Good Intentions

MEGHAN’S POV

I go and sit in my room thinking over the conversation I had with Will. I have enlisted myself to help him figure out exactly who he is. How am I or we to do that? I don’t know. I go to my closet and reach in, my hand searching for the board my journal rests on. I find it and slowly lower it, so as not to drop it, making a sound.
I open it to the pages where I sat one night and copied every tattoo on his arms and ones I had seen on his body. If I couldn’t draw it, I wrote every detail about it. I know of some they have missed, not because they are hidden, where they are located, on his feet.
One night I sat and sketched him as he slept, I was merely bored. I actually did a pretty good job, surprising myself. It was his resting face, almost angelic. No signs of stress or worry, rested, peaceful. I wish I could capture his smile, the dimples, or the color of his eyes. His evil smirk he hides when something goes through his mind is my favorite. All of these would involve me having to watch him while he is awake and I just don’t see that happening, right now anyway.

Tonight is my night to watch him so I have it tucked under my pillow for easier access when the time comes.
I say goodnight to Mom and Dad and take a chair to his room. As soon as I know they are asleep I retrieve the journal and look through it.

I quietly make my way into the kitchen and take the binder out of the cabinet. I take it back to the room with me to read.
I read through the other notations about his dreams. He has mentioned another boy, Louis. That makes two, Zayn and Louis. I also see a quote with notation beside it, possible song lyric.

I have come to the conclusion he had to be a singer. He sings in his sleep, speaks of writing songs and hums lines of songs. I don’t know the songs and I know of very few music artists. I only hear of the ones my friends speak of.

My friends. I haven’t seen or spoke to them in quite some time. I wonder if I could maybe catch up with them this weekend.

I set my journal beside him on the bed and make my way over to his desk, taking a look around. I open drawers and move things around, no sign of his journal anywhere. He knows to hide it. I don’t look too hard, I hide mine, he has the right to hide his. I wouldn’t want him reading mine, so I take that into consideration.

I’m starting to get sleepy so I rest my head on my arms, laying on his bed.

I awakened by his voice and sit up to listen. He’s right, the drugs do make him dream more and more vividly. I watch his hands as they move around. He raises them up to his hair and his movements mimic that of one putting their hair up in a rubber band. I recall seeing his hair put up while watching him, I think I preferred it down.
“Long hair don’t care” he says plain as day. I smile at the sound of him saying it, his British accent thick. His fingers mess with his mouth, his lips, then fall back at his side. His old self is working its way through his dreams.
“Niall, show me some chords on the guitar please”
I sit back, another name. What kind of name is that?
“Fuck Modest”
I sit up straight in the chair hoping he’ll continue with the conversation, I write everything down.
I watch as he slips into a deep sleep, the outward display of the dreams stop, but by the facial expressions I witness, they continue in his head.

I lay my head back down and go to sleep.

Notes