sign {h.s.}

capitulo treinta y dos

"THERE'S SOMETHING THAT I want to talk to you about."

Harry says the words casually, but I can tell from the way that he's been gnawing at his fingers nervously for the past few minutes that there is something very clearly on his mind; something the has been debating whether to verbalize or not for quite some time now. It's November and we're sitting in his apartment, my feet up on his lap while I'm doing homework and he's flipping through channels, switching between a football game and a telenovela rerun.

Ever since I returned to school—and, debatably, since before then. Really, I know that he has been taking care of me since the moment he showed up at the party and offered to hold my hand in place of the bottle when I'd grown emotional. Perhaps that is why his words don't scare me, even if there is a part of his nervousness does. "Okay," I agree, shifting away some of my homework to give him my attention. Following in suit, he pauses the telenovela. "Shoot."

I've been back at school for a week now. Being back at school has made things easier; it's easier staying active than dwelling in my bed. Though, to be fair, I've hardly allowed myself a minute to dwell. My time is filled with classes, friends, and sign language lessons with Lola. All the excess time—should I find any—is spent right here: right in Harry's living room, if not his bed.

When at home, I didn't know the support system that I had waiting for me here once I got back. Lola had taken care of me. In broken sentences and sign language, she told me about losing her childhood friend, and how tough it had been on her. Though losing a person is hardly the right terminology, she told me. Just because they're not with us anymore physically doesn't mean they're lost. It means that they found a permanent residence in our heart and soul. I felt comforted by the words and cling to them on the particularly rough days.

But looking at Harry now, I can tell that I'm not the only one who has been having the rough days this past week.

He's been there for me. Every night I fall asleep to a phone call with him rambling on in any language he chooses. Typically, Italian as it is the most comfortable for him. One night, he spoke a long slew of French that was mournful though beautiful. With more pieces to the puzzle that is Harry, I can understand the difficulty of the language for him. Inherently as romantic of a language that it is, the memories that are associated with speaking it must be oppressive to him. He is only human; he has hard days, too.

Harry has been there for me because I've needed him. But, in this time, I've seen how he needs me, too. He is so obviously trying his best to be there for me but I can see that there are things that are plaguing him. Things that he has to mention now, for fear of what will happen should they continue to fester and not get them off of his chest.

Hesitancy lingers across his expression now. I don't need him to speak to understand the dilemma that he is facing. A sort of confusion as he internally debates whether he should bring his troubles to me. As I am struggling, he is attempting to be my rock. What happens when the rock crumbles, too?

I feel for him. It's a deep, internal feeling, but it churns in my stomach and compels me to action. Upon his uncertainty, I find myself crawling across the couch in order to tuck myself neatly under his arm. Pressing my hand against his chest, I turn to look at him. His attention snaps in my direction, as though he is just realizing that I am there for the first time. Softly, I run my hand through his hair. Almost subconsciously, he leans into my touch. "You can talk to me."

"I know," he answers honestly, his voice slightly hoarse. I can tell that the words coming from his lips are truthful. But still, there seems to be something so obviously holding him back. "I just—I don't know how to say it. I don't know if I want to say it. Saying it makes it real."