Artwork [h.s]

extra #1

FEBRUARY

Harry stares at the door, his heart hammering in his chest. His hands are trembling, and he digs his nails in his palms to keep it from showing.

He hears steps coming towards him and has to  grasp the side of the door to keep himself from running away before it's too late. He knows that he has to do it now or else he never will.

I can do this, he tells himself, even though he can't believe his own words. He's always tried his best to seem stronger than he truly is. Showing his emotions has always been the equivalent of telling his enemy his weaknesses, for him. Yet, today he isn't able to keep his restlessness at bay, to hide it behind his usual façade. He's always felt too much and loved too little, a part of him wishes he'd never let his guard down.

But he did, and here they are. Harry feels like a child. His nose is red and his fingers stiff, it's a cold evening of February and he isn't even wearing his coat.

The golden light of the front porch is turned on, and he knows it's too late. It's too late. It's too late. It's too late.

The door opens, and Sierra is standing on the other side. Her auburn hair is a bit messy, and he has to choke back a chuckle. His eyes sting, but he blinks the sensation away before it can be shown on his face and clenches his teeth, trying his best to look like he doesn't care.

She takes some steps back and he enters her house, closing the door gently. Sierra looks at him with fear in her eyes, and he knows she knows. She might not know the details, but she can read his behaviour too well. She knows he's about to flee.

"This, is a mistake," he says between his teeth. He can't look at her in the eyes. "You were right."

"No I wasn't, I was just—" she tries to cover up, but he doesn't need her to.

Harry knows it's cruel of him to lean on what she accidentally told him all those months ago. He should find his own words, she deserves at least that, but they get tangled in his throat and he can't let them out.

"You were." His voice is calm, but his mind is screaming at him to shut up and take it all back, because there has to be another way. Maybe they aren't as doomed as he thinks they are, maybe they too will get their happy ending. But they're all lies, and if he believes them he'll hate himself more than he already does.

His hand reaches for the door instinctively, and he wonders how despicable it'd be of him to run away in that moment, just like that. He could hide somewhere and never face the world again. Let her understand he isn't coming back to her in time. But he owes her at least a breakup— a proper ending to that mess of a love story is the least he can give to her.

"Harry stop, talk to me," she interjects, putting her hand on his arm. It stings where she touches him, and he doesn't know if he wants to linger into the touch or shake her away from him, because she's making it harder and harder for him. "What is going on? We can get through this."

Harry shakes his head. "No, we can't." He frowns, finally daring to look into her chocolate brown eyes. The way she's staring at him knocks his breath out of his lungs. Heartbreak has transmuted into a physical pain, and he wonders how high the chances are that he'll die of a broken heart. "I don't want us to."

"I don't understand," she says in a whisper. He can hear her confusion and he hates that he's hurting her. He hates it so much, but he knows it's better to do it now than later on, when they'll be even closer and he'll prove himself to be even more of a disappointment than he already is. Sierra's always been destined for better, greater things, while he's always been that boy that will never get out of the quicksand— and it's what he'll always be.