like dandelions in the wind (l.s.)

Day eleven

TW: mention of death

I wake up way too early. It wasn’t much later than nine o’clock when we fell asleep yesterday and with all the sleep I got, I really am not tired anymore.

I also need a wee very badly. I try to keep it in as long as possible as not to wake Harry up, but after some time, I really can’t keep it in anymore.

I decide to get up as quietly as possible. I slip into my sneakers first and put on a jacket. It’s seven o’clock only and it looks as if it was really cold outside.

I slide out of bed completely and try to make my way through the bags, clothes and trash on the floor. It doesn’t work.

Halfway through the chaos, I step into something and it cracks rather loudly. “Fuck”, I whisper quietly and try to spot if I destroyed something.

I bend down and lift a shirt, just to reveal Harry’s backpack laying under it. The backpack he hugged so tightly as if it was an actual human being, the backpack he never threw into the back like he did with his bag.

Shit, what if there’s something fragile in it? It has to mean a lot to him, what if I broke something very valuable? Something made out of glass and now I stepped onto it? I lift it up from the floor, opening it to have a short glance inside, just to make sure.

I let out a relieved sigh because there’s a bag of crisps on top and I’m pretty sure the cracking was just me stepping on that. I already want to put it down on the floor again, when I spot a brown pot made out of clay.

Or rather, if you want to be precisely, an urn.

“What the-“, I say, a little too loudly, because Harry starts moving in bed and opens his eyes slightly. I want to drop the backpack immediately but realize that this time, I’d be destroying the stuff inside for sure. So instead, I just freeze, staring at him as if he caught me going through his stuff.

That’s what it has to look like for him for sure.

He doesn’t say anything when sitting up and snatching the backpack out of my hands, slipping into his shoes and grabbing a jacket before disappearing out of the van.

“Fuck off”, is all he mumbles and closes the door behind him again.

It’s all a little much at once. Trying to take in all of what just happened.

The urn. Him having to visit a ‘friend’ at the coast. Maybe it’s the actually reason for him having to get there. The sadness in his eyes, the obsession over getting to the south, the tears when he couldn’t get into a car. It all makes a little bit more sense now.

I sit down on the edge of our bed, burying my face in my hands, trying not to be overwhelmed. I brush through my hair with my hands once and stare up at the ceiling for a while.

I get why he’s angry. It must’ve looked as if I was looking through his stuff for sure. It’s something very personal too, for sure.

I sigh. Fuck, how do I make up for this again? How do I get him to listen to me. ‘Once I’m angry, I’m really fucking angry’, I hear him say and nod. Great, fucking amazing, really.

I don’t want him mad at me. I want us to continue this together, I want to tell him that I might like him a little, I want to peck his cheek and brush through his hair, I want to drive him to the south and I want us to go swimming in the sea together.

I open the door to look for him but he’s nowhere to be seen. I walk around for a bit but he’s not there, so I decide to finally go for a wee.

Back at the van, he’s still not anywhere. I just hope he didn’t walk back up the road. Fuck, what if he’s actually trying to get into some stranger’s car again? I can’t have him get murdered. I can't have him drive away and never see him again.