Stall

Chapter 13.

**Warning For This Chapter - Mild Violence **

"What a wicked game to play, to make me feel this way.
What a wicked thing to do, to let me dream of you.
What a wicked thing to say, you never felt that way.
What a wicked thing to do, to make me dream of you "

**

I didn't see or hear from Harry again after I left his house a month ago, and I can't help but be hurt by it, and it makes me feel stupid and ridiculous.

All of my messages went unanswered, and I would spend my days at work feeling a hopeful flutter in my stomach, only to have it crash and burn the minute I would see it was never him walking through the door.

The one night I tried going to his house, to ask what I had done wrong, all of my knocks were met with the same thing as the next 30 days, nothing.

I don't know what else I should have expected, the fool in me thought that something might have changed between Harry and I after that night, that I'd managed to get closer to him and start to piece together the mysterious puzzle of his life together.

I guess maybe I thought, idiotically, that maybe he hadn't meant it when he said he didn't care about me, that there was a sliver of him that held the same affection for me that I do him, but all of that was crushed by the first week of radio silence.

I've been moping around this entire time, growing more and more angry at myself for that pull in my chest when I think about him, which is all I seem to do. The fact that I miss him so deeply only adding to my self destructive misery.

I feel like I've lost something that wasn't even mine in the first place, and the more I try and make sense of it, the more confused I get.

It's like he's dangled this hope on the end of a string, just out of my reach, only to rip it away from me just as I'm about to clutch to it. I almost feel like it was his intention to get me exactly where he wanted me, where he knew I was in too deep to crawl my way out, and left me there without a second thought.

I couldn't escape his face, it haunted me whether I was awake or asleep, my dreams would become more vivid and torturous, some days waking up and swearing I could smell his cologne lingering in my room.

For a while I was worried, concerned maybe something had happened, feeling sick over the thought that he had hurt himself or maybe he finally ended up 'getting lucky', as he would put it.

I spent nights googling drug interactions, the effects of mixing whatever he mindlessly puts in his body, trying to understand how it works or even how to help.

I even spent one pitiful afternoon calling the hospitals in the area asking if there was anyone that had been admitted by his name.

That worry was quickly splintered into pain when Sophie mentioned she saw him at the club one weekend while she was there, and he seemed to be having the time of his life and not a care in the world. I couldn't explain to her why I seemed so upset by it, why I winced at the mention of his name or her recollection of the night, and I had to excuse myself when she started telling me about him almost having sex with one of the dancers on the couch in front of everyone, before dragging her out of the bar.

I'm such an idiot.

I have no right to be jealous, I'm in a relationship and Harry is free to do as he pleases - but it was the sharp ache over being discarded so carelessly that had me curled up on my couch most nights, flicking through the pictures from the aquarium on my camera and scolding myself at being stupid for crying over it.