Sweet Obsession - H.S

03│Irresistable

6th April 2013

"I'm sorry. I don't smoke." I shake my head, my own voice sounding bleak and insecure and nothing that I ever thought it could. My eyes don't dare move from my dwindling fingers, resting on my lap as if I must stay still, as if I'm awaiting to be painted.

I can't move. If I move then each brushstroke of oil paint will be worthless.

I'll be worthless.

Don't move. Don't look up. Don't move.

"Oh, yea. That's fair enough." He sounds so unbothered, yet there is something hidden within his words that I can't quite decipher. Maybe it's nerves. Or regret. Or something completely opposing the two.

I can't seem to dwell on that for too long, however. Because I'm rather too distracted by the knotting in my stomach which twists and turns and pulls with each passing second.

I can't bear the thought of having to look directly into his gold and green eyes. If I do, then I'll certainly cave. I'd ramble on and on about how I forgive him for all the pain and hatred he's caused me. God only knows, I'd probably end up admitting the love I used to have for him, and the power it held over me.

And then I'd be worthless.

Even still, there's clearly an undeniable amount of self hatred within me for feeling that way then - no matter how much effort I force into masking it. Somehow now, I know that just one look from him could make me throw all of my morals and self respect entirely out of sight and out of mind.

He stays standing in his spot, no more than a few feet to the slight left of me rather than directly in front. It's almost hovering, unsure of what movement to next make and I don't dare say a word. I'm frozen.

Completely concealed in cold, glassy, painful ice.

I might not be able to move, but I can still make out the bottom half of what he's wearing. Starting with black hightop converse, similar to the white ones I always used to wear. His fists shoved into the small pockets of his black ripped skinny jeans, his white tee bunched up just where it's been moved so he could access his pockets.

From what I can see he's tense. Rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet ever so slightly that no one would even notice. It's only because I'm using all of my energy to focus on anything that's not him directly that I can see it. His arms are rigid against his body and if I didn't know better, I'd say he's nervous.

Is he nervous?

Harry continues to stay, motionless and almost frozen in the same sense that I am. He seems to be waiting for me to further encourage the conversation, although I really don't want to. Yet I can't seem to stop the accusing words from flowing out of my mouth.

"I didn't think that you smoked either."

He seems unphased by my more so accusation which really didn't sound as harsh in my head as it might've aloud.

I swear, I hear a genuinely chuckle escape his lips as he replies bluntly. "I don't."

My concentration is intent on his footsteps as he walks across my line of sight. All seems to slow down, and just as I hope he's going to leave. Just walk away and pretend this interaction never happened, he stops. And now he's only a few feet to my right.

I refocus my gaze onto my clear painted nails, picking at my cuticles as some pathetic distraction while I feel him take a seat beside me.

And as if it were possible, I seem to freeze up even more.