Lone [MATURE HS]

Chapter 4.

"It's fine," he says this time, voice low and flat as usual. "I came back to grab my theoretical psychology project but ended up hurting myself instead."

I nod my head slowly, eyebrows furrowing deeper. "The way it's bleeding says otherwise."

"At this moment I'm interpreting it as fine," he says to me lowly, and then adding, "You look beautiful, by the way."

My face feels a little bit hot, and I can tell my cheeks are flushing pink. I raise my chin slightly, trying to ignore his compliment with a fast, quiet 'thank you'. A few moments later where he looks at me without a word spoken, I add, "How'd you do that to your hand?"

"The metal shelfs in the room were very sharp on one side, and I accidentally brushed my hand against it, tearing my hand up," he bluntly explains, and I grimace at the imagery.

His explanation sounds painful. Until I think back. "Wait...so then what shattered?"

Harry looks stolid and now slightly confused. "What?"

"That wasn't you?"

"I'm sure it wasn't. Why? Where did it come from?" He asks, but I can't stop thinking about his bleeding hand or the fact that he's here dressed in his funeral attire, precisely for his father's.

I shake my head and blink rapidly, saying, "Down the hall...— you really need to get your hand cared for. Go to the nurse."

"Is it bothering you? My hand?" Harry opens his palm facing towards him, examining the bloody injury. "I'm sure the team would be even more pissed now that my good hand is fucked up more than they were at the idea of losing the championship because my dad's dead."

And I dread the way he talks about it so dryly, so emotionally drained. I bite my bottom lip, sighing heavily to myself before crossing my arms over my chest. "Where's your psychology project?"

"I'm looking at it."

I make the mistake of simultaneously swallowing and gasping, now coughing to get rid of the choking sensation. My lips part, my baffled expression painfully obvious. "What?" I mumble.

"I'm drawing you, Tara," he admits without pathetic remorse or mortification, emotions that I'd be feeling if I were to admit those details, but he doesn't.

"Oh..." I whisper beneath my breath, trying to get over the fact that he so honestly, brutally confesses his thoughts. I think I begin to admire this about him. His strong sense of certainty and honesty. It seems natural to him. "So...so can I see it?"

Harry watches me quietly for a long moment again. "It's not done. I was thinking about taking it home, finishing it there. But if you want...yes."

I shake my head. "Finish it, it's okay. I can see it when it's done."

"Okay."

My fingers grab to the strap of my bag tightly, swallowing down the awkward tension I get from this interaction. Usually, I'd dismiss the staring and verbally acknowledge the way it's irritating, but with him I feel sympathy for him. I can't imagine what it would be like if I were to lose my mother. This is why I let him watch me, and because he says things the way he does.

We just look at each other, eye contact firm. I force a smile onto my lips, keeping the politeness to an extent that doesn't seem fabricated. "I have to go. But you should really get your hand checked."

He's still, murmuring, "It's fine."

My eyes stare at him hard for a second, wondering how he does it. He's been like this for a while, said Deborah. And I'd like to think this is because it's sincerely his personality, but I doubt that. I feel sympathy for him.