Meet Me In the Hallway

We had made love earlier that day with no strings attached, but I could tell that something had changed - how you looked at me then.

=

A story in which a college student and an ex-performer are brought together at a downtown bar by a twist of fate.




*characters are not affiliated with real people, just their physical appearances and anything stated*

[WARNING: Strong language, Drug abuse, Sexual content]

copyright © justins_only_babe 2017

PLEASE NOTE: THIS IS ORIGINALLY UPLOADED ON MY WATTPAD ACCOUNT THE LINK IS IN MY BIO

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7. seven

= Harry =

 

The city life continues below me. My eyes wander to the pedestrians walking, and speeding, and yelling across the sidewalk. Every person that passes has a life of their own with their own problems, their own dreams, their own voice, their own families - every single person is different than those around them. And none of them notice me up here. Not a single one of them notices the man with a patched shirt and a cigarette. I like it that way.

 

The fire escape is rusted and some of the steps are broken, but this is the only place I feel comfortable here. I hate being in my apartment but I can't stay at my friends' houses forever.

 

I blow the smoke from my lungs and flick off the ashes at the end of my cigarette. My journal sits in my lap and so far I've written nothing. The top of the page is scribbled out, as are most of the others. My pen has been sitting between my fingers for the past hour and I have yet to write anything down. I can never write when I'm here. The silence is too loud even though I'm sat above the city.

 

The cigarette burns to the butt and I put it out in the ashtray sitting on the windowsill. I'm leaning against the brick of my apartment building, my legs are bent in front of me - holding my journal up - and my hand keeps wiping over the blank page, clearing every bad idea I have.

 

Mindlessly, my pen drops to the paper and begins drawing something. I'm not really sure what it is yet, but I guess I'll find out. Every now and then I'll lift my pen and start a new line somewhere else. I'm still not sure what I'm drawing until I'm done. I bring my hand to my chin and look at what I've drawn.

 

On the page in front of me, there are two hands. One is larger, holding a smaller one inside it. The smaller hand almost looks fearful while the other grips it. There is something about it that's making me uneasy and I almost scribble it out. But then I see the last numbers in the paragraph above. The only thing I hadn't previously scribbled out was the number 17. It just sits there, above the drawing of opposing hands. They take up nearly the entire page. I look at the page next to it and start writing.

 

This is so fucked up. I'm so tired of sitting here without you sitting next to me. I'm so tired of you not poking your head out the window and telling me to get inside when it starts raining. I only think of that because it just started raining. I don't feel the raindrops, but I saw everyone open their umbrellas and I just knew. I don't know why I'm telling you this, fuck, you probably don't even care. You're never going to read this. It's almost been two years and the last time I checked dead people can't read. You're the reason I started writing. I told you that I wanted to be a great writer and write great songs and you told me I could do it. That one day I would be the best song writer the world has ever seen. I haven't written any songs in over a year, and every time I start, I scribble the words out because they're wrong. Nothing is right anymore. I hate being in our apartment because all I see are pictures of us and I want to get wasted and so fucking high that I can't remember anything.

I've been staying with Matt a lot recently. So I've been a little better but he always has coke, and I find myself joining in because being around him reminds me of you. I was tired of being reminded, one day, so I went to Jack's to hopefully get pissed but I did the exact opposite. I ordered a water and left. It was a Monday, so I knew no one would be in there and I could talk to Nicole and get all of this shit out of me without being judged. But the moment I walked in, I didn't want to get drunk anymore. I wanted to go upstairs and sleep in the softest bed in Chicago because its owner was standing across the room from me, like she'd been waiting. And, fuck, she looked so beautiful. She always looks beautiful.

Just so you aren't lost, I met a girl. A lovely girl. I met her at a bar a few weeks ago. I bumped into her outside of the bathroom and I was honestly kind of pissed because I was going to get high and she ruined my focus. But after I saw her, I never wanted to stay sober more. I could have died in that bathroom but she stopped me. We ended up getting some drinks and we had sex. I never planned on seeing her again, but a week later I went with Matt and Jenny for their gig and I saw her. She was working - in my shirt - and there was something about it that felt right. Like she was supposed to be there. Like she was saving me a second time. I think I'm spending the day with her tomorrow because she doesn't work, but I really want to see her now. I want to know how she's doing, how her classes are going, how work is. I want to know everything about that girl, especially about what happened to her brother. She started crying the other day over him and it scared the shit out of me because this girl doesn't seem like the type to cry. Especially in front of someone like me. She also doesn't seem like the one to make the first move, but she proved me wrong on that, too.

I think you'd like her. I barely know her but she seems like someone you would enjoy being around. I might go to the bar and see what's going on, but I need to give her some space. I don't want to suffocate her.

 

I wiggle my hand around in the air. It hurts from writing so much. My words are all strung together and hard to read. As I reread what I just wrote, I realize that this is the first time in months that I've written something that isn't a song.

 

I read over the words one more time, then close the journal. I stand up from my spot against the brick and climb in through my window just as the rain picks up. As soon as my foot hits the floor, I'm overwhelmed with stress. I try to take a deep breath but there's no air the the apartment - there hasn't been any in years. My journal lands on the couch after I toss it on my way to the kitchen. I open the refrigerator and pull out a beer. Once the cap is off, I walk to my room.

 

The curtains are open and my bed is messy. I slept here last night - barely - but I did it. Every time I sleep here, I have nightmares, and panic attacks, and get so wasted that I don't remember where I am or what I'm doing. I like it that way.

 

After I left Layne outside of her apartment yesterday, I walked back here and had a bit of a meltdown. There was something about her that shook me to the bone. It was almost as if my body was waking up from a numbing sleep. Her words and her presence made me feel. And I haven't felt anything in so long. My body was on high alert and absolutely terrified of the unfamiliar sense of desire. So as I was walking home, my body was buzzing and shaking and I didn't know what to do. I walked inside, looked around, and punched the wall. Then I cleared the counter of music sheets, and books, and bottles, and plates. I picked up the pieces of paper and started ripping them to shreds, trying to get all of my anxiety out and into something else.

 

Once I'd completely trashed my apartment, I got plastered and passed out on the couch. After the first nightmare, I woke up and drug myself to my bed. The nightmares just kept happening and in between each one, I'd do another bedtime task. Brush my teeth, change my clothes, wash my face, etc.

 

When I woke up this morning, I had one hell of a hangover. Then I walked into the living room and saw the mess I'd created the night before, and knew I had to clean it. So I did, and then I made myself breakfast, changed my clothes, smoked on the fire escape. Now I'm here.

 

Do I particularly want to be here? No. Maybe I should do something about that but it's much easier to sit in self pity.

 

=

hey y'all

school started back up and I haven't been inspired to write much

but I'm taking a creative writing class and i think it will help my writing and the progress in this story

i hope you enjoyed a little bit of H

thank you for reading (:

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