becoming {h.s} | {b2}

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

n. please read the note at the end; there's an announcement there.

— CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR —

january, year four.

It's a sleepless night that results in me finally turning to open the journal. Our last night in New York, to be exact. Harry is asleep beside me. So, I suppose it would be better to say that it is a sleepless night for me. His head is resting on my chest, nestled right on my breasts while his arms are draped over and under my waist as he aims to hold me tight and secure to him. Proudly, verbally, and externally I like to claim that I prefer sleeping sprawled out on his chest. I like hearing his heartbeat as my own private lullaby.

To be fair, that is true.

Privately, I hold close my chest the nights in which we sleep like this. The nights in which his curls sprawl over my chest and tickle at my cleavage as I hold him tightly to my chest. I relish in the way that his fingers unconsciously tense and tug at the fabric of my shirt as he pulls himself impossibly closer. Even in sleep, I've come to find that the man is insatiable; he's always begging to be even just that slight centimeter closer. In the same way that he never told me of my wayward hand that likes to write invisible novels in my sleep, I never tell him about his gluttonously greedy fingers.

Save from the pre-marital bliss that resulted in our New Year's Eve proposal in New York City, I'm glad that Harry came along with me. Though he didn't come to work meetings, he did make the time after fun. We even were able to squeeze an extra day out of the trip. Another day for another Broadway show. This one, Harry hadn't seen and I doubt if he paid attention. The whole time, he was shamelessly watching me instead. Something he didn't even bother denying the second we walked out the theatre.

But now we're cooped up in bed. It's been a long few days. Exhaustion claimed Harry before me. Within seconds of his head hitting my chest with my fingers soothingly combing through his curls he was out. Occasional snores are just enough to reaffirm his presently unconscious state.

The television had temporarily entertained me. A movie that I hadn't seen in a while had been on and I got swept away in the plot. Though, once it ended I was back to square one and nothing else seemed enticing. I left the television on—if not for entertainment, at the very least for some form of light that would not wake my sleeping fiancé. Muted, my eyes scanned around the room. At which point, I landed on the journal that was fortunately sitting on the bedside table right next to me, as though begging for me to read it.

Years ago, I had turned it away. I felt out of place reading the innermost thoughts of my best friend. There was no exact reason or particular thought fueling this rationale. Though, I suppose I still stand by it. Had I read the journal before that moment, I suppose Harry's proposal would not have felt as magical as it did. For the first time in my life, I saw inside his head without any level of layer or buffering in between. Though even calling it like that doesn't quite feel right. I saw into my future husband's head in the most organic way.

Besides, I think it felt better hearing the words come from Harry's mouth directly.

But, now I'm awake in the middle of the night in a foreign city with nothing else to do and I don't think I have the same amount of restraint that I did four years ago. This time around, I know that I won't be able to turn the worn pages away. Greedily, I grab at the bound book with the hand that is not tangled absently in Harry's curls.

Without the same hesitation as years before, I find myself turning pages.

Briefly, I allow myself the time that my eyes need to adjust to reading in this dim lighting. Here, Harry writes with a quick and heavy hand. Similar to the handwriting that I have grown accustomed to identifying as his, he does not seem to uphold himself to the same standard of neatness and organization here. Words are scribbled out carelessly and he writes on top of his thoughts without an ounce of hesitation. Truly, it appears as though I am taking an unadulterated peek right inside the inner-workings of his brain.