Moments || H.S

ninety two ; I wanna get better

(Morning after the last chapter and trigger warning)

"Ave, wake up" Harry gently shakes me and I open my eyes, to see him laying on his side and supporting his weight with one arm and the other on my shoulder. 

"What?" I ask, covering my face with my hands. How the tables have turned, because now he's waking me up. I spent the last nearly 6 months gently shaking him awake every morning, sometimes he's compliant but sometimes he straight up ignores me. I'd know which one I'd prefer.  

"I get to see Delilah today" He sounds happy and I smile at the sound of him getting excited again, it's been months since I've heard any emotion is his voice that wasn't hurt or anger. 

"Yeah, you ready?" I ask, sitting up the same way he is and looking at him, matching his smile. 

"So ready" 

I shower at Harry's place, pulling on the clothes I wore last night and deciding to change when I get home. August leaves this afternoon and Harry is staying at my place. Even if he is slowly getting better, I'm not trusting it one bit. 

I've seen his mind pull tricks on him way to much. I'll never forget the night I spent awake with him 2 week after Louis died and genuinely considering taking him somewhere or calling someone. It was fucking scary and I can still feel his iron grip on my hand when I tried to leave the room. He ran his thumb over the bruises and looked so upset with himself for hurting me. I never want to see him go through that again and I hope it's over. 

I hate the way some books and movies romanticize mental illness. Contrary to popular belief, it's not just crying and lost. It's not sitting in a chair with a cigarette or standing in the rain. It's calming your best friend down from a nightmare that caused a panic attack, it's considering removing locks in case you need to get in and trying not to bawl your eyes at the second they raise their voice at you. It's reminding yourself that they are hurting and don't mean it and then going home and crying. 

It's feeling hopeless and knowing you can't help someone until they are ready to help themselves. 

And that fucking hurts. It hurts more than being punched in face. I'd rather be kicked in the gut than walk into his house and panic because I can't find him, only for him to just be out the back. Imagine being terrified that one day you'll lose someone you love the most right in front of you. Imagine not knowing if one day your life with change, again. It's clinging on to everything that brings you happiness but the thing that brings you happiness is at his lowest point and can't feel happiness for more than 20 seconds. 

That's what mental illness really is. That's how it affects people close to the person. I know what I feel is nothing compared to Harry, but I still sit there for a long time, reminiscing on times I didn't have to live like this. 

I walk into Harry's room and he's pulling a shirt over his head.. 

"fucking knock" He sighs, closing the closet. 

"You really think I care?" I shake my head at him "I had to drag your drunk ass out the bath before you drowned last month" 

There's been so many occasions he's started drinking and had to be looked after before he did something stupid. The most memorable one was when he dropped a bottle and tried to clean up the shards with his bare hands, cutting his finger. The blood only seemed to panic him more that the smashing sound had. He has a small scar on his finger now, a constant reminder of that night. 

 His creases his eyebrows and nods his head slowly "good point"

We leave and start waling over to my place and I watch him open the door, looking around for his god-daughter.