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“ I don’t think about you ,” Harry typed out and sent out the message, before laying his phone down on the duvet. He was tucked up in bed, curtains wide open, a bold 23:47 at the top of his phone screen last he had checked.
His bedroom was dimly lit by the generous moonlight pouring in. He had picked this room for that reason, back when he had first moved into the apartment. He loved the light the moon, sun, and stars offered, and the view from these windows suited him best. He’d never liked to feel like he was closed in, especially if it was dark.
When his mother and father had come briefly come over to check up on him and see how he was holding up, they had gifted him a star projector. His parents were good like that; knew him like the bottom one’s foot would know the sole of a worn out shoe. Knowing him that well was rare.
There was one person, though, that knew him even better than his parents did. His childhood friend, turned boyfriend, turned ex. It was the transition that destroyed them, of course. That, and mismatched ideals. You can’t expect commitment of a boy-going-on-man who thinks it’s not enough. That nothing is ever enough for him.
Oh yes, good old Tom Riddle. The word “riddle” didn’t fully encompass how frustrating and beautiful he was, and Harry didn’t think himself enough of an intellectual to throw around the word “enigma”.
Back in his younger days, when Tom lead him around by the heart-on-his-sleeves, he’d looked up the meaning and origins of their names. They were all but conjoined at the waist, he’d thought, so why wouldn’t they have compatible names? Expectations often soar much higher than reality does.
Tom, of Grecian origins; meaning “twin”. Harry, of Old English origins; meaning “home ruler”.
Young Harry had thought the meaning of his name didn’t suit him. He’d never had much interest in leading—he had also lacked interest in following—so the name’s definition stung even more. It didn’t match his best friend’s name, and it didn’t match him either. He had thought Tom’s name brilliant. Twins. Yes, he’d fancied Tom and him to be something like that.
At the time it had been fantastic; now it stood as both a reason to burn the bridge between them and to mend it.
And so, he fell back on old childhood habits. Whenever he and Tom had a falling out, Harry would prod him until it broke out into a proper fight which would lead to them forgiving each other. Or at least, letting it go.
Tom knew him well. Possibly even best.
He would know that Harry’s message hadn’t been true. Not a bit. Tom would see through it easily, the years of friendship they’d had prior to dating would insure it.
Harry thought about him constantly, his daydreams full of Tom. He’d close his eyes for a bit, and he was back in Sixth Form, Tom leaning against him as he read his textbook, both of them under the leaves of an elm. The sky had been dark and overcast, the prequel to pouring rain, and they had sat there peacefully, until the drips dancing across the elm tree’s leaves finally reached them. Then, they raced against the rain, their dark shoes heavy against the dewy grass and then the wet pavement, Tom’s arm hooked through his. It was special. They were special.
Good even; but good dies young. Or something like that. Tom was always much better at remembering expressions than him.
His phone buzzed then, his hand jerking before grabbing the phone and clenching down.
It’d only been three months. From his only other relationship, he knew that the expectation was that one would wait for longer stretches of time before messaging their ex. Three months wasn’t enough for exes, but they were best friends first and foremost.
Best friends even if one cheated on the other and essentially stomped on his heart; but Harry wasn’t bitter. No, never.
So, Harry unclenched his hand and looked at the response, his stomach clenching uncomfortably instead.
It’s late, Harry. You know that I’m going to bed now.
I know.
Harry bit his bottom lip. He knew Tom well, too. Better than anyone.
I don’t see her anymore.
He considered responding, hesitantly bring his finger closer to the message box; he stopped at the response dots on Tom’s line.
I blocked her phone number. Avoid her social circle. Have the the doorman turn her away when she tries to come by.
Harry, when are you coming back?
He felt the tears rolling down his cheeks before he’d even realized that he was crying. He set the phone down again, bringing his left hand up to brush the them away.
Her. He knew her, too. Might have even thought her a friend, before she became the woman helping Tom cheat on him.
People always ask for the good news first. I’ve run out of good news for you. There’s only the bad now.
He erased it. He re-wrote it. He erased it again. He was left with:
I’ll come back when you want me.
Tom’s reply was instant, then:
I want you, more than anything.
Harry took in a deep breath, thinking back to the elm tree, heavy raindrops falling off the leaves, the storm brewing over their heads. It had been good. It had been good. It had been —
I think you’ve misunderstood.
I meant when you want me, and only me. Not more than anything, because there’s nothing else to want.
Just me. Just Harry.
Harry turned off the screen, ignoring the buzzing of his phone as another message came in. His eyes turned from the dark shape his phone made on the duvet, to the moon outside his window. Three months now, three months of agonizing over Tom Riddle, his friend, lover, past. Three months of having given up his home and his heart because the one person he trusted with it the most had desecrated them so callously.
Nothing was ever enough for him. A raindrop would need to be a tide, an elm had to be an oak. It always had to be something more.
He didn’t have anymore. He had nothing more to give, except for the man in the dark who liked to stare the moon, and wonder how it could be so beautiful.
And the moon was beautiful. Exquisite and so sad.
It looked like it was calling in the tide.