Stranded [harry styles] ✓

11

"Are you asleep yet?" 

Harry's voice cuts into the pitch black silence. We're sprawled out in the sand around the fire, eyelids fluttering as we watch the dying embers. His head is positioned just beneath the soles of my feet as if we've formed a sort of incomplete protective circle around our creation. 

I want to tell him "of course I'm not asleep, I don't think I'm ever going to sleep again" but I know he'll worry and he won't go to sleep himself. 

"Not yet." I reply and yawn for good measure. "Are you?"

He laughs and headbutts my feet.

"Hey!" I exclaim and poke his ear with my big toe. "You're so needy at night." 

His chuckle echos in the darkness and I smile. He knows full well I'm referring to his insistence on spooning two nights ago.  

"I know you haven't been sleeping by the way." His voice is unsure as if he's not certain we're at the point where he can start making serious comments. I feel my mouth dry out, reminiscent of my first day of being 'stranded'.  

"How can you possibly know that?" I ask defensively. "You're always comatose." 

I instantly feel guilty for throwing my guard up and yet not quite guilty enough to retract it and raise my hands in defeat. I know that weakness is ok. It's ok not to be strong everyday. And I know that every heartfelt conversation that Harry and I have shared in which one of us is not coping (albeit usually me) has also always finished up ok. But there's still something about weakness on this island, in this situation that doesn't sit right with me. Deep down, hidden within the folds of my brain, there's a voice that tells me weakness and survival are a forbidden love story; more tragic than Romeo and Juliet and more repellent than opposite poles on a magnet. And because of that, I can't helping thinking that weakness will mean the end of my survival.  

"Because when I do wake up, you're always wide eyed staring up at the sky as if you're waiting for something."

"I am waiting for something." I point out quietly. 

Harry doesn't reply. He knows exactly what I'm waiting for because he's waiting for it too.

We're waiting for someone to take us home.

We're waiting for some sort of sign that we haven't been completely given up on. 

"But that's not why I haven't been sleeping." I admit after an extensive silence. I lick my lips and wrap my arms around myself. It's getting cold now, especially with the fire no longer giving off a substantial amount of heat and I can feel goosebumps trailing up the back of my neck. 

Harry suddenly sits up and turns around so that he's facing me. He places his hands lightly on the tops of my toes and waits for me to continue. In the dim light of the embers, I can just about make out the deep groove of a frown that has formed between his eyebrows. 

"I can't sleep because of the nightmares." 

It sounds childish and pathetic saying it out loud but it also feels like a weight lifting off of my chest. 

"You mean like the one from the other night? When you were kicking and screaming?" His voice is curious but still sympathetic. 

"Yup." The 'p' makes a popping sound as it leaves my lips. "That's the one. I've had it twice now and quite frankly, it's twice too many." 

I can only hear the sound of my own heavy breathing as Harry seems to sit and ponder over my revelation. My visual of him is growing more limited by the second and I crave to read his expression; to understand if he understands.