Chapter 19 - bookshelves

Amelia's POV:

I decided to get a taxi to pick us up, because it felt wrong to make Zack walk In early December weather. The cold breeze blows my curls into my face, i push them aside. Zack looks at me and smiles, although i still do not believe he is okay.

About a week ago, Zack called me from the nurses station and declared he was fit to go home. I asked if the doctors thought the same thing, and he assured me that yes, his primary psychiatrist had signed his release papers infront of him. So, here we are. It took a little bit more time than usual, because Zack had to be formally reviewed and the paperwork was extensive apparently. Some small part of me doesn't believe this, and i think the doctors wanted to keep him for as long as they possibly could, because everyday he had a session of therapy. On the way out, Rose handed me a stack of pamphlets about therapy and suicide and depression and self harm, which made me feel like i was going to faint looking at them. I didn't give them to Zack right now, i put them in my handbag which sits by my feet in the taxi, because why would someone want to read about self harm when all they're doing is trying their hardest not to think about it?

I look to Zack now; his head is on the window, looking out at the posh townhouses going past the hospitals. What i would give, just for one moment, to hold some of his pain, to take it away if only for him to breathe a sigh of relief. I want to touch him, take his hand. But i do not know if this is too much, overwhelming because he's done a lot today. Zack turns his head to me, as if he can hear me thinking about him.

"Hey," he says, almost drowsily. "You've got your thinking face on," he remarks simply.

"What thinking face?" I ask, amused.

Zack furrows his eyebrows and adopts a wistful expression. "Like that. It's cute on you, though. On me i look like a dog who needs a poo."

"Can we not talk about dogs and their toilet activities, please."

Zack rolls his eyes. "Always so serious," he says. He reaches for my hand, which i slip into his, fingers interwinning peacefully. He smiles for a moment, looking at my face. I feel the urge to look at his exposed wrist. It has been over two weeks since Zack did what he did, and i've noticed there's no plaster or anything covering the scars, since i suppose they are starting to heal. 

The car stops moving, and i break our hands apart, because i can't trust myself not to look anymore. 

"Let's get you home," I say with a forced smile, trying to put my thoughts somewhere in my brain which is not easily accessed. 

We get out of the taxi, i take Zack's bag though he protests, just because i needed something to do with my hands. Zack unlocks his flat door and we go up the stairs. The stairway is painted an olive green, and the stairs are stained oak, giving it a more lived in look than white might. There must have been windows in the entryway because the stairs are lit with natural light, making the space feel calm and not sterile. I am glad that Zack has somewhere that's not as banal and dreary as the ward he was in.

Zack unlocks his door, and we step into his flat. Even though i've been in here once, on that day, i didn't really look at anything because i was in such a panic. All the walls a painted a deep lapis lazuli, the walls so dark they could almost be black in low lighting. There are pictures hung on every wall, big, framed photos of plants and gardens of all colours, each a different size and a different frame colour. When you first walk into Zack's flat, you get the sense of love, surrounding you. Overwhelming love that Zack feels to the things he has selected to be placed in his home. From the doorway, the kitchen is to the right painted a different colour from the rest of the flat so far. It is small with white marble countertops, vibrant white against a wall of burnt amber moroccan titles running along the behind of all of the kitchen's backsplash, each title with a new little design; plants, vegetables, patterns, animals, all in emerald greens, turquoises, rich purples. The appliances do not match and look well loved, which is what makes this kitchen feel like home. Plants hang from hooks on the ceiling and framing the window, which is stain glass and reflects the most wonderful green and blue glow onto the white floor. 

I turn to him, beaming. "This kitchen could literally do no wrong in my eyes, it's perfect."

He smiles, "i'm glad you think so! Mum hates it because of all the colours. She's more of a wood and white gal," he says with a laugh. "Come, i want to show you the rest, not just the kitchen." He extends his arm out to me, his long sleeve tugging upwards and revealing his scar. My breath catches in my throat when i see how thick and red it looks. All this time, i've been believing that it wasn't real, that it wasn't deep. 

"Hello, Amelia?" Zack says, waving his hand infront of me. "You okay, baby?" He moves closer to me and puts his arm softly onto my shoulder. 

I blink, forcing myself to look at him. All i want to do is hug him and tell him how much i would've missed him if he had been successful, but i don't want to ruin this good mood. "Yeah, sorry. Zoned out for a moment, but i'm back. Show me whatever you want first," i say cherrily.

Zack nods, although he's adopted a strange expression on his face. He takes my hand and leans me gently out of the kitchen and into the living room. Two large white sofas sit in an l-shape, looking big and comfortable, with an oak coffee table in the middle. There is a tv on the wall that has a frame on and looks like artwork. I roll my eyes, knowing this is exactly how cool Zack's apartment would be. I look to my right and see a whole wall of books. Like floor to ceiling, all different coloured books. 

"Oh my god, it's so pretty," i say, waddling over to the wall and hugging my arms flat against it.

"Woah, i wouldn't put that much force into that hug if i were you. Built that bookshelf about two years ago by myself. Not sure if it's ever gotten a hug before, though," he says, chuckling at me. 

I back away from the bookshelf and open my arms to Zack instead. He attaches his body to mine and i instantly feel calm and loved and appreciated just for being here. He smells heavily, like thunderstorms and bookshops and grass on a sunny summers day. He makes me want to cry, in a good way. I think my nervous system doesn't know what to do, so i say, "Can you make me a bookshelf?"

Zack laughs, his body shaking into mine, the vibration of his voice making me smile. "Of course i can, Amelia."

We stay in this embrace for a while, not thinking about moving, because that would mean leaving eachother, even more a minute.