After The End: Book 1

9. Waiting and Feeling

Louis POV

She didn't call for a week. I didn't know why. She texted me once to say she needed some time to herself. Other than that I had no idea where she was or what she was doing. After spending ever day together, it was alarming and disorienting.

I hadn't had a relationship since Eleanor. She had been everything to me for years until the incident with Harry happened. I had been heartbroken which was only worsened by the fact that Harry maintained residence in my home beyond the incident. Naomi had been a breath of fresh air. I cared for her deeply. She had integrated into me and Harry's mess seamlessly and her support thus far had been endless. What had I done to mess it up?

Harry told me I worried too much in his few social moments but he wasn't very good company either seeing as he was either drunk or severely depressed or both at the same time. But he hadn't done drugs in weeks and it was the longest I'd seen him off of them in a year. He was leaving his room at least once daily now and seemed more at ease without having to be around Naomi too. His social meter was limited. I wanted to take the wins where I could get them.

He sat on the couch slumped in one of my sweatshirts and a pair of my pajama pants. He looked weary and tired with deep dark circles under his eyes and they were red rimmed from his nervous rubbing habit. The smile on his face was forced but he wasn't in his room and he'd been out for more than an hour so I wasn't going to question it. Harry's behavior was worrying me, and any inch was cause for celebration at some point.

"She just wants space probably, like she said," Harry said. He was speaking mostly to his hands, which were busy picking at his fingernails.

"You're probably right," I muttered defeated.

We sat in awkward silence for a moment while the only sound was Harry's nails clicking together. His hair was messy and tangling over his shoulders. His chin was gaining baby stubble.

"Have you showered recently?" I asked, knowing the answer.

Harry didn't look up, but his eyes looked deep in thought for a moment. Finally, in answer he shrugged.

"That's not an answer," I pressed.

Harry finally looked up at me. "I don't remember."

I sighed. "It might make you feel better."

"Nothing makes me feel better," he assured me looking back down. "My head hurts."

His voice told me he was telling the truth. I could hear it in his weariness. He wasn't doing well. He dropped his fake smile and frowned and continued picking at his nails.

"I'm worried..." I started and then trailed off at the way his shoulders stiffened.

"I left my room," he said quickly. His voice was elevated slightly. "That's what you asked me to do."

"I know," I began.

"I'm not high," he added as if I were accusing him.

"Harry, I know that," I said carefully. I didn't know how to word my concerns. I couldn't very well say that I thought he was on the verge of a mental breakdown but thats exactly what I thought. He wasn't sleeping or eating. He wasn't showering. Harry was one of the cleanest people I knew but his room was a mess. He'd stopped cooking for me, and honestly I was getting tired of doing it myself.

Beyond those surface issues, my mind was flashing to a day on the floor when Harry's sobriety mixed with the raw thoughts in his brain had resulted in an attempt to take his own life. I remembered how guarded he had become leading up to it. I remembered the days of tension and all of the signs I'd missed that something was about to go wrong. I remembered him looking up at me from the floor with cloudy eyes, telling me he wanted to die. I couldn't go through that again.