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I write to say the things that I should have
Avery wouldn't classify herself as a nervous person. Everybody had their set of anxieties, sure. But she wouldn't call herself a calm person either. As soon as she got home from her shift at the coffee shop, she rummaged around her flat for the ancient dictionary she had bought years ago. Her mission was to look up the technical definition of Calm.
The absence of strong emotion. If this definition was in fact trustworthy, then she hadn't been truly calm for what felt like forever. She was always, whether she was aware of it or not, on high alert. Looking out for anything that could hurt her. Avoiding something that she knew would always linger.
She wasn't nervous about going out, it was something to do, and it would get her out of her flat. She also didn't find herself to be nervous about having to talk to Harry and his friends, because her mind is still going crazy with the fact that he invited her at all. In the end, it all came down to him picking her up. That unimportant, tiny detail made her heart race.
He'd been here before, but never inside. He would see the shabby piano, the numerous dying plants, all of the unread books, and the old rug. Just the very thought of him seeing all of this, seeing her tiny space where she spent so much time, made her hate everything that she so dearly loved about her place. What if he didn't like it? What if he left?
"These are dumb thoughts," Avery murmured to herself while washing up the teacups. "It's something your mother would say." She leaves the dripping cups beside the sink, letting the water form small puddles.
They had agreed on eight and Avery was ready at seven. The doorbell rang at seven-thirty. She hurried towards the door, pressing her back against it before looking through the peephole. On the other side, she was met by Harry. Though she knew he was coming, and she wasn't expecting anyone else to be there, it still surprised her. Seeing him there made her feel all warm and fuzzy.
Avery opened the door, trying to ignore her nerves. "Hey, you're quite early."
"Yeah, I-I was around the area anyway," She almost got the impression that he was nervous too. Maybe even more than she was. "Can I come in?"
"Oh, sure." She stepped aside, eyeing him carefully as she closed the door. His gaze shifted through her dimly lit flat. Avery had turned every light on, something she rarely did. During the day the large windows provided more than enough light, as it turned night she kept minimal lights on. Preserving energy and saving money.
She quietly waited for a reaction but received none. Instead, Harry immediately made his way to the piano, lifting the lid. "Oh, I wouldn't-" She cringed at the sound the instrument let out and so did Harry.
"You should get that tuned," He chuckled, noticing her uncomfortable expression. "I'm guessing you don't play."
"No, I don't." She was kind of embarrassed before walking into the kitchen to finish drying off the last few cups.
"Have you read all those?" Harry asked, skimming through the bookshelf and letting his fingertips brush over their spines.
"No, not all of them." She replied, again embarrassed. He'll think you're dumb and a hypocrite. She couldn't ignore the voice in her head, though it was never her own. She placed the last cup in the cupboard before turning over to Harry. He was standing in the middle of the living room, his eyes taking everything in again before stopping on her. "Yeah, this is it."
"This is what?"
"The flat of an author. You've got the books, the view, the old rug, the out of tune piano, and the plants. It's perfect."
"I'm not an author, I work in a coffee shop." She reminded him, but she couldn't ignore the feelings she felt when he said that. Her heart swelled with pride as the word author left his mouth, just like when he had introduced her as a journalist.
"You just don't want to admit that you're a living cliche, Avery. You even look like an author."
"How so?"
Harry stared at her for a moment before making his way around the couch, stopping in front of her. Studying her features.
"For one, your hair. It's short, but it's just long enough to pull into a ponytail whenever it bothers you, keeping it out of your face while you write."
"Is that something only authors have?"
"Certainly," He said, totally serious in his choice of tone. "Then your constant tiredness. Which is, I'm saying this without wanting to offend you, quite obvious."
"Are authors always tired?" Avery questioned, slightly amused at his examination.
"I suppose so, all those words constantly flowing through your head. How do they ever get to sleep with all of that on their mind?" He replied. "And you have blue eyes. Every author I have ever met has had blue eyes."
"How many have you met?"
"One." He broke into the sweetest smile. The two dimples making their appearance once again. After he said that, everything went still. It felt like time had completely stopped, both of them trapped in this tender moment.
The serene atmosphere around them was broken by the incessant sound of Harry's cell phone. The ringing tethering them both back to the reality they were living.
