the journal - h.s.

63

There was dark in the room. Dark and silent. The only source of light was coming from the window, but unlike the night I had walked in here not knowing who the owner was; the light tonight was more blue than red. I didn’t know why honestly, and I didn’t even have time to consider the reason for the change as my eyes settled on the silhouette sitting under the window leaning up against the radiator.

It was a strange thing that happened to me seeing him sitting there with his arms around his knees. Kind of like when you see one of those horrible pictures from moments in history, which are so tragic and witness of such brutality and sadness that your heart just kind of - breaks. You don’t even have time to really consider anything else; you see the motive and you lose your breath. Your heartbeat races. You feel that lump in your throat and for a short moment you actually feel the pain, which the photo expresses.

But then reality kicks in - and you remember that you are the one still standing tall. That you are the survivor and the part which is able to make a difference, and you feel a spark inside of you. As if you are ready give your life up to make a change after having felt - just for that briefest amount of a moment, what the other person is going through.

I walked further into the room, carefully closing the door behind me.

I was pretty sure he was awake; maybe he thought I was Jenny? I could see his tense figure in the dark. How he to my surprise was wearing a grey hoodie, though the hoodie was hanging down his back. His head was hidden into the crossed arms.

I walked closer, with soft steps that were barely audible. His room was such a mess, but I couldn’t focus on that. Not know. The world could be one big mess around us and I would still only have focused on him. On Harry with his sweet caring green eyes and breathtakingly beautiful broken soul, though only the last mentioned was visible right now.

I took another step - this time it sounded louder. He reacted to the sound, and I watched as he lifted his head a little, peeking out from the hide of his arms. It was hard to see, but with the light coming in from the window right above him; I could still see how puffy his eyes looked. He looked exhausted. Maybe not even just that, with the dull green eyes, which seemed almost gray in the light. I couldn’t even see if he had the wrinkle between his brows, which he usually had when he was worried; because the hair was hanging down into his eyes. The curls falling beautifully and messily; having clear sign that he hadn’t cared about pushing them back in a long time.

“Hi Harry,” my voice didn’t break. Thank God. I was pretty sure the mere sound of it breaking would have me full into tears over the sight of my beautifully broken Harvard dropout sitting like this in a dark room with watery eyes. With his entire charming shelter gone. No crooked smile, no spark in his green eyes. Only hurt. Only physical signs of despair and being lost.

His eyes searched over me in a dreamy manner, as if the sight of me had to be a product of a dream of his. Or a surreal world.

I tried sending him a smile, but failed terribly. My sight was starting to get blurry. I wiped my eyes rapidly with my hand as I took a seat next to him on the floor, with my back up against the radiator like him. His red eyes still looking over me in disbelief and wonder.

I didn’t say much. Just threw every single fear of mine to hell and moved closer to him. I just put my hand in under his arm and took his hand, while resting my head against his shoulder. He was almost warmer than the radiator itself.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered with a more raspy and hoarse voice, than I had ever heard from him. It was thick and gave me a sinking feeling, as he just looked at our hands in the blue light like I did. He was like a statue. Like he was afraid that if he moved he would break to pieces and bury me with him.