sonder [h.l]

0.1

His name was Robert.

He wasn't Iron Man like the Downey Jr. He didn't have prizes for his poetry like the Frost. He could barely make it through the Godfather, nevermind play a role (which he wouldn't of course, as he was a terrible actor) like the de Niro.

But I didn't mind. Because he was tired looking and I wanted to know why. Because his leg shook as he sat and I wanted to know why. Because from the minute he stepped onto that goddamned train he looked lost in his music but sickly aware of all the shit in this world that I wasn't aware of and I just wanted to know why.

But curiosity killed the cat.

His name was Robert. Or so I thought. That's what was written in boyish writing on his name tag, surrounded by rude drawings that had been scribbled over. Robert didn't suit him, not even Rob. Robbie perhaps, but not quite. I wanted to know why his name on his name tag didn't match the name I had given him in my head. But I didn't ask. I took out my notebook and began to write.

"Abigail! Are you even listening to me?" I darted my eyes to my best friend. She sat, looking at me before furrowing her eyebrows and casting a scowl across her face. She crossed her arms over her chest and flicked her hair over her shoulder, hitting me softly in the face with it by mistake. I don't think she even noticed. She turned to face the window of the train, lips pursed, eyes closed over slightly and fingers drumming an incoherent beat onto the skin of her upper arm. She was pissed.

That wasn't an unusual thing to happen. I'd not say the right thing or listen closely enough and she'd be mad for a bit until the anger wore off. It was an everyday thing for us, so I knew where it was going.

"Sorr-" I began, as usual.

"Quit the shit, Ab. Oh, nevermind! I'm going through a dramatic, hard time in my life. Just answer my question! How do I tell him I want to mother his children?" She asked, turning to face me and throwing her hands slightly up into the air. Everything in Lucy's life was dramatic, but I was used to it. The meaning of dramatic changed drastically coming out her mouth than the dictionary's definition.

"Who?" I asked, but not really confused. Lucy hardly ever had boyfriends for more than 3 months, and each month was a stage. First, she was all in it for the good times. Alcohol, sex, drugs and she never held back. The first month we would hardly see each other, because every waking minute was spent ripping the clothes off of the new boy. The second month was more of a, 'this could get serious' period, when she would meet the family, learn all the jokes about Uncle Billy's vasectomy or Great Grandma Betty's new toyboy and strongly consider 'The L Bomb'. The third month is usually when things began to crumble. Lucy got bored very easily. She went through countless best friends until I came along, and even then it took a while before we settled. Boys were no different. So with the average of a new boyfriend every 4 months (3 month relationship, 1 month break) about 3 fortnights a year were spent inhaling ice cream and getting high off of Nicholas Sparks movie adaptations.

But Lucy's newest relationship had lasted over 6 months. Dan had come along, seemingly out of nowhere and swept her off of her feet opening the gateway to month 4, 5 and 6. Months 4 and 5 really weren't that interesting. I missed the system.

"Dan!" she continues. "I want, no, I need his babies in my womb!" Month 6, was turning out a lot more fun.

"You've known him for what, 6 months? I really don't think you need anything like that," I tell her honestly.

"But-"

"But nothing." I cut her off. "You need to tell him you love him. You need to move in together, get engaged for a year, get married and only then will you conceive his children." As much as I loved her, she couldn't handle a child herself. And if she wasn't married, her parents would kill her. "Now this is your stop. Get off. Enjoy your date tomorrow, and for the love of God, wear protection."

She laughed slightly, then stood up, tightened her jacket around her small frame and waved goodbye as the train jerked to a stop and the doors slid open. It was nearly completely dark outside, with it nearly being winter. I still had a good half an hour on the train, so I took off my hat and took out my phone. Usually I would listen to music for the rest of the journey, but from the corner of my eye, the shaking leg reminded me that 'Robert' was still on the train. I looked over to him, but it was impossible to do so discreetly. So I did what Lucy had taught me. I opened my phone camera and sat with my back pressed half on the glass of the window, half on the seat and held my hand over my phone like I was scrolling though something.

I looked at him through the lens.

His head was down, with dark blond messy hair covering his face. His hands were on his thighs and his leg was still shaking. If I listened hard enough, I could hear the music coming from his earphones but I didn't recognise the song. He wore all different shades of blue from his jumper to his jacket to his shoes to his worn out jeans, apart from the red on the name tag secured on his jacket. His head slowly lifted up, and I continued to 'scroll' with my thumb. He looked in my direction before taking out his earphones and stuffing his phone in his pocket. My thumb never stopped.

The whole carriage was empty, and the lights flickering every once in a while didn't make me feel too good. It was never usually so quiet.

"You know," he spoke and I nearly dropped my phone. "I can see the reflection of your phone in the window." He said, a hint of amusement laced through his voice. I blushed and looked to the window. The darkness outside makes it so incredibly easy to see him. I look back to him and whisper a quiet sorry, to which he shrugs.

"Doesn't matter much." He says.

"I guess not, Robert?" I spoke, attempting to be cocky.

"Huh?" He looked confused and I point lazily to his name tag. And he laughs. "No, I'm filling in for my friend Robert at his work. This is his jacket," he said, before taking off h-Roberts name tag and placing in the opposite pocket of his phone.

"Oh,"

"Actually, my names Harry."

He wasn't famous. He couldn't sing. He had no scar that adorned his forehead. He was no party prince, no unruly member of the British Monarchy.

But he was Harry. And I liked that.