Anchor {h.s}

seventeen

Don't hate me... 

.

Calling me later this week ended up being never.
A few days went by that I didn't really expect Harry to call me or even give me some news, but then a few days turned into a week and a week almost turned into two.

I understood the fact that Harry wanted to be alone, but he had promised he would call me. I didn't expect him to call me and tell me all about what he felt, but I at least expected a text to tell me that he was alive. I had hoped that his promise was more than empty words. Even after all these years, I always believed him, no matter how many times it had been proven to be wrong.  

Night and day, Harry was on my mind. I wondered how he was doing, if he was getting better. I gave him a week, a whole week where I didn’t call or text him to know how he was doing. He asked for distance and I gave it to him. But after a week, I started to worry and begun texting him.  

It started with small questions like 'are you okay' and 'how are you', then it evolved into 'I'm here if you need me' and 'we could do something today'. None of my texts got replies and with every passing day, I worried a bit more. I feared that Harry had turned to the one thing I hated most: drugs. So on the tenth day without any news I decided to go and see him. 

I waited so long for two reasons. First, I was scared, scared of what I would find. Second, I wanted an excuse to go and see him, I didn't want to seem clingy. And it was after a week that my excuse came to me, when I did the laundry and found the shirt he had left the night he had slept at my place.  

So on my day off, around noon, I went to Harry's place, his shirt in my bag.

I had prepared my self for all kinds of scenarios. I imagined finding him high on his sofa; I imagined finding his apartment empty and learning that Harry had moved to Mexico; I imagined everything I estimated were the worst-case scenario; I was naïve.  

I knocked on Harry's door harder than I intended as my hands held the strap of my bag tightly. I heard muffled music behind the doors and the sound of steps coming my way. I took in a deep breath, but released it as I saw who it was.  

The person that opened the door wasn't who I expected, it wasn't Harry. Never had I seen this man and I was almost glad I hadn't met him before.  His eyes were as dark as the night, he had both side of his head shaved and he stood as if he ruled the world. But what hit most was the red outline of his eyes, he was definitely high.

"Can I help you?" He asked with a deep voice, a frown on his face.
I bit my lower lip and tried to look behind to see if Harry was there. "Is-uh, is Harry there?"

He raised a brow. "Who's asking?"

"Emily." 

As I said my name, his whole expression changed. A mischievous smile spread on his lips as he leaned against the doorframe.

"Uh," he huffed as he looked me up and down. "You're Emily," he stated while nodding before chuckling darkly, enjoying a personal joke.

I crossed my arms over my chest. "Is Harry there?" I asked again, getting more annoyed by the second.

He laughed again. "Yup," he simply said before standing aside and letting me in.  

As soon as I walk in, I smelled something I hadn't from outside: weed. I wanted to cry, I wanted to cry so badly because I knew that I would be facing a stoned Harry. But again I underestimated everything. The air was thick with smoke; it was hard to breathe and to see. The smell of pot filled my lungs and even from the small breaths I had took in, I felt high.

I followed the guy to Harry's living room, the sound of the music getting louder with every step. As I turned the corner to enter the living room, not only was I faced with Harry high out of his mind, but also by a girl straddling him and breathing smoke out of her mouth and into Harry's. The scene was painful to watch. His hands on her thighs, hers in his hair, their lips against each other. Other people sat around them but my eyes stayed on him.