sign {h.s.}

κεφάλαιο τριάντα

"FUNNILY ENOUGH, I never pictured you to have blue walls."

I don't see the source of my voice. In the three days since the funeral, I've spent the majority of my time in bed. Blankets tucked up to my chin, my body is curled up into a ball, facing the wall. Despite the queen-sized bed, I still tuck my knees into my chest and crook my arms at an angle to hold myself tightly in my makeshift bodily woven ball. Craving the embrace of someone, it was the closest that I could give myself. Asking for help is not a strength of mine, especially not when I fear I am the outlier. It had shocked me, really, to see how quickly everyone else was able to return to life as usual. My parents and Christian had returned to work. Caleb had returned to his shared apartment with Hannah. Connor had returned back to school. That just left me, the weakest in the family apparently, as I remained stuck in my bed.

My source of light come in the form of the long phone calls that I share with Harry nearly every day. They come sporadically, but last eternally. Every free moment of his is dedicated to sitting on the other end of the phone. When Jace suggested that I answer Harry's calls, he hadn't known that they would very quickly become my singular source of solace. My calls with Harry are the only time in which the grief subdues itself. Long hours are spent with Harry speaking to me in foreign tongues that I had no hope of understanding. Hardly ever expecting me to respond, he sits on the phone and talks to me until his voice goes hoarse. Even then, he does not stop talking until he has to.

Yesterday, Jace had stopped by. Our parents are best friends, sharing the experience of a mutual loss that rocked both of our families. Jace's presence had been enough of an indicator that my parents had spoken to his about my state; about my inability to heal at the same pace that everyone else seems capable of. Their concern is apparent, and so was Jace's the moment he walked through my bedroom door. Other than for basic, bodily functions—showering, brushing my teeth, going to the bathroom, and eating—I've hardly left my bed. It shows, I know it does.

Mostly, I'm rattled by my inability to do anything. Going back to school isn't an option, not presently. My support system is in my childhood home, even if we do handle our healing in different ways. Leaving this house isolates me more from that. Connor is the one that I struggle to separate myself from at the moment. When not on the phone with Harry, I spend my hours laid out on my bed. Connor was the first who attempted not to fix me, but to comfort me. In any period in which he is not at school or practice, he spends the time silently in my room, doing homework or playing on his laptop. Little conversation is had between us, but just having his presence is enough to remind me that I'm not alone.

But today is Saturday and it's Harry that stands at the other end of my bedroom.

He looks out of place in my room. He holds himself awkwardly. Slouching shoulders are simultaneously too big for the space that he is consuming. He's aware of the fact that he is taking up too much room and he seems to hate it. Discomfort is written clearly in the way that he stands, yet sympathy is so clearly painted across his features. He is shifting his weight from foot to foot and I know that he is biting his tongue on what he wants to say next.

I can tell that he is waiting for me to welcome him in. Coming here had been a step that I hadn't anticipated him making, but it's obvious now that he has no intention of overstaying his lack of welcome.

The sight of him in person should excite me. I'd be lying if I said it didn't. For the first time in six days, it feels like I can breathe again, just from the comfort of seeing him. Relief surges through my veins by way of only our proximity. But still, for some reason, I have a hard time conveying my relief in my expression. My mouth refuses to welcome him at all, the words growing heavy and leaded on my tongue. Used to the sight of him now, exhaustion steals my body once more. Laboriously, I turn back to face the wall. "It's cyan, actually."