Three days. It had now been three days since I had told Harry that I'm in love with him. Three days that had stretched on for surely three years. Every move I made seemed to make my entire body ache, muscles, bones, heart, everything. I hadn't gone this long without talking to Harry since I met him, and it was eating me alive inside. He hadn't called, hadn't texted, hadn't stopped by, hadn't made any attempt at all to contact me.
I had convinced my mother that I was sick and was unable to go to school; I certainly looked sick enough. It was Wednesday now and I had barely left my room. Any food my mother brought to me went uneaten as it grew cold on the small tray she served it on. My only movement was to go to the bathroom, although I had yet to shower. What was the point? No one was going to see me, and I didn't have the energy to drag myself in there for more than a few minutes. My downward spiral had yet to slow, a fact that seemed to worry my mother more and more with each passing day.
I think she began to suspect something else was wrong with me by now, although she didn't ask. As much as I could tell it was bothering her not to pry, I was glad that she didn't push me. Surely I would have cracked all over again, and I didn't know if I would have been able to pick myself up from there. Never in my life could I remember feeling like this. The crushing weight in my stomach refused to subside no matter what I did.
My thoughts couldn't be distracted from Harry for more than a few seconds before the dark clouds rolled in over my brain once more. There was nothing I could do to help heal the wounds he had inflicted; worst of all, I wasn't sure I wanted to feel better. There was a small masochistic part of me that reveled in the pain, that wanted to feel the stinging burn of rejection. Maybe I deserved to feel like this after what had happened to him; it had clearly been my fault, anyway.
I sighed heavily as I heaved myself up from my bed for the second time that day. Night, I suppose. The clock on the wall told me it was nearly 9 pm. Trudging to the bathroom, I couldn't help but notice that I smelled very bad. Of course I did: I had done nothing but wallow in my misery the past three days. Resigning, I decided it was time to take a shower. I pulled back the curtain and turned the water on as hot as it would go, hoping the heat would help distract me from my mangled heart.
As I waited for the water to warm up, I stood in front of the mirror and tugged my clothes off, looking at myself for the first time since Sunday night. I was too tired to react to the shocking image before me. My eyes were hollow and dead as they stared back at me. Dark bags hung underneath them, contrasting shockingly with the pale tone of the rest of my face.
My lips, too, looked pale in comparison to their usual color. My collarbones protruded father than they normally did, making me look sickly and far too skinny. Equally shocking was my hair, which hung in stringy clumps around my face, looking dull and lifeless as well as frightfully dirty. At least I look like I feel, I thought sadistically. Good.
I heard a soft knock at the bathroom door.
"Joey?" my mother's soft voice drifted through the wood.
"Hmm?" I replied, unable to form an entire word. My throat felt like it had been ripped open; I hadn't spoken nearly the entire last three days.
"I just got called into work, will you be okay on your own?" concern leaked into her voice as she asked. I knew I wouldn't be able to get away with the "being sick" thing much longer without an interrogation from her.
"Yeah," I mumbled over the noise of the shower.
"Okay, sweetie, call if you need anything," she said.
"Kay," I replied. With that, she was gone.
Steam was starting to gather in the bathroom, so I tugged the curtain back before pulling myself under the scalding stream of water. The hot water burned against my skin, turning it an angry red color as it pelted down on me, but I didn't care. It felt good to feel something after days of feeling empty and numb. I stood there for a few minutes, not moving as I let the burning water run over my body.
Slowly, methodically, I managed to wash my hair and skin, rinsing it much longer than necessary as the ribbons of soap and water twisted down me. Wanting to prolong my time in the scalding water, I even shaved my legs. I didn't even react when I nicked my skin on my knee, causing a stream of blood to flow out of the tiny cut.
I looked at the red current streaking down my leg, thinking I probably should feel the sting of the cut but feeling nothing. After a few more minutes of wallowing in the shower, I finally turned it off and climbed out. I wrapped a towel around myself and another around my hair as I left the steam filled room to return to my bed.
The first thing I did when after walking through the door was check my phone, hoping against hope I would have a missed call, a voicemail, even a text from him. Of course, there was nothing. With every passing day, it became more and more clear that Harry was no longer interested in being with me.
He hadn't even offered an explanation; simply ran away with no hope of ever returning. Once again, I felt the stinging in my eyes that should have indicated tears, even though I hadn't been able to cry actual tears for nearly two days now. Apparently I had run out, because even though sobs frequently took over my body, my eyes remained dry.
I let my towels fall to the floor as I pulled on a sports bra and underwear. The bottom drawer of my dresser that contained my shorts as tugged open as I extracted a pair of plain black ones and pulled them up my legs. After throwing my hair up into a bun on top of my head, not even bothering to comb it out, I walked over to my closet, opened the doors and stared inside.
A gray sweatshirt caught my eye, making my heart pound simply by looking at it. It was the sweatshirt Harry had given me the night he had picked me up on the street. I had refused to give it back to him, even though he had never asked. Feeling stupid, I gently pulled it off the hanger and hugged it to my chest, hating myself for feeling comforted by the simple piece of his clothing.
He didn't care about me, obviously, why should I feel comforted by his sweatshirt? I knew I shouldn't, but that didn't stop the fact that I did. Admitting defeat, I slipped the fabric over my head and yanked it down.
I immediately regretted doing so. His scent that somehow still clung to the fabric invaded my senses, bring back countless memories of Harry and I together. Memories of him rescuing me from that dreadful party, taking care of me, snuggling together in his bed. Memories of laughing with him, smiling, touching, hugging, kissing, everything.
Suddenly the tears that had been absent for so long reappeared as they spilled over my lids and down my cheeks. God, I missed him. Even if he didn't love me, we could still be together, right? He didn't love me now, but he could in the future. Maybe. No, he won't. If that had been a possibility, he wouldn't have run away. I was being pathetic. He didn't love me, and he never would.
Despite all the dark thoughts running through my head, I didn't remove his sweatshirt. Apparently the masochist in me was stronger than I thought. I crossed my room to sit down on my bed, pulling my knees up to my chest as I stared at my phone sitting on my bed.
Ring. I urged it. Come on, ring. Much to my dismay, however, the phone remained silent. I squeezed my eyes shut, desperately trying to talk myself out of what I knew I would eventually cave to: calling him.
Gingerly, I picked up the phone, treating it as if it were a bomb about to go off and shatter me into a million pieces. Again. This is an awful idea. He said he would call and he hasn't. Clearly, that's a sign. He doesn't want to talk to you, don't do it, Joey. Give it up.
I knew that I shouldn't call him. There was almost no way this could go well, but I couldn't help myself. I had to at least try once before completely giving up on it. With shaking fingers, I somehow managed to dial his number before pressing the phone to my ear. I instantly began to chew the fingernails on my other hand, a habit that I hadn't realized I had developed until just now.
It was ringing. With each passing ring, I felt as if the vice grip on my heart was squeezing tighter and tighter, threatening to crush it to dust before the end of the phone call. Please pick up, I begged silently. I don't care what you say, just please answer. My hopes plummeted lower and lower as the seconds dragged on. He wasn't going to answer.
He didn't want to speak to me. I let out the sob I had been holding back when his voicemail picked up. His beautifully deep voice filled my ears, professionally instructing me to leave my name, number, and a message before promising to call me back. Before I knew what I was doing, words were spilling out of my mouth to be recorded in his messages.
"H-Harry..." I choked, gasping in a rattled breath before continuing. "I... I don't know what happened but I just wanted to say... I don't know, Harry, not sorry, because I m-meant every word," sob. "But... I don't know. I'm know you don't feel the same way... I just... I had to tell you. So now you know, I guess. I... I'll just say goodbye, then." Sob. "I love you."
I finished my pathetic message just in time for the beep to cut me off. Frustration took over as I threw my phone down to the carpeted floor, angrily wiping the tears that had wet my cheeks. I sniffled as I reached over to my end table to grab a tissue before blowing my nose. Looks like I finally have my answer. I was in for another miserably long night.
***
Harry's POV
My fingers were throbbing when I put my guitar down. I had been playing for hours, desperately trying to distract myself from the aching hole that had appeared in my chest. Each day, it grew wider and wider, threatening to swallow me entirely. I knew it was only a matter of time before it did. I hadn't seen Joey in days; she hadn't even come to school. Guilt had wound itself tightly to my insides, growing more and more painful each and every minute.
This was my fault. Entirely, completely, one hundred percent my fault. These last few days without her had been hell on their own, but knowing that she was hurting just as I was if not more was unbearable. As much as I wanted to sprint over to her house right now, I knew that I had to give her space and let her move on. If she didn't hate me a few days ago, she certainly did now.
This was the only way I could think of to react, however. Clearly I didn't deserve her, so why should I try to explain myself? Better for her to move on now than for me to continue to hang around and waste more of her time when I obviously wasn't worthy of her.
I jumped as loud crack spread through the cool night air. Thunder. I hadn't even noticed the ominous clouds rolling in; I had been too preoccupied with hating myself. How fitting that a dark storm should appear at a time like this. Rain started to sprinkle down and wet the sidewalk, forcing me to move inside, exactly where I didn't want to be.
I had barely been able to set foot in my room- every time I tried I was flooded with memories of her. Memories of her in my bed, of her examining my photos, of her smiling at me from across the room. Worse, memories of her sitting on my lap, giggling, hugging me, kissing me, everything. It was too painful to bear.
Every room in my house seemed to be haunted by her, mocking me for being such a coward. Begrudgingly, I dragged myself up the stairs to return my guitar to my room. Flashes of lightning illuminated my entire house, followed shortly by another crack of thunder. The rain seemed to be picking up as well as it pounded down on the roof.
Any hope that the sound would drown out my thoughts was lost as her face swam before my eyes again. I was just about to exit the room when I noticed my phone light up, indicating I had a message. I was about to ignore it- every other time this had happened, I had gotten my hopes up that it was her only to be crushed by a thousand pound weight when it wasn't.
It was probably just my mom, calling to check on me as she had yet to return from her trip and I didn't think I could manage talking to her right now. Thank god she wasn't here to witness her son in the most pathetic of all states; she would have been ashamed.
I decided I couldn't face hearing her right now, so I turned off the light in my room and went back downstairs. I would deal with that later, just not right now. The storm grew heavier as I made my way down the stairs. A particularly loud crash of thunder caused the lights to flicker momentarily before returning to full brightness.
It was as if the sky had decided to reflect my emotions, taunting me and soothing me all at the same time. I threw myself down on the couch, turning on the TV in hopes of distracting myself even though I already knew it would be pointless. Nothing had been able to draw my mind away from Joey for a very long time.
A flash of lightning burst across the room, followed almost immediately by a crash of thunder that caused the lights to flicker again, this time more than once. The TV made a weird sound as it turned off and on again in the staggering electricity. I sighed before clicking it off. I wasn't watching anyway.
Leaning forward, I buried my face in my hands as I rested my elbows on my knees. Sighing deeply, I tried to imagine when things could possibly become easier. I doubted they ever would. I jumped again as another flash of lightning illuminated the house almost simultaneously with the loudest crash yet. This time, the lights went out completely.
Great. A power outage was exactly what I needed right now on top of everything else. My thoughts returned to my phone as I sat in the dark. I should probably call my mother back and tell her the power went out. Pushing my hands through my hair, I hauled myself off the couch to make the journey up to my room.
Thunder, lightning, and rain continued to pour down around the house as I moved up the stairs and into my room. I sat on my bed with a heavy sigh before picking up my phone and opening my voicemail. I listened to the familiar instructional recording before my first message started.
"H-Harry...." My heart all but stopped in my chest as I heard her voice ringing through my ears. She had called me. Finally, she had called me. As I listened to her broken message, my heart throbbed in my chest. She sounded so incredibly sad, so incredibly hurt, that I knew I would never forgive myself for making her feel like that. What had I done to her?
The last line of her message repeated itself over and over in my head. "I love you." She had said it again. Did that mean she didn't hate me? How could she possibly not after everything I had put her through? She was supposed to be moving on with someone better, not crying alone at home and calling me to tell me she still loved me. What could I possibly have done to deserve such an amazing girl? Nothing. I had done nothing to deserver her.
But if she took the chance to call me, there had to still be a chance for us, right? Cursing myself for stupidly not having my phone on me at all times and for taking so long to check my message, I paced around my dark room. My steps were hasty and messy as my mind was preoccupied by much more important details.
Should I text her? Call her back? I paused my pacing, turning to stare at the intimidating phone on my bed. Bouncing on the balls of my feet, I ran my hand through my hair yet again before nodding determinedly. I knew what I had to do. Even if she slapped me in the face, yelled at me, shoved me out the door and demanded never to see me again, I knew what I had to do.
Hiii guys! Thank you for reading! If this gets 12 votes/likes tonight, I'll post the next part! You can do it! Yay! :) xx