Perspective

Chapter Sixty Four.

"All I can say is that my life is pretty plain

You don't like my point of view, you think that I'm insane
It's not sane, it's not sane
I just want someone to say to me,
I'll always be there when you wake, 
You know I'd like to keep my cheeks dry today
So stay with me and I'll have it made"

Song: No Rain - Blind Melon.

*****

"So, are you going to tell me what it was that had you sounding so sad on the phone?"

I'm doing my best to distract myself from the thought of what Harry said earlier. Silently hoping to myself that he's more forgetful than I am.

It's my way of trying to climb out of the grave I know I've dug for myself.

I may be able to use some of his tricks against him, but if I were competing with him in the fuckboy tricks olympics I would absolutely lose and I know that.

"Was it really that noticeable?" he looks at me with a half hearted smile, sounding both curious about my answer but also like he's still puzzled that I even noticed.

We've made our way to sit on the couch from the kitchen counter, with Harry being far too well behaved now.

"Well to me it was."

I'm sitting facing him with my legs crossed in front of myself, while he is keeping as little distance between us as possible; keeping his arms spread out behind him overtop the back of the couch.

Gizmo is happily laying on the floor, after Harry had to spend ten minutes arguing with him about getting off of his lap where he jumped up on when we sat down.

At this point Gizmo is Harry's boyfriend not mine.

"I don't know if that makes you really observant or if I've just gotten shit at hiding it," he says while he starts to toy with the material of my t-shirt sleeve, where my shoulder is leaning against the back of the couch, "or maybe it's just that other people don't care to notice. Usually people don't notice."

That feels like a bit of a gut punch to hear him say, especially with the sad inflection of his voice towards the end.

"I think people might notice and care more than you think. If you shut people out, they might think you don't want to talk about it or they don't know how to bring it up."

I'm talking from personal experience here, and I'm not sure if I'm being helpful.

I'm fiddling with my fingers where my hands are rested in my lap, and can't really make out what Harry is thinking as he looks at me and listens to what I'm saying.

"Maybe," he agrees, keeping his eyes on mine, "I like that you care though. I prefer it a lot more to thinking you hated me."

The hurt that flashed in his eyes at the end of his sentence felt physically painful to see, and it's times like this I wish I wasn't so stunted with showing emotions or still scared of them.

I wish I could reassure him more than I feel like I've been capable of.

"I never hated you Harry, I told you that. I don't think I could ever hate you," is the best I can do. But I wish I could say so much more without it getting stuck in my throat.

There's a certain level of vulnerability that is there between us now, that hadn't been there with us previously.

"I still wouldn't blame you if you did. I've thought about it a lot this week, everything that's happened between us," his eyes avert from mine and start to watch his fingers toying with my shirt sleeve instead, until his hand moves over to start playing with my hair that's resting on my shoulder.