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Charlie's P.O.V

"Instagram?"

"Where you can 'heart' titties."

"Ew-"

"Just go on, Charlie."

"Fine ...hmm, Candy Crush?"

"Candy Crush is crack for millennials."

" What in the world, Harry?"

" What else does she have?" he cuts off my dumbfounded gasp. I scroll through the apps on Sydney's phone for the fifth time.

" Urr, ... Facebook?"

"Argh, that's where you check up on your great-grandpa to see if he's dead yet so that you can take your inheritance."

That does it for me. I shake my head. "Ok, you are sick."

"But you love me too much to dare hang up." His curt laugh rings through the speaker. "You haven't mentioned any dating apps yet. Is she on Tinder?"

"What's Tin-" I interrupt myself upon seeing a flame icon.

"Yes, I think?"

"That's probably where she met -" Something falls, and I hear a muffled - "AW! Can't you help?!"

As he grunts some more through the line, I feel dismayed. He shouldn't have to prepare for his party without my help. If not for Sydney being at home, I would have been at his house.

"Charlie, you should see me right now. The only time I have ever sweated this much was when the choirmaster asked me if I masturbated in the dorm."

Oh, I remember that time, but I can't recall what happened next.

"Did you say yes?"

"Ya, " he says, chirpy, " I mean, I couldn't lie while the Messiah's marble eyes were staring into my black soul."

"Your soul is not black." I open the fridge. These days, it is filled with less food and more wine. I grab one bottle and read the card attached to it aloud.

"Sent with love for the most beautiful woman in the world. Xoxo, Danny."

Instantly, Harry gags, making me shake my head as I close the fridge.

"What was that? That's the cringiest thing a guy can say to his girl," Harry says," hey, gotta go. Talk to you later, ya?"

"Ok, bye, Da- sorry, I mean, Harry." My voice goes nasal as I cringe at my attempt at teasing him.

"I hate you," he deadpans," bye."

"What are you doing?" Sydney's voice booms out of nowhere. I jolt.

"Nothing. Here." The phone slips off my palm onto the kitchen counter as she walks in. She sneers, strides behind me, and removes the same wine bottle from the fridge.

"Was that Harry?" Her tone is eerily nonchalant, a warning sign.

I nod. She pours herself a glass, then sits opposite me.

When she stops sipping, the glass lands violently as if she wants to break it.

"In that case, you don't need therapy," she says, eyes darting to me expectantly. I don't know what she wants me to say, so I give her a tight-lipped smile. She smiles back.

"Aren't you going to cut your hair?"

"No."

She nods to that, then guzzles the rest, grabs another glass from the cupboard, fills both, and slides one across to me, all while my perplexed gaze trails her.

"Cheers to that."

"Cheers to what?"

Instead of replying, she injests her second glass at lightning speed, further confusing me.

Is she just trying to get drunk or testing me?

She smirks at the glass before me. "Drink."

It's a test.

Whenever she has a hangover, she makes me promise never to drink anything with even the tiniest percentage of alcohol. There is no planet where she wants me to drink this.

"No."

"No? ... Huh -"

Suddenly, Sydney forces the full glass into my mouth. I smack her hand. The glass smashes on the floor.

My brain freezes. She watches the red liquid spreading over white tiles. She stares at my grey t-shirt as if it has been stained with blood instead of wine.

I let out a shaky breath and squat to pick up the broken pieces, robotic in my movements.

"What are you doing?!" She exclaims, "You'll hurt yourself."

As if to prove her point, the instant she says this, fresh blood peeps out of my right index finger. Or perhaps it's the wine. I suck it, only to realise it's blood on my left finger.

"Charlie?" she reaches down to me, but I get up. Something starts rising in my throat.

I run.

Immediately my water closet is in view, it comes out. Vomit splashes all over the seat. I try grabbing a tissue to clean it, but I may as well be puking all my internal organs out.

Sydney is by my side now. I squat over the seat as she holds back my hair.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," She quivers. "I'm so so sorry."

She crashes me into her chest and pulls me up to the faucet. My lips tremble under running water. Rinsing my mouth, I feel disgusting. The odour of today's breakfast and yesterday's dinner only makes me throw up again.

When it's done, I pant, slumped on the door frame. Sydney goes, only to return with a packet of plasters and sparkling water.

"Drink it." She wraps a plaster on my cut and starts searching for more wounds. I take a sip obediently, trying not to gag as she finds more on my legs. She only stops to take in my miserable state momentarily. I do not know what is more unbearable, her insufferable silence or the burning sensation in my throat.

I choke back the inflamed soreness to croak, " I am fine."

" I'm so sorry. You know I'm just ... stressed out about work and Dan and ... this advert I have to write a script about next week!"

I nod - after all, I have no right to be pissed about her weak apology.

"Come here." She kisses my head. "I'm so so so so sorry."

Again, I nod. I know.

*

Afterwards, she leaves me to brush my teeth and shower to wash off the vomit. I am sleeping off my headache in fresh clothes when she returns to check my temperature with the back of her hand.

"You should start retaking meds."

"I need to eat before I can take it," I mumble into my pillow.

"Of course. Make dinner, and then take the meds I've left in the medicine cupboard."

I open one eye to see her grinning.

"Oh... and Dan is coming over, so prepare something special and plenty," she says.
Acknowledging the excitement in her voice, I raise a brow. "Will I have to leave when he comes?"

There's a pause. Then, she gives me a commiserating look and says, "Not that we need the privacy, but... you know."

I nod. Don't tell me.

She thanks me for understanding and exits my room. Head still aching, I press my weight on the bedpost to stand.

Fortunately, I meet no wine or shards of glass on the kitchen floor. This effort she made encourages me to cook some brown rice pasta and chicken sauce with the few chicken wings left in the freezer. The vegetables are not enough, though; we need to go grocery shopping.

Having finished, I take extra money for that, pack some stuff, and head out on an empty stomach.

When I reach Harry's house, many massive boxes block entry at the front door.

Just my luck.

His graffitied red minivan is here, meaning he is at home. Maybe throwing stones at his window will work?

No, what if he comes out and gets a black eye?

Another idea pops up; climb through the window.

"Nope," I tighten my shoelaces, looking up. It is not skyscraper-high, but I won't risk my life for this boy.

"Harry?!!"

No response.

"HARRY!"

The sprinklers burst alive.

"Oh -" Shield myself from the water, I jump over the railing of the closest balcony. I give in. Reaching his room, my panting draws his attention. He opens his window before my knuckles hit it.

"Charlie!!" He pulls me in.

"Ya oof-" I am about to topple onto his bed ou5 of exhaustion, but he squeezes me in his arms.

"Hey!! -"

"Harry, you're killing me -"

"- You came!!!"

Perhaps I should write "Don't hug me" on my forehead whenever I come to his place. That will remind him to -

"-Stop strangling me! "

"But, you came," he says, then releases me to gasp. "And you even climbed through the window for me. What a romantic!"

"There's nothing romantic about almost breaking a leg," I say, finally getting to plop down on his soft sheets. I see his bedroom is the same. Except for the paintings piled up in one corner, there is chaos caused chiefly by his clothes being scattered everywhere, on the study table, the sofa, the floor... And yet, I know that if what happened today repeats itself, my only solace is within this turmoil of a room.

"What are you thinking about?" He lies beside me.

"Nothing."

"You are not well?" His cold palm on my forehead snaps me out of it. I throw my head back, making his large hand fall.

"Just a little under the weather." Then I point at the Renaissance-esque paintings. "What are they for?"

He sighs at my digression but replies anyway. "Dad and Mom got a little hippy. And...the pictures are Halima's. She is having a photoshoot here tomorrow."

"So," I say, furrowing my brows, "you think it's a good idea to throw a party the day before your sister uses the house for her work?"

"It's not my fault." He starts to babble. "It's her bad timing. She literally just walked in an hour ago to bring all her stuff before telling me. And the worst part is that if I call Mom to force her to find another location for her shoot, Mom will ask me why, and I can't tell her why because she'll side with Halima and make me cancel my party."

"Hmm...yeah."

We sigh at that juncture.

"I know what will cheer us up." Harry rolls over to the bedside drawer. Rolling back with his copy of Macbeth, he grins with all his teeth.

"I thought you would need my help -"

"-Shush," he cuts me off and then starts reading.

*

*

Slumber absorbs me after chapter three, and by the time my eyelids flutter open, Harry is gone. Muffled music is ringing through my ears.

His party is booming below me.

Yawning, my arms stretch in tune. According to my drowsy hearing, it's a nightmare downstairs. I ransack my stuff for earmuffs.

Relief washes over me as I guard my ears and flip open Harry's MacBeth. Unconsciously, I lean by the window, relishing the delightful breeze slipping under my navy blue knitted sweater. I should have worn something underneath but was in a rush to vacate the house. I did not want a second dose of Sydney's mood swings.

Stop. Thinking. About. It.

The cold blows against my skin, ruffling my hair. I am already slipping into oblivion again.

"Get off him!" A shout echoes from a distance.
Instantly, my head snaps in its direction, where someone is taking blows from a tall, dirty blond figure in a leather jacket. The girl yelling runs inside but then returns with two guys, who quickly yank the puncher off him, giving me a better view of -

"- Harry?!" Panic arises.

Is he ok? Is he hurt?

I am about to screech again when my questions get answered, but in a way I don't expect. He is hurt, alright, - judging from his stagger towards the blond guy - yet ok enough to smack his cheek. Harry's fist flies at him. Then again. And again. His face is red, so red it could catch fire before my eyes. I want to scream for him to stop, but I am too stunned, frozen. I have never seen him like this.

To think he is the goofball that eight-year-old me got beat up for once...

It's happening again. Bile is scorching its way up. I run to the restroom, but nothing comes out this time. Retching makes my knees wobbly. Despite myself, I slip onto the mat, waiting. What do I expect when I haven't eaten? Maybe I need water. Maybe I need to tell myself that it is a hallucination. Perhaps it's not him.

Maybe. Maybe.

For some reason, the maybes comfort me. I take a deep breath, staggering. The music is louder than dreaded as I step out, so I slip the earmuffs back on. Few people are upstairs, but I keep my guard up, snaking my way to the kitchen. I already feel like disinfecting my whole body when someone's yell startles me. I am not even close to the fridge before I realise what she is gaping at; a thick splash of green paint on the wall.

"Who did that?!"

I stomp to the sink for something, anything to wipe it. Why are people playing with the garage paint? Is this how parties are? It was a bad idea even throwing it in the first place, especially with all the expensive paintings and equipment for the show lying around. Yet Harry chose to do this, and I didn't come early enough to warn him.

Great! Now I can't even get angry at him.

"It's the guys outside," I hear and turn to the speaker, who gawks at me.

"You should really get a handle on them. Aside from that, the party is great," she says after a hesitant breath.

I blink. She looks familiar...wait a minute, it is the girl who was stabbed.

Was she that pretty - Charlie, no, you should ask more pertinent questions like -

"A-are you ok?"

It takes her a moment to process my voice, but when she does, her green eyes are wide open. There is a pause where she furrows her slender brows, then utters,

"Oh, you are the ambulance guy. It still hurts, but it's whatever."

"That's good... urm." What else do I say? Where is Harry? I need help.

"You don't look ok, yourself." She squints, causing havoc in my stomach. Her eyes are disturbingly infinite. An infinite green sucking and giving life to her words. I'm guessing she talks with her eyes more than her mouth because all she says is:

"If it's the paint you're mad about ...?"

But her eyes are saying a million things at once. It would be weird, but I suddenly want to sit her down and answer all her eyes' questions, grievances, theories - anything bothering her or she would like to let out but can't.

But that would be weird.

As we just stand there, I point to her shirt because there is paint on it.

She chuckles. " Oh, no."

"There are some spare shirts upstairs."

"Really?" she asks, picking up two water bottles beside a bowl of granola bars. As she walks away, I finally pull out one from the fridge, about to quench the flames in my throat when -

"Urm, can you show me where?" She halts.

I gulp.

Then it dawns on me that this is a party where different people are huddled together - even here in the kitchen, there are small groups, but opportunely they are not paying attention to us - and she will get swallowed by the crowd like I would if every square of this house was not engraved in my memory.

"Ok."

She thanks me, and we head upstairs.