Part 1

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He was awake.

Green eyes, shifting left and right, before closing to block out the day, but to no avail. There was no more sleep to be had though, his mind already awake before his body could catch up. He tried once again, in vain, before calling it quits and sat up, rubbing his eyes and scratching his head, fingers getting tangled in the thick mess of curls.

"What...?" he asked, head turning to check the alarm on the bedside table. 7:30 A.M

His eyes widened, thoughts of sleep banished like the fog in the morning. He was going to be late. He had an appointment at 9:00 and the bus schedule was rather unpredictable at this time of day.

Always unprepared, aren't you.

With ease suggesting practice, Harry ignored the voice and jumped out of bed. His room, a barely livable affair, soon became the sight of a grown, 6'foot tall, British youth hunting for something halfway decent to wear.

Having found his clothes, Harry began the process of getting ready for the day. First, a quick cold shower to wake him up again.

Next, his breakfast, freshly burnt toast and instant coffee.

As he finished his coffee, his eyes drifted to his smartphone, checking the time. 7:45 A.M

How will you succeed, when you can barely take care of yourself?

He got ready to leave, taking his messenger bag filled with his work, his eyes once again drifting over his apartment room, his home.

It was a messy, untidy place that seemed to defy any attempts to establish order. Old textbooks lying around, from his days as a college student that he kept. A few mementos from past relationships that he could never quite bring himself to get rid of, a concert t-shirt there, a novelty lamp from a flea market, and a rather hideous clock in the shape of a cat. Amidst all this however, was the extreme amount of paper and notes, scribbled thoughts and half-dreamt ideas of themes and characters, settings and titles, littered throughout the room.

Harry was a writer.

Such a disappointment.

Harry left through the door, and locked it.

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