CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
I try to read and try to focus on the words and then meaning of the words. I try to understand the plot and the characters names and what they look like. I try, but it doesn't do anything to hide the fact that I hate Harry at the moment, yet he's the only thing on my mind.
It's inevitable, I love him and yet he just-leaves and acts like he doesn't even want to notice or talk to me. I mean, Alfie put it into words, I'm ignorant and obviously naïve if I think Harry will ever love me back.
I should be listening to The 1975 songs because God knows all of them have some sad, sickly meaning that will probably relate to my pathetic life. I shouldn't be listening to the door of the flat opening and Harry's loud, obnoxious footsteps. That probably could be related to any lyric Matty Healy moans into the microphone, though.
It's long and quiet and feels like years before Harry's voice says, "Violet?" and it's almost comforting in a way that could only be found after crying for hours and going through the same words in your head over and over again. It seems like I haven't heard that voice in a lifetime, though, and that's kind of scarily comforting as well.
But as soothing as it is, it's also pretty unfortunate because now I'll have to deal with him. I don't reply, just sink as far back into the closet as I can and wait for Harry's voice or Harry's footsteps.
His voice is the one that I hear first. "V-Violet?" It's sad and heartbreaking, but that's exactly how I feel right now, so in a way, it just kind of sticks in with everything else that's happened. "Violet, please answer me." I almost don't hear him say it, but I kind of wish I hadn't.
A whimper-or sob, I don't know-comes next and I close my eyes, bringing my knees up to my chest and wrapping my arms around my legs. I scoot back farther into the closet and hope that the coats hanging around me will hide me enough.
But when Harry's footsteps approach the closet and my brain actually works for once, I decide that beings a ghost has its advantages and I snap my fingers before even realizing how-horrible it is.
It's horrible because I love and trust Harry and yet I'm hiding in the closet of our-my-flat, hoping he won't find me. I should want to see him because I miss him and love him, but ever since I came to the realization of that, it seems as though I haven't wanted to see him. It seems as though I've hated him more.
Right behind the door is Harry's voice, "Violet, please tell me you're not hiding away from me." His voice cracks at the end on a sob and I bury my head into my arms as Harry opens the door and steps in, a shuddery breath taking over his voice.
I lift my head up long enough to see his confused, yet heartbroken face. He still manages to look just as beautiful as he always does, even with blotchy cheeks and tears covering his eyes.
He looks around confused. He must have looked other places before he came here.
"Violet, where are you!" He says loudly, almost yelling. I flinch, it being a far cry from his soft whimpers he was producing mere minutes ago.
He sinks down onto the floor; his head colliding back against the wall, his hands forming into fists as they drum against the floor.
I shake my head and look down at my toes, trying to drown out the fact that Harry is having a breakdown right beside me because of me.
I hate it, and I hate the small satisfaction I get from it. Partially because he's feeling some of the pain and anxiety I had felt, and partially because he's actually giving me attention for the first time in a while, it seems.
Harry looks all over the closet until his eyes fall on the book in the middle of the floor and his breath gets caught in his throat.
"I-" He starts, looking around the closet, searching, "Violet, I-I know you're in here." He voice wavers and he wipes at the forming tears in his eyes.
