High Noon [H.S]

pretty in blue

I never really knew true pain until I woke up to the sun blinding my eyes this morning. I'd realized probably a little too late that I had forgotten to draw my blinds last night, which was clearly my first mistake of the night. My second was drinking a little (read: a lot) too much because my throbbing headache and hazy memory seemed to be making even the simple act of getting out of bed (or remembering how I even got into it) a bother.

And though I was sickeningly hung-over and the puzzle of last night was far from pieced together, there was one particular piece that hadn't left my mind, probably because I had spent the majority of three hours tossing and turning in bed after Harry had left thinking about it. Thinking about it now though, letting my choice words of last night marinade in my brain whilst I was 90% sober not only made my stomach twist, but made me want to give up on drinking all together for the rest of my life. Whatever would stop me from spewing out way too many drunken truths without a second thought sounded like the most ideal situation because telling Harry last night that I wanted to kiss him was definitely not how I intended on ending the evening—and hearing that Harry had basically agreed that he wanted to kiss me back only made matters worse. Maybe for a typical person, those words would've made them feel elated or would've confirmed some things, but I couldn't help but think that they were only going to make our situation even messier. It only seemed to make the thoughts circulating my mind messier, too.

The logistics of our relationship were already unclear, but I knew now that we had definitely taken a sharp turn away from just platonic, ordinary friendship and I wasn't sure how I was going to deal with it simply for the fact that I wasn't sure I was ready to step away from that yet.

I groan loudly, using my pillow to suffocate the noise and hopefully, smother my thoughts to their death while I'm at it. I guess this was just another issue to add to the piling list of 'What the fuck is Rory Prescott's life and when will she ever figure it out'.

I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, re-evaluating my entire existence—a ritual now for me after a long night out, which is definitely coming to use today—for a few minutes. I don't want to leave my bed; I want to stay here all day and not have to deal with any of the universe's consequences, but sadly life just doesn't work out that way. If it did, world peace wouldn't just be some enigma pageant girls wish for during their questionnaires. I do, however, postpone said duties with the help of Mindy Kaling and Netflix for a good few minutes. It isn't until the waft of burning food and the sound of pans clattering echoes through my room do I force myself to get out of bed.

Reluctantly and with the most over exaggerated sigh, I scoop up my glasses and my phone from my bedside table and walk towards the human interaction I was already dreading today.

"Holland? You're home already?" I shout through the flat, cleaning the lenses of my glasses with the bottom of my oversized shirt before my eyes meet with a more rugged and broad back rather than her petite one. My brows furrow as I watch the man through blurred vision scrape what smelled like burnt bacon into our rubbish bin. She'd never once since I've lived with her brought someone over to our flat; she'd only ever stayed over at theirs, so I can't help the surprise in my voice before the unknown man can even answer. "Oh, you're not Holland."