Chapter Text
He dances around people, plasters on a smile and hopes for the best and hopes no one will notice. At the same time he hopes everyone will. He feels like no one can save him. The night is silent apart from one or two shuddering breaths, followed by tears. That is all there is nowadays – tears and silence. No one notices, no one cares, no one understands.
Sadness consumes him. He cannot understand how no one sees how broken he is. He has always been told that he’s a terrible actor, but apparently he is good enough to make people think he is fine. He is not fine, not even close to fine. And he cannot talk to anyone about his feelings-- he does not want to be a burden, he does not want anyone to think he is annoying. He is always putting others’ needs in front of his own. This is what he knows. It is not like he is alone-- he does have friends, but it seems like he is at the bottom of their priority lists. They’re rather selfish. Maybe he feels that way because he needs them but they do not need him back. Or maybe they cannot wrap their heads around the fact that he is not feeling well. But friends should know that, should they not? They should be able to see how his smiles do not reach his eyes, how they barely dimple his cheeks anymore. They should be able to tell when he is uncomfortable or when he is holding back tears. Maybe they do not want to see.
Sometimes, he tries to talk to his friends, tries to tell them how unwell he is-- how he feels like his skin is too tight and he just wants to scratch it off. He wants to tell them how he cannot turn off the voices in his head telling him he’s worthless and evil. His friends never listen though, always twisting his words around so it seems like he is attacking and criticising them. He would never do that though. He cares about them too much to lose them. He just feels lonely even when he’s surrounded by close friends. It’s like he is wearing a mask. Always a forced smile on his lips. No one sees. No one understands.
He knows he wears heart on his sleeve and that he cries a lot. Perhaps he is too emotional for his own good, but he cannot help it. He tries to make everyone happy, no matter whether it hurts himself. And it does hurt him -- everything he does hurts him, but he can’t stop.He ends up crying himself to sleep most nights, sobs muffled by his pillow or arm. He is not sure if the crying helps. It takes the edge off, sure, but only for a little while. When he sheds those tears, the heavy feeling inside his chest disappears for a little while, but mostly, crying just makes him feel weak. Boys should not cry. Not if they have not hurt themselves-- scraped a knee, or broken a wrist and perhaps not even then. Boys are not meant to be weak.
But he is. He is a mess and no one sees it. Sometimes he wants someone to notice that everything is wrong. He wishes someone would dig deep and see through his façade and care. He hears people say he is easy to read. They must be liars. He thinks his mother can see through him; see past his fake smiles and unnatural laughter. But she knows better than to push him if he tells her he is all right. Sometimes she looks at him with so much pity in her eyes, he has to walk away and hide his tears because he cannot bear the thought of making his own mother upset. She means the world to him.
The hardest question to answer is why he is so sad. Not that anyone has ever asked him, but sometimes he lies in bed and wonders for himself. He has never been assaulted or bullied or hit, never been treated like everything would be better if he were not there anymore. On the other hand, however, he has never felt wanted either. He has never been kissed, never been touched, never even held hands with anyone. And that makes him feel like complete, utter shit. Like it would be better to just disappear. His Mum might miss him, and his step-dad, and sister, and real dad. But they would probably be the only ones. He’s considered suicide countless times, but never gone through. He’s too cowardly, too weak.
He is also a closeted romantic. He is a sucker for romantic films and loves their happy endings. He likes to pretend things he sees in films or reads about in books will happen to him some day. Some day, he would like to know what it is like to be kissed; what it is like to be loved and to be in love. He would like to know how it feels to be wanted by someone, and to be so in love he might burst with happiness. Sometimes, when he thinks about the future, he can see himself living in a big house with someone who loves him, surrounded by children and cats and dogs. But then he remembers who he is, what he’s like, and he cries instead.
His friends just have it so much better than him. They have jobs, drivers’ licences, boyfriends, girlfriends. They have had sex and they have had their first kisses, second kisses, third kisses. They have the energy to do other things besides lying in bed all day, occasionally listening to music or doing homework. They go to parties every other weekend, but only sometimes they ask him to join them. Everyone is too busy with their loved ones. He does not blame them. He understands. He would love to be busy with a boy. Instead he is home, helping his mother with dinner and the dishes, or watching telly with his stepfather. Sure, he sometimes hangs out with a friend or two, when they want a break from their partners. He feels uncomfortable then, knowing they probably want to be somewhere else. Doing whatever couples do. He does not blame them. He never blames them. But sometimes he wishes for things to be different.
He used to find enjoyment in several things, things no one would ever associate with him now. He used to love writing. He wrote all kinds of things – poems and short stories and song lyrics. Even his older sister used to beg him to tell her stories when they were younger. You tell the best stories Harry, she used to say.
He does not write anymore. It is like even his creativity has given up on him. Instead, he watches people from his window or on the occasional trips he takes to town. He likes to make up stories about people and decide their destiny for them. Happy destinies. He likes to believe that if he believes in his stories hard enough, they will come true. The whole family used to spend most nights playing board game. Scrabble was a family favourite and Harry loved sitting with his parents spelling out words. He has skipped out on a lot of those nights. He cannot even find enjoyment in masturbating. He is not going to lie, masturbating used to be a big part of his life – he is a teenage boy after all. But lately, barely anything has been able to turn him on. And if something has and he has managed to stay turned on long enough for an orgasm, he has immediately broken down in tears after, remembering that he has not had the real thing, nor will he ever, probably. He cannot believe that he has gone nearly 19 years in life without sex. Who even wants a 19-year-old virgin?
“Don’t you want to ring Niall and ask him to come over honey? There’s more than enough food for him as well,” Mum asks him one day when he is doing his homework in the kitchen. She is standing by the stove, making pasta. He does not even look up from his homework, shaking his head and turns the page in his textbook. He has not really bothered reading the text, but he turns the page anyway, for appearance sake. Do not make Mum disappointed.
“It’s just been a while since he was over, hasn’t it Harry?” Harry clears his throat and furrows his eyebrows. He does not want Niall to come over. He is probably hanging out with his girlfriend anyway. Why would he choose Harry when he has a beautiful girlfriend?
“I don’t want to,” he mumbles.
“Alright. What about Liam then?” He has a girlfriend too. They both have beautiful and funny girlfriends, who seems way better Harry. Harry cannot blame them. Harry is not beautiful, nor particularly funny. He is not a girl either, and does not kiss them and definitely does not have sex with them. Kissing and fucking seem like better things to do than hang out with Harry. Not that Harry cares. If they do not want to hang out with him, who is he to stop them? If Harry was to believe all the hype with kissing and fucking, he would probably rather do that too. It seems lovely. He glances up at his mother. She is watching him intently with that stupid pity in her eyes. Harry does not like that look. He wishes she would stop pitying him. He wishes she would try to help him instead. But no one understands. He collects all his books and papers and pens in his arms and uses his legs to push his chair out.
“I said I don’t want to.” He leaves his mother alone in the kitchen and walks up to his room and does not come down when his stepfather calls him down for dinner.
Harry spends the weekend in his room. The only times he leaves his room is to go to the bathroom. He barely speaks, barely eats. When he is not in his bed, he sits on the windowsill and looks down at the street below him. He watches the people walking up and down the pavement. The old lady with the old poodle down the street walks past his house every ten minutes for a half hour. He wonders if she is lost. He should probably tell his Mum, but he stays on the windowsill. There are children playing on the pavement, children he has never seen before. He spends a few minutes making up stories about them. They are not very good, he has lost his touch. Another thing he is not very good at anymore. One day, he thinks, he will probably not be able to do anything other than stare. Stare and sleep. He looks up at the sky. It is bright blue and the sun is shining. Harry wishes for it to be a mirror of his own feelings. He wants to feel bright blue and he wants to feel the sun shining from inside of him. He wants to smile again and he wants to laugh. Instead, if the sky were Harry’s mirror, it would be dark grey with high risks of rain and wind. He does not even feel sad today. He does not feel anything. He is empty inside. Like all the tears finally dried him out, his emotions following as the tears spilled out of his eyes. Whatever. He does not need his emotions anymore. They just made him miserable.
When Harry goes to bed on Sunday evening, he dreams about a boy who makes him laugh and smile. He dreams about a boy who laughs at Harry’s bad jokes and who holds his hand and who talks non-stop. He dreams about kisses and touches and breaths mixed together. Everything is so real; Harry wakes up with tears in his eyes. He tries to wipe them away before they fall, but it is like the dream set off the sprinkler system and suddenly Harry cannot stop crying. Silent tears turn to small whimpers. Small whimpers turn to full on sobs and Harry cannot stop crying. He feels weak, he feels terrible. All he wants is to stop crying. He does not until he is in his mother’s embrace. She hums softly in his ear, the same song she used to sing when she put Harry and his sister to bed when they were children. She lets Harry stay home from school and does not go to work. They spend the day together, eating ice cream and watching old Disney films. She does not ask why he was crying and Harry does not tell her, but that is okay. Harry is okay now, sitting leaning into his mother’s side with her hand in his hair on the sofa watching when Mulan saves China from the Huns. Being with his family makes Harry feel better. Not good. But better. Ice cream helps too. He knows his mother wants to ask him questions. He knows she cares about him very much. But he cannot answer any questions because he does not have any answers. Also, he feels dumb feeling this way when he does not have a real reason to. He is just behind on love. That is no reason to feel this way. He is ashamed of himself for both feeling the way he feels and being so behind on love and sex. He is 18 years old. Should he not have had his first kiss by now? Should he not have held hands with someone by now?
It is hard going to bed on Monday. Harry tries to fall asleep for hours before he gives up and walks over to his father’s old record player and puts the needle down. Turning down the volume so his mother and stepfather will not wake up, he sits down on the floor in front of his mirror. He watches himself intently. The way his long skinny fingers fiddle in his lap, the way he bites his lower lip. He has permanent black shadows under his eyes, his stupid hair is too long and unruly and his cheekbones jut out. He is stupidly skinny and tall. He kind of looks like a match, it is so easy to break him if one bends him too much. He loves too easily, trusts too easily. Bend him too much and he will snap. Bend and snap.
He is sitting on his bed, fiddling with his fingers in his lap. It has been quiet for a while, and when Harry looks up from his lap, he sees his friends sitting glued to their phones. Of bloody course. Harry must be the most boring friend in the world, if not even his “best” friends can let their phone be for the few hours they are spending time with each other. He feels kind of worthless. He clears his throat, furrowing his eyebrows as he desperately tries to come up with something to say.
“So what did you do last night?” His question is met by silence. Neither Niall nor Liam look up from their mobiles, just continue typing away, occasionally making faces for Snapchat.
He tries again. “Can you please let your phones be?” The words come out mumbled. Whatever. He could scream and they would probably keep ignoring him.
“What?”
Niall finally looks up from his phone and stare at Harry with confusion written all over his face. Harry wonders what would happen if he died right then and there. Would any of his friends care? They certainly do not care when he speaks to them.
“I don’t understand why you bothered coming here if you’re gonna sit by your phones all night.” Harry blushes as he speaks, looking down at his fingers in his lap again. He has never been good at confrontation; always too afraid people would leave him if he were not pleasing them. Niall shrugs and places his phone on the floor next to him, nudging Liam next to him to do the same thing.
“Sorry H,” Liam says. “Soph’s alone and bored tonight.”
Harry wants to ask him why she can’t find another way to entertain herself. Harry does not say this. That would probably hurt Liam’s feelings.
“We can watch a film,” Niall suggests. So they do. And two of them are glued to their phones once again and Harry forgets the film. He keeps watching his friends ignoring him on the first night they all spend time together for God knows how long and he wishes they would be somewhere else. Not being with them is better than being with them and be ignored. His mother always says you should tell your friends when you are upset with them. But Harry does not dare. He is afraid he will push them away and be lonely for the rest of his life. At least they care enough to come over for once. Even if them coming over means not spending time with them. Harry kind of wishes he lived in a time without phones or advanced technology. Maybe he would be happier then.
Liam (9.02)
you ill? u seemed fine saturday
Niall (10.45)
Li said u werent at eng this morning. does that mean ur not comin to maths??? dont make me suffer aloneeeeee h!!!
It is easy to forget how selfish his friends really are when Harry wakes up to their texts on Monday morning. The two of them sound concerned he is not in school, but when Harry woke up the first time, his insides screamed at him to stay in bed. So later, when his Mum carefully knocked on the door telling him he should get up now or he would be late for school, he told her he had a headache and he wanted to stay home from school. It was not as if he was lying. Harry has had a headache for weeks now and it bothers him at night so he cannot sleep properly. Mostly though, he chose not to go to school that morning because he did not feel like it. He still does not feel like it, even when he wakes up at noon and sees the texts from his friends. He ignores the texts and plugs in his earphones, turning up Arctic Monkeys loud and closes his eyes again. He lies under the covers, looking up at the ceiling. His mind is empty. He feels empty. He wishes there was someone who could make him feel whole again – someone who could patch him together and love him for who he is.