'Cause Nothing Feels Like Home (+Extras)

'Cause Nothing Feels Like Home II

Day 7:

There's hardly a single thought in Harry's head. The notebook page in front of him is empty and the laptop is pulled up to the now black document that should be, because he's been sitting here for an hour now, littered in words. Yet, he waits fingers placed readily on the keyboard. He's waiting...waiting for what? Words? Inspiration? A text, call, or email? Nothing clicks in his head or his keyboard. When was the last time something clicked?

His phone rings as he's staring almost angrily at it and he lunges for it. He presses it against his ear. "Yeah?"

It's his sister. "Well it's definitely not who you'd like it to be."

He sighs. "Sorry. What's up?"

"Who did you want it to be?"

"Nobody."

Her voice silences and he can imagine the face she's pulling as her mind wanders to try to figure out what her baby brother is doing or rather how he's doing. He's a private man and he's only grown more quiet the more issues he's had, so she can't help but dig a little deeper. Her brows, just as Harry suspects, are curved downwards, her lips in a pout. Her shoulders have fallen and caved in. "I've talked to her, you know? Has she told you?" Why is she saying it like it's a secret?

"She hasn't. We're not talking."

"Not even once?"

"Not since the meeting."

"How'd the meeting go?"

The meeting? Oh the terrifying meeting in which she blatantly accused him of caring less about their marriage? Spewing the words "separation" as if he hadn't known what he was doing? Or what he was currently doing.

"Do we have to talk about this?" Harry says through clenched teeth.

"Okay. Do you want to talk about what Saf and I talked about?"

"Not really, no."

"Are you sure?"

"She needs a person and that's you. Be her person, not mine."

Gemma hums. "Well then who's your person?"

"Mum."

Gemma lets out a low whistle. "Good luck. Been an emotional mess, that one."

His heart sinks. "She's been crying?"

"Been trying to hide it too."

"Fuck. I tried to put off telling her as much as I could."

"But why? We were gonna find out anyways. And what if this progresses?" (He wants her to shut up as soon as she says that.) "And what if you need some legal help or—"

"Why," he starts off, annoyed, "would we need legal help?"

She's quiet for a second. "In case this progresses?"

"Progresses to what? No, don't even answer that. The point of this break and the point of the counseling is to prove that we can work together. I am fixing this. We are fixing it. I'm not putting a fucking bandaid over this, yeah? I know what I'm doing. I don't need legal help."

"I didn't mean it like—"

"Yeah, but she thinks it like that. She thinks this is a segue into it and its fucking not. It would be if I were giving up and proving we don't work well, but we fight. We fight and it means it's working."

"Okay."

He exhales. "Yeah. Okay." He fingers the edge of his laptop screen, gnawing on the inside of his cheek. They both hear each other's breathing, and it's when she asks him quietly if he's okay that he realizes he hasn't shed a single tear yet. Normally when he speaks about Safiyya or writes about her, she causes the moisture to form in his eyes, but they're currently dry. That's gotta mean something, right?