It’s not something you would normally do, but the red velvet journal left on the coffee table was tantalizing you. The pages were swollen and curled around the edges; you knew it was because he couldn’t completely concentrate on one thing when he wrote. He had to wind the pages around his fingers. He had to bend and unbend the edges, and sometimes he had to chew on the pen cap – his sweater strings, the bottom of his water bottle, a plastic spoon left on the bedside table. It was normally something you would find annoying, but because it was him, because it was Harry, it was endearing.
Everything Harry did was endearing really, which only made you feel heavy but empty at the same time.
It was a decision made in a quick second, a weak second, a second that made you want to bury yourself underneath the pile of daisies in the backyard (they were there by Harry’s doing, of course, because the boy just wouldn’t leave you alone. Wouldn’t let you have a quick moment away in the pile of daisies. And it would be annoying, really, because Harry was more of a shiny green than yellow, but because it was Harry it was only endearing).
You pick up the red velvet book. You smooth your fingers over it and it makes you shiver. Why anyone would want a velvet journal to write in, you didn’t know, because it had to be the most irking texture. It never failed to quickly worm itself underneath your skin and stay there. You would always feel it once you touched it – rough, yet smooth, and somehow sticky.
Suddenly the red velvet turns more hot than sticky and it’s burning you, so you shove it into your bag and run out the door before it forces you to put it back.
You can feel it burning a hole through your bag. It settled behind your library books and granola bar wrappers, right against the small of your back, and once it makes its way through your bag it starts burning through your jacket. It makes you run faster, shoving through groups of people and ignoring their startled yelps. You reach the pier before it can burn its way through your thin t-shirt.
When you pull it out of your bag it stops burning. You think maybe the blue of the sea has calmed it down, washed over it, made it duller. You’re not afraid to open it anymore, like when it was sitting on the coffee table and bleeding red all over brown. Now that it’s faded it seems more like Harry. When you open the cover and read the first line, you can almost hear his slow drawl (you could never decide whether it made you want to strangle him or pat his head full of curls, but it didn’t take long to realize it was endearing none-the-less).
You thought that maybe you would have to search for your name, but you don’t, it’s there. It’s everywhere, spreading over every page like spilt water (and even when it’s not there, it’s there). You flip through the pages like mad, looking for something you don’t already know, but you know it all. You’ve known it all since the middle of April last year and it had just finished raining.
It’s when a yellow daisy falls out from somewhere in the middle that you stop searching through the pages. You pick it up and smooth it out on your palm; it’s already been flattened from being pressed in-between the red velvet.
It’s then that you realize: Harry is the red velvet journal. He’s the yellow daisies in a pile in the backyard; he’s the blue of the sea and the browns of the pebbled shore. He’s the transparency of your eyes when you look at him and most importantly, he’s a shiny green.
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