How I Heal

eleven

"What's up?" He coughed, one eyebrow shooting up.

I tugged at my hair as we finally stopped at the school's entrance.

I gathered my thoughts before saying, "I didn't know you were friends with Liam."

Way to go, brain. You really came through.

He looked at me quizzically before running a hand over his face in frustration. "This is what you wanted to say? We didn't have to leave the lunchroom."

"I know," I tumbled over my words. "I just, I didn't want to bring it up in his presence."

I knew he could tell I was lying but he didn't try to pry my thoughts out of me. If our eyes had conversations in that moment, I would have told them thank you for the absence of pressure.

"Well, yeah we are." He confirmed, obviously trying to calm himself down. "I've known Liam for quite some time actually. He was the only person I knew prior to coming here."

I nodded my head, trying to appear interested, even though my mind kept drifting to the possibility of the athletes punching Harry in the face.

"Are you guys best friends?" I wondered out loud, but the look on his face made me wish I'd stop talking.

"Of course not," he immediately replied.

I couldn't pinpoint if it was down to trust issues or just the fact that he and Liam could never get along on such a personal basis but I mentioned nothing else on the topic. There was something about his voice that told me it was a bit sore, and the last thing I wanted to do was open healed wounds.

Healed wounds.

My eyes shifted to his shoulder.

He wore a black shirt that covered up the scar, but I still remember the day where an open wound once lay there.

It kept bleeding as he stood there, seated and unfazed, and it was that same wound that led me try to help him. His refusal thereafter caused our fight.

It was only then I understood that literally anybody could snap, even at the smallest thing, if angered by some kind of misunderstanding and it was only then, my forehead creased as I realized that Harry may not have had reasons to be so annoyingly 'realistic', but he did have reasons to be angry.

My eyes obviously lingered too long again, but this time he didn't even bother to acknowledge the fact that I was staring.
He merely mumbled, "I know what you're thinking, and not that it matters, but yes, it was the football players who did that to me."

He looked around where we stood as if checking to see if the coast was clear, before he cleared his throat several times.

"Also, I won't apologize for who I am," his words came out in a mutter. "But I will apologize if who I am makes you uncomfortable. I didn't mean to yell at you when you tried to help me."

"I never thought I'd see the day," I sarcastically clapped. "Harry acknowledging his wrongs, who would've thought?"

"Okay okay that's enough," he stopped me short. "It's obviously a work in progress."

"I accept your apology," I told him. "But not because what you did was okay, just because it's the mannerly thing to do."

"Says you," he snorted. "Don't forget how rude you were that day in detention."