VIERNES
2:07 PM
Dahlia Gray
"What are you doing here?" I croak, taking out an earbud and hooking the wire over my ear. I slip my phone into the pocket of my jacket, fidgeting with the loose white cord as my stare concentrates on the blue-eyed boy that's been slowly consuming my life. "You're supposed to be in class."
Harlow pushes himself off the bench and steps out from under the bus stop, pocketing his hands. "I want to be there for you."
That made me smile. Not a complete grin, where I'm beaming with pride and joy radiates from the irises of my eyes—but with a soft gaze and a depleted hint of sadness layered under them. It reminds me of yesterday. "You didn't have to do that."
"I want to," he declares solemnly, taking a couple of cautious steps towards me. He stops right before me, a breath away, tilting down to meet my gaze. His eyes studying every trace of my features with intimacy—or what I hope to be.
My breath clings to my throat, and in that moment, I felt something change.
I don't know how Harlow views me, but I do know how I feel about him.
My heart races. Three simple words and a stare that's starting to intoxicate me. I'm watching him as he's watching me, and in this instance, it's more than something. It's the way I'm studying his eyes, and wondering if I could get lost in them like a swimmer in the middle of the sea. It's the way I'm studying the curve of his jaw, the slight stubble of a beard. It's the way I'm watching his lips, and considering for a second—what would happen if I kiss them?
I tear my gaze away and dump them to the floor, calming my racing heart and the thumping in my eardrums. I pull my lips together, feeling an unfamiliar wave of butterflies erupting inside my stomach, flustering my skin.
You deserve a love unquestioned.
Maybe.
"You can't come in," I warn, dragging my shoes against the concrete, swinging back and forth. "We don't allow unauthorized visitors without a notice."
"I'll just take the bus back." Harlow declares gravely, no room for argument and none that would convince him. "That's okay with you?"
I don't say anything, just as the sound of an engine rumbles and bus exhaustion pulls me back to gravity. Looking up to see passengers unloading and loading onto the charter, I realize it's time to go. Harlow doesn't move from his spot, his eyes dead set on me—waiting for me to make the call.
"Um," I clear my throat, returning my gaze back to the bus and how the group is ascending up the steps, slowly getting smaller. My heart running leaps in my chest, my thoughts in a frenzy. "Let's go then."
I step towards the line, trailing closely behind the last person and I don't look back to find Harlow. I'm afraid if I do, he could read the expression on my face or the thoughts swirling in my head. He could discover something that could either make or break our relationship.
Harlow steps up to the empty spot beside me, skipping in front of a couple of people that form a line behind me. I held my breath, rationalizing everything and telling myself to calm with his presence near me—when I felt his hand tug on me, intertwining our fingers.
I freeze.
I look down to see our interlaced hands, and back towards his face—finding his expression completely at ease. He doesn't seem to think anything towards this small gesture, and up until now, neither did I.
I debated pulling back, but that would be admitting something's wrong. Off. I couldn't do that. Plus, I love the way his hand molds into mine perfectly and the way they provide a sense of comfort with so little words. Even if my feelings change, and my thoughts are straying off their usual path—I don't mind this.
Who knows what could happen when he could finally read my thoughts and know I don't view him as just a label-less title anymore.
We step onto the bus and I lead the way. I head to the back of the vehicle, where there are two open seats right next to each other. Once taking our seats, and the final passengers load onto the coach, the transit begins.
It's going to be a long ride, but for the first time, I wasn't going to be alone.
Thoughts were swarming in my head, about yesterday—the panic attack, the driving lessons, and ending our agreement—and I thought about today. How Harlow is here, and he's still here, despite my protest and extermination of our lessons—he's here.
I take a second glance at Harlow, finding his eyes set on me and a soft expression overtaking his features—a look he only shares with me. He doesn't say anything, his blue eyes flicker to my face, reading my expression and I'm reminding myself to remain composed in his presence.
"Hey." I whisper.
"Hey." Harlow responds, a small smile creeping on the corner of his lips. "How you feeling?"
Safe. Comfortable. Things you don't want to know.
"Good," I respond honestly, taking the unused earbud and offering it in the palm of my hand. "This is going to be a long ride."
He chuckles, but doesn't say anything. Taking the earbud, he plugs it into his ear and the playlist skips a track to the next song. Without You by Oh Wonder plays.
We don't say anything after that, and our gaze moves to the front. I sigh, considering everything in the midst of this silence, recalling the memories. How he's been here for me, through my ups and downs, and how everywhere I turn—Harlow is there. He's always here.
I lean my head against his shoulder, my heart skipping beats. Instead of trying to tame them—or eliminate them from my system—I embrace the idea. This is how I feel about Reid Harlow, and this is how I feel when I'm with him. It's scary, overwhelming and nerve-wrecking—but it's okay.
Harlow begins to trace something on my arm with his free hand, and I close my eyes to imagine the image he's painting with his fingers.
It's a number. It's two, three—ten digits. I know what he's doing.
My eyes still closed and I adjust myself to nuzzle into the heat of his collarbone and my breathing fans against his skin. My lips thinly caressing them, one breath at a time. I feel him stiffen underneath me.
I mumble his number in repeat, in a low callous voice, and I could feel his hand squeeze mine—signifying I'm correct.
I wanted to kiss him, I thought. I wanted to do more than kiss him. I wanted to know him as much as he knows me, I wanted to explore him from head to toe. I wanted to be his person.
But I couldn't.
Instead, I readjust myself against the seat and fall in the safe comfort of what we have. A thin line between friends and strangers, a safe but suffocating space. Something, without a title.
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VIERNES
5:57 PM
Dahlia Gray
Aysa's at the table.
The only difference this time—she's sleeping.
I drop into the seat in front of her, and set a cup of coffee down on the table. I tilt my head to the side, trying to catch if she's playing a practical joke on me or if she's just studying really closely—only to find her breathing constantly on her textbook, drool pooling from the corner of her lips.
"Um," I mumble, unsure of what to do. Am I supposed to wake her up? Is that what she would've wanted? Do I walk away and pretend I didn't witness Aysa in one of her more vulnerable moments?
Instead, I poke her.
"Aysa," I hiss, "are you sleeping?"
That's a dumb question. If she wakes up, she's probably going to go off about the logic of that question and the presented facts in front of me.
She doesn't stir. I try again. "Aysa." I said a bit stronger, tugging on the edge of her textbook. "Why are you sleeping?"
She wakes.
She jolts awake and looks around the room, a look of panic etch on her features as she eyes every corner of the building. Her hands positioned by her side, clenched in fists and slightly shaking. I could see her chest rising and falling, taking labored breaths, trying to calm herself down.
"Hey, hey," catching her attention, I hold up two hands. "I didn't mean to scare you. I'm sorry."
Aysa meets my gaze, her shoulders dropping, as fear continues to creep behind her expression. She swallows a gulp, or two, pacing her breathing pattern. "You didn't." She reassures, "I was having a nightmare. It happens when I wake up."
I nod, noting how she's still unhinged and on the edge of her seat. "I thought it was weird you were sleeping while studying," I told, pointing to her textbooks that were slick with a small pool of saliva. "You never do that."
"I'm tired." She answers, looking down at the books and closing a couple of unused ones off in the side. She collects them in a neat pile. "It's just something that happens. I don't mean to go to sleep."
"Were you studying all night?" I ask, holding out my drink. "Do you need coffee? It has caffeine to keep you awake."
"I know what it does." She rubs her eyes, her hands still trembling. "I don't drink coffee, though. Or tea. Or those power drinks you purchase from the store. It messes with my already fucked-up sleep schedule."
"Oh," I muse, frowning slightly. "Your sleep schedule?"
"Insomnia," she answers with a shrug. "It is what it is."
The conversation fell to a pause because I didn't know what to say next. Do I follow up on her insomnia, or do I move on? The pattern to social interactions are hard to memorize, especially in a conversation with someone like Aysa.
She doesn't mind, however, and shakes her head and returns back to her study. She pulls out a sheet of paper and begins to do a couple of math problems, calculating some measurements before proceeding to outline a pre-drawn sketch. It must be an assignment from her department.
I sit here, not entirely sure what to do next, when I decide that the best thing to do is leave it. I'll ask Aysa another time, maybe when she brings up the topic again so she doesn't feel entirely random, and I pull out my phone and earbuds.
Plugging in, I play the playlist based on my mood—and as always, I leave one earbud hooked around my ear, in the off-chance that Aysa prompts a conversation. Most times, she doesn't.
I lean back against the chair and sink into my thoughts, in the process of this silence. I thought about SAINT, and about how this opportunity is more dire than ever. I need to be on my ass about everything—arriving to work, managing my time, keeping my paychecks safe in a bank.
Then, I thought about my father. The root of a lot of my problems, and I couldn't help but remember his screaming and words before suddenly—it transitions over to Harlow. The blue-eyed boy with anger issues and a heart of gold. The pure mental image of him sends a warm feeling to my stomach, and releases a load of butterflies. It made me giddy.
The transition wasn't made because I saw Harlow and my father as one, in fact, they're completely opposite. There's a lot of similarities that are shared between them, and the way they move through life—I won't deny that—but there are also differences.
He's safe and real, and I can't say I had that before. He was never judgmental, he always allowed me time and space to tell my story, and I've always liked that. He gave me a sense of normality that I wasn't accustomed to, and he introduced me to possibilities I never saw capable. Words can't describe how much he helped me, and how he made me feel.
Except three.
I like him.
It's as simple as that.
"What?" Aysa demands, looking up from her textbook. She started the conversation first. "Why are you smiling like that?"
"I'm smiling?" I rebuttal, touching my face and realizing my lips pull back into a wide grin. My cheeks reddens, and I pull my lips together in a thin line—trying to contain my emotions.
"Yes." She answers causally, "it looks innocent. Happy. Like a kid."
I don't say anything, suppressing the urge to spill. I do feel happy, and a bit like a kid experiencing their first crush. It's stupid, and childish, and playful but it made me happy—so who cares?
"It's probably about someone," Aysa notes, tilting her head to the side as she taps the end of the pen against her lips. "That guy? Harlow?"
My eyes widen, "how'd you know? How do you know who Harlow is?"
"He called you," she shrugs, "when you were in the hospital and you gave me your phone because you didn't want your dad to look through it. I answered. He asked where you were. By the way, he was an asshole about it."
I scoff, but I could quite argue against that. He probably was. "What'd he say?"
"It's not about what he said, in particular, but what he did. When he stomped into that hospital, he was so fucking mad and he was demanding the nurses and shit—"
"He was at the hospital?" I cut her off, leaning closer to the table.
She seems surprised. "Yeah..." She said slowly, "he was in the waiting room with me the entire time, and he was sitting next to me. I told him to find another seat but his asshole self didn't listen and just sat there."
I don't reply. I'm trying to recall any moment of time where Harlow told me he was at the hospital for me. I couldn't. Not that night where he sneaked into my room or the day I invited him over for dinner. He told me he knew I was at the hospital, but he never told me he was there.
He hid it.
"So, why like him?"
I look back to Aysa. I don't bother trying to refute or deny the claim, because it's true. There's no point in hiding it. The only thing surprising from this interaction was: Aysa initiating it, and learning that Harlow was there at the hospital, waiting for me.
I think that sums it up perfectly, doesn't it?
I drop both elbows on the table and squish my cheeks in my hands. A childish smile appearing on my lips, the thoughts of Harlow consuming me. The answer is as clear as day.
"He's always been there for me." I answer honestly. The rawness surprises me. "Everytime, anywhere, he was always there for me. I don't want anyone else."
Aysa doesn't say anything, but a small smile tugged at her lips. She picks up the pen she dropped in the midst of our conversation and uncaps the gel, "fair enough."
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the following note is important.
hi! i'm really terrible at authors note because i ramble and i don't know what i'm talking about half of the time but this is a real, serious one.
i have anxiety. today, i don't know what triggered it, but i had really bad anxiety about G78MPH. i think many people call it imposter syndrome and it's the feeling like you tricked everyone into believing you're good when in reality, you're not. it's the worst type of self-doubt.
not a lot of you may follow me on twitter (@zenaouis), but i'm always on there and i always post my thoughts and in a lot of cases, i tweet about my anxiety bc it happens a lot to me whenever i post a chapter. for today, specifically, i felt like everyone is growing desensitized to the emotional abuse dahlia faces and my readers are getting annoyed about my slowburn bc when i write slowburn, i write them really slow.
so i apologize. i apologize for making dahlia and harlow so slowburn because i'm trying to focus on their issues before they get together and finish the plot and advocate and educate about how emotional trauma can be to people. i just wanted to educate people about how emotional abuse is so hard to detect sometimes, and i know it's probably annoying to some of y'all who are just looking for romance.
another thing: i always post about my social media and hoping you guys would follow them bc i love being interactive with you guys on them, but i feel needy whenever i do that. i feel like i'm shoving it down your throat to follow me when you don't even know for sure if you like me.
i apologize for this note being so long, but i wanna say: comments really help me. it helps my anxiety and it helps me calm my nerves. just a hour or so ago, this girl @sachoco10 commented two lines and it boosted my morale so fast. i know a lot of authors say that, but i genuinely mean it. i want to hear your conspiracies, i want to hear all your thoughts on the characters, i want to hear if you love the story or what i could improve on next time bc i want to hear engagement. sometimes, it feels like i'm publishing into a void and begging someone to read it. sometimes i feel like no one actually like my stories and it's just something they find entertaining for the meantime.
it sounds stupid but that's how my mind works. i'm sorry for bugging you about comments and votes but that's genuinely how i know my story is at least we liked by others. thank you for reading. thanks for sticking around. here's a cookie 🍪.
as i always end it:
please vote and comment!!