Chapter 24.

Dear Harry,

I find myself finding you in my thoughts more than I believe I ever intended.

...

Collar of Your Shirt by Matt Berninger

I watched the sun rise hours ago. And I didn't sleep one bit before heading to the café. Despite the fact that I felt incredible for writing some of the things that I did, I couldn't any longer process anything. I was at the point where my head just hurt and my eyes didn't want to stay open. I think it was obvious.

"Hi, Anna." I said, slugging around the back as I got ready to open.

"You don't look super up-and-at-it today." I shook my head to answer. "Tell me what happened."

"I just stayed up writing, no big deal." And of course the following yawn was enough to prove me wrong.

"Harry came in the other night after you had left." Her voice rung like she was singing her favorite song.

"...I told him I was working late to make him feel better about the meeting he had. I mean, I wasn't lying, I came in to clean up but for only a little bit. Then I went home and wrote for hours about everything going on in my brain."

"I can tell you're tired, you're rambling. If you don't mind me asking, what were you writing?" She knew I didn't often talk about it, but I ran myself into this one. I wiped down the front counter as she went to unlock the doors.

"I wrote some letters. To lots of people." I watched her raise her eyebrows, "Yes, you."

She made a flattered look, still not saying anything aloud. "I'm not going to send them out or actually give them to whoever I addressed. That is quite... a lot of pressure." I shook my head. A couple of people came in, which shut me right up.

"Cosa ti piacerebbe?" I asked. "Caffè, per favore."

"Naturalmente." I smiled, turning to the door as the bell rang at it's opening.

It was him, this early in the morning, still wearing sweats and an old t-shirt. I waved to him, and then made the coffee for the customer. "Ecco qui. Buona Giornata!"

I watched him join the line casually, as I continued to finish up the orders. It was early enough that only regular customers were here, and he could go pretty much unnoticed, I think he appreciated that. The light of the day peeked through the front doors and I was drawn to how he was nearly glowing.

"Crostata di fragole?" I held it out, fresh out of the oven. A lady raised her hand and I gave it to her, smiling. "You're getting pretty good at this, aren't you." I heard from beside me.

I grinned, "I am, yes. Blueberry?"

"Actually that strawberry pastry you mentioned sounds wonderful. I'll have that." I nodded and began to fulfill his request, as he asked me if I was tired after I yawned again.

"I didn't sleep at all last night." I laughed at myself. "Were you writing?" I nodded my head to answer. "All night, wow."

"But I got to watch the sun rise." I smiled, holding out the pastry in a little paper bag. He took it and smelled the inside, "Lovely."

For a moment I didn't necessarily know what to say, I didn't know what his plans were for the rest of the day but-

"I have the whole day booked with a shoot until tonight." It was like he read from my mind.

"My place tonight then? Maybe. If that's not too much. If you want a break from work or me that's okay..." I started getting a little nervous at the thought, he was the one with a life outside of this. "Don't ever worry about that, love. I'd spend all the time in the world with you if I could. Tonight is perfect, I'll come over when I'm done."

"... Okay." I said, still a bit unsure but I was smiling inside and out either way. He turned to leave and I meant to say something but it didn't come out.

...

Stay by Gracie Abrams

I twisted to my side as I turned the page, angling it towards the small light I had in my room. The book I'd found at a small bookshop next to the café months ago. I'd just now gotten to picking it up.

I didn't like to read in bed, but I always did anyways. I always ended up falling asleep or breaking my neck after sliding down my pillows from an attempt at sitting up. And the mountainous familiarity with being alone in the process destroyed me half the time, even though I had no one and nothing to compare my emptiness to.

I only listened to silence despite how much I love to listen to music when I read. This silence was nothing comforting, it was obnoxious and buzzing and kept me from being able to even read.

Just as I'd turned to my other side to block it out, I heard the door open softly. "Hi, Darby." I sat up.

"Hi." I watched as he peeled off his shoes quickly, and his shirt as well, in which he found the awkwardest way to go about doing. Despite how incredible smooth he typically was

"How was the shoot?" I asked softly. "Really cool. I got to wear this Gucci top that I thought was too big but really it was just this huge flowing mesh top. Kind of like the "Falling" top... but bigger and it was this deep green-"

"Like your eyes." I said laughing as he jumped onto the bed, his head face down which couldn't have been comfortable. He peeked out just his eye as if to show me just what I meant.

"Oh! And it was super long like a dress, and it was a tulle-mesh material so you could see the shorts I was wearing, and my tattoos... it was really cool."

"I love it." His excitement made me giggle, pulling my book under my arm that rested in front of me. I let myself face him as he did me, closer than I think I imagined it would be.

He seemed a bit out of breath, maybe after running up the stairs, but his breath slowed over time and I watched as he turned away his eyes from me to the ceiling. I picked up the book that I'd laid between us, and lifted it above my face.

"What are you reading." He whispered, like it was reckless to speak loud or even at all in this quiet air. "Letters."

"Letters to a Young Poet." He read after leaning over to me while I angeled the cover towards him.

"Paris, the 17th of February, 1903..." I started, feeling him etch closer to me as I did, though he still continued in staring at the ceiling. "...This is the very first letter after the original."

"My dear sir, Your letter reached me just a few days ago. I want to thank you for the deep and loving trust it revealed. I can do no more. I cannot comment on the style of your verses; critical intent is far too removed from my nature. There is nothing that manages to influence a work of art less than critical words. They always result in more or less unfortunate misunderstandings. Things are not as easily understood nor as expressible as people usually would like us to believe. Most happenings are beyond expression; they exist where a word has never intruded."

He didn't say anything as I paused, so I continued.

"Even more inexpressible are works of art; mysterious entities they are, whose lives, compared to our fleeting ones, endure." I flipped the page, the whole book consisted of aged paper that was rough around the edges.

I skipped slightly ahead. "You ask whether your poems are good. You send them to publishers; you compare them with other poems; you are disturbed when certain publishers reject your attempts. Well now, since you have given me permission to advise you, I suggest that you give all that up." Harry abruptly turned his head to me in question.

I smiled warmly, "There is only one way: Go within. Search for the cause, find the impetus that bids you write. Put it to this test: Does it stretch out its roots in the deepest place of your heart?"

I moved to the bottom of the page as every string in this air was pulled to its tightest capacity, awaiting a break in tension. And with one sentence they were hacked into halves with horrifyingly dull scissors.

"Do not write love poems, at least at first; they present the greatest challenge." His breath unsteadied and for an odd unknown reason I noticed it. "It requires great, fully ripened power to produce something personal, something unique, when there are so many good and sometimes brilliant renditions in great numbers."

I contemplated flipping the page again, going back and forth with the page between my finger and thumb, the last word leading into the next sentence being "beware".

I closed the book and laid it flat on my chest. "Um... there's a lot more that's... a lot better."

"It's ok." He said lightly, dismissing it. "Are you tired?"

Georgia by Phoebe Bridgers

"Very. Too tired to sleep." I answered. He flipped to his side facing me as my eyes were trained on the ceiling. Took just a bit of courage but I turned to face him too.

"The cover shoot is next week if you... I want you to come."

I paused before answering, because I noticed just what he did. He nearly invited me with an if statement, if I wanted to come. But I think now he's realized that those kinds of things are uncomfortable for me, it always felt like they never truly wanted you there. Yes, I over-thought it all, but he'd remembered or perhaps guessed. That surprised me beyond explainable feelings.

It was quite a possibility that it was out of his own nerve. Or that it was just a stumble of words. But I was overthinking again and I found the control to pull me back to my current perspective.

He was inches in front of me just trying to stay awake. It was very suddenly that he popped up. "What are you doing?" I asked, setting my book aside on the stool I used as a nightstand without looking.

He pulled open the window curtains, sleepily but abruptly. I questioned if it was purposefully dramatized. It probably was.

"Do you get claustrophobic or something, Harry?" I asked gently. He made a face in between yes and no. "Not typically. I just don't like not seeing any light—"

"A nightlight?—" "No, not that." He chuckled, "Just... an opening. Fresh air but not necessarily for the lungs."

"... That makes perfect sense." He was too much of an open person to be trapped at all anymore. It didn't matter to him or me if he admitted it or not, it was a simple habit developed out of suppressed emotions. That killed me. It killed him, as well.

We are both doing better though. I can see it in him.

To Darby Anna Eden,

I know you hate when I use all of your names but desperate times call for desperate measures. I know you'll think that was cliché, I feel like it's the only way to reach you for some reason. I also don't really know how to go about saying this. I miss you? I know that is horrible. This letter will probably never get to you anyways, there's no way I'll let it. I should say that I'm sorry before I miss you. I'm sorry doesn't seem to be enough, and I know only you could find the words to make it powerful enough.

I'm not sure my typical simplicity will reach you, Darby, though this letter won't either, so I guess I can say whatever I'd like, huh. It is quite the torture method but I was told to write letters to come to understanding. I think the only thing I've come to find is that I have no capability of it. I should get back to my point now.

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