Come June [ h.s. ]

6

6
.

To say he didn't think about her at all was a lie.

He did.

It didn't matter that her presence set him on edge, or that he wished she didn't invade his thoughts so much. He considered her suggestion to see the lighthouse, and felt an odd temptation to go. Perhaps he'd simply drive past it, stare for a few minutes, and then it would be over.

Done.

But Harry could already feel it in his chest; the pull, the unbreakable yearning for an adventure. He was never one to whoosh past life-- always wanting to  try new things and explore different places, especially when he was younger. When fame hit, he found it to be both a blessing and a curse.

It seemed that when a new door opened, ten others closed.

He could suddenly fly anywhere he wanted-- anywhere in the world-- but never be able to walk down the street with the comfort of knowing he was just like everyone else. If he put his faith in something, it was through contracts and agreements, things he never had to worry about before. In fact, he never really felt like he was investing himself. It was more like selling himself; signing over his time and his freedom, knowing that if things went wrong, they went wrong.

And oh, did Harry have regrets.

The only way he could truly describe his career was bittersweet. It had its moments of joy, of excitement, of freedom; without a doubt, it did. But there was an equal loss that came with those pleasures, of distance from the people he loved.

Distance from himself.

Somedays, he woke up and didn't know who he was; not in a literal sense, but in a spiritual sense. He was intuitive and thoughtful. It was almost ironic how intelligent he was, and yet, he didn't know a thing about himself. What did he want in life? If someone asked him that question, he would surely say happiness.

But what was happiness?

What did it look like?

How was he supposed to find it?

As he made his way back to The Castaway with the morning breeze ghosting across the back of his neck, he tried to understand all of his unanswered questions. He was, after all, quite smart. Surely he could find his own way in the world. He liked to believe that he controlled his own future, remembering the words written in one of his favorite poems--

I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

The sun was on his face now. It warmed the skin and almost seemed to fill him from the outside. He let out a heavy sigh, leisurely swinging his feet along the pavement.

And he thought about the lighthouse again.

"Oh, bother," he said in a hushed tone, his hands shoved deeply into his pockets.

He knew exactly what he was going to do. The childlike curiously wouldn't go away now that she'd suggested it. In his mind, all he could see was the image of her standing on the porch; the indifference of her expression, and they way she was invincible to everything he said.