in his hands, closing his fists, making a mess of the once pretty letters. I bet he writes too, I bet he writes way much better than I do, he kept telling himself. He looked at the letter he wrote when he was just sixteen, directed to no one in particular, describing love on his point of view. Not enough. He tore it into tiny pieces and threw them behind him. He grabbed another two letters: "The Meaning of Friendship" and "When You See Truly for the First Time." Not enough, not enough. He tore them too. He grabbed the rest of the letters – they were all just about her, about how much he loved her, about how much he meant to her; about simple things like her hair, her light green eyes, her flirty smile, her pretty body. Not enough, not enough, not enough, just not enough at all...

Within minutes the Writing Room, a hidden room only he knew about, was full of broken papers from hopeless letters, and petals from once neat, beautiful roses. His breath came out in pants, and his blood boiled with pure rage. It was never enough, now was it, Harry? Though his sudden outburst didn't last that long, for he heard the sound of the principal door opening then closing, the sound of small feet tapping against the wooden floor over the small room feeling his ears. His hoped, he prayed to a God he didn't believe in, that it was her. And that if it really was, she was alone.

"Harry?"

He exhaled breath he didn't know he was holding in, a sudden feeling of relief washing over him.

"Is he here?" A male voice soon followed after.

"No, let me check. You be quiet." She responded.

His blood ran cold, and he wanted to step in on both of them. Why did the male voice ask if he was there, in his own house? Why the sweet female voice of his girlfriend did say "she would check"? Harry wanted to go outside the Writing Room and see his girlfriend with the apparent affair, but he couldn't just step out of a hidden room under the staircase without looking suspicious. So he just waited there, sitting on the desk chair, waiting for something else to happen.