Sweet Tooth [HS]

FORTY SIX

Later.

It was 3 a.m. when Max woke up to banging on her door. She snapped her eyes open, felt her heart speed up as she registered the knock.

She knew who it was instantly.

Because it was that very same finger-breaking banging she'd woken up to barely a week ago. The same pounding. The same urgency.

A pang wrenched through her heart as she remembered Harry's words that last time - his I need to be near you.

God, how empty those words were to her now.

How pathetic she had been to believe him.

Max's own humiliation swallowed her up as she lay there, paralysed. She couldn't believe she was still hurting like this. Couldn't believe he could turn up at her door and torture her like this.

Another string of knocking echoed through her flat. The jagged edges of her broken heart throbbed. And Max let out a whimper as she turned over and planted her face in her pillow.

She felt like she could not move.

She was rendered motionless, half by the pain and half by sheer panic.

What should she do?

Here was Harry, breaking down her door. Coming to see her. Coming to, what?

Apologise?

Tell her it was a big misunderstanding and no he hadn't gone to a club with India Richardson and kissed and fucked her and done whatever else Harry Styles the Rockstar did.

Another wave- no, tsunami of pain flooded through Max's body. Because what could Harry say to make this better?

She'd seen the fucking pictures. He couldn't lie to her this time.

And she couldn't lie to herself.

No. There was nothing to say.

Harry had ruined it.

And so Max could not and would not speak to him right now.

Instead, she remained laying there, stock-still, wishing with everything inside her that Harry Styles would go away and leave her alone forever. That all of her thoughts that looked and smelled like him could evaporate away until his name meant nothing to her. So that maybe her broken heart might fix itself by forgetting who he was.

And so Max waited until the banging stopped.

It could have been hours. Could have been the whole bloody night.

But the silence came, eventually.

And while yes, Max felt relieved and proud of her strength. She could not help but let out a sob as the quietness of her flat enveloped her body. She felt lost in it. Felt like she was drowning in it - the quiet, the emptiness, the cold.

She drew her arms around herself. Hated how she closed her eyes and imagined her own limbs were his. But it was a comfort to Max, right then.

And maybe that was the only thing that let her fall asleep again - imagining the hands that held her were the arms of the boy who'd broken her heart.

***

The next morning, it was all ache and all pain as Max rolled out of bed. All ache and all pain as she padded slowly into the kitchen to make a coffee, sagging against the counter top as she waited for the kettle to boil.

She felt so exhausted. Felt flat, and worn-out, like old shoes and abandoned houses and broken fucking hearts.

She sighed. Bowed her head. Closed her eyes as she focused on breathing.

How was it that she had to concentrate on staying alive now? That even the most minor parts of her human nature were the greatest effort, the hardest thing to do. It was sort of like she'd become a robot - needing to concentrate on the mechanics of blinking: open, shut, open, shut; and breathing: in, out, in, out.

She felt like something had been stripped from inside her. Like something in her nature had been removed and she was left with this strange structure that needed reminding of how to live.

Max was nothing but humiliated by how he could do this to her. And it was the first time she felt anger stirring somewhere inside of her - the first time her cheeks flushed red and her brows knitted together in fury at how she was exisiting like this, when it was Harry who had forgotten Max existed altogether.

When the kettle boiled and Max made her coffee, she realised this was the strongest she'd felt since Friday.

She'd had a weekend of weakness - but it was enough now. She was strong. She was better than this. She could be OK.

And so she went about her morning, feeling better than she had done in what seemed like a lifetime. She showered, got dressed, even managed to put on make-up, and with her shoulders back and her head held high - Max swung her door open and left the house.

But.

Oh.

But.

She stopped.

Dead.

In her tracks.

Because she could not move forwards, without stepping over a body, lying there, right in front of her doorstep.

Max was stunned into stillness. Her mouth popped open and she stepped backwards, like the shock was a physical hand that pushed her back.

Because she did not expect Harry Styles to be lying on the floor of a cold hallway.

But there he was.

She raised her eyes to glance down the hallway, left and then right, and no one was around.

And then she lowered her eyes again, settled her gaze on his face that looked so soft and so human, all her boy on the balcony instead of the man in the media.

She felt her insides begin to melt. Felt her strength begin to slide off of her and pool down at her feet as she tried to not notice the way her heart sped up. The way her body sprang to attention. The way everything inside her wanted to curl up beside him, right there on the floor.

No, Max. No. Go to work. Forget he was here.

Leave him.

Max knew she had to go.

Knew she owed it to herself. Knew she needed to leave.

And so carefully she stepped one leg over him, and then another. Reached over and shut the door quietly behind herself, and padded as fast as she could down the hallway and down the stairs.

She had only made it a few steps down the stairwell when she heard footsteps.

She froze.

And if she hadn't been holding onto the banister, she would have collapsed when she heard his voice.

"Max! Wait!"