It’s okay to cry

*Harley’s POV

The room smells of dust and smoke. The curtains are drawn, darkening its appearance. It holds a bed covered in white sheets in the middle, an oak closet, a beanbag, and a guitar hanging on the wall — a guitar just like Xavier's. The color of the walls is a dull grey, with paint chipping out in some places.

I haven't visited this room for years. None of us has, except for the maids who used to clean it once in a while. A while passed before Dad couldn't even handle the maids being in this room so he asked them to leave it alone. Two years of being locked up, yet, the room still smells like her. She is here without being here.

I walk over to the closet in slow, steady steps, my feet dragging along the sandy dust on the floor. When I reach it, I touch the cold handles, pulling them. The doors open with a creak. A puff of dust hits my face and I have to cover my mouth as I look through his clothes.

There are rows of dresses and a coat hanging at the top. The bottom has her B