dear harry [h.s]

prologue

hello friends! i wrote this story two years ago, and it was shit. (i was a depressed pre-teen who did not know how to form a proper sentence)
so, i've decided to rewrite some parts to make it an enjoyable experience.

thanks. xx

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She did the unthinkable.

She gathered enough courage to open his drawer; the one he label as his own and the one she would never be able to touch.

But he would not know anyway, since he was not there to stop her; to clench her wrist tightly and look into her eyes and sternly tell her what she had done wrong. To raise his voice when she objected that her actions were justified. To feel the stinging pain on the smooth back of his hand when it made
forceful contact with her rose cheek.

He had never been one to hit a woman; no such coward was he.
He was too gentle to solve any problem with violence.
He was kind enough to swallow anger before it showed.
But when she would ask to have just one peek in at his drawer, his temper was prominent in little time.

Her fingers trembled as she traced the faded tingling sensation of his touch against her cheek. She hadn't felt his cool skin against her own in days, and it made her anxious.

She nervously looked around, almost as if she expected him to barge into the room in a fit of rage and stop her. But he hadn't been there in so long, he wouldn't come back now. Not at that very moment, she said to soothe her worries.

She took in a sharp breath and wrapped her hand around the cold handle. In one quick motion, she pulled it open; her eyes scanning its contents: a worn, leather journal, a dusty typewriter, and scattered Polaroids.

"What were you hiding in here?" She asked aloud to no one in particular. She reached in, grabbing the journal that had a faded H.S. carved into the front. Her index finger traced the indention as her lip began to quiver. She wasted no time flipping through the pages, some of which were torn or water damaged.

It took hours to read all of his entries. He wasn't writing to anyone, it seemed. Maybe he only wrote to track his life and thoughts, but a journal could not hold how beautiful his life was.

She wiped the remaining tears that streamed silently down her face with the sleeve of her shirt. There was only one entry left for her to read, and with a racing heart, she turned the page.

The last entry was written a few days before he disappeared.
He appeared rushed; his writings jumbled together like the scribbles of a child. She could only make out few words and phrases, those of which included apologies and expressions of love.

The last sentence she read over in her mind until her head ached: "I promise to return to you when I am needed again."