Wonder ❄️ | h.s. |

Chapter Three

"Harry, are you okay? Can I get you anything?" I ask, poking my head into the living room.

Even though the sun hasn't quite set yet, the room is nearly pitch black. The couch that just yesterday Harry had made a face at, has now been transformed into his own personal den. I don't think he's gotten up since last night, or at least he hasn't since I've been home from work today. Truly he must have a bladder of steel.

"M'alright," he grumbles back, nursing a bottle of wine.

His face is only made visible by the illumination coming from the television; he's 24 hours deep into binge-watching the entirely of Netflix's offerings.

He's been like this since last night. After he woke up from his nap, he began freaking out. He must've been praying that this was all just a bad dream and he'd wake up back in London where he belonged.

No such luck.

Quickly he had spiraled into a rant so panicked that I almost couldn't understand him through his accent. The parts that I did pick up on covered topics of losing all of his music, and what about his fans, and how all of his hard work has just evaporated. The outburst must have trailed on for hours before he ran out of steam.

To be fair, I was shocked how well he had taken the news of his lack of existence the first time around.

In order to calm him down, I did the only thing I could think of and offered him a drink, which he eagerly accepted. And it appears he has not stopped drinking since.

"Okay, well let me know," I say, turning to go to the kitchen.

Emma is sitting on the counter with a concerned look on her face. "What happened? He seemed fine yesterday."

"Just something back home," I half-lie, stirring the pot of pasta that I've been making.

"Poor thing," she pouts. "Is there any way we can help?"

"I think he just needs a little time."

At least I hope that's all he needs, because I'm not sure how else to help. On one hand, he's way less of an ass when he's left to his own devices. But on the other hand, something about his dumb face looking that sad breaks my damn heart. He almost looks like a little kid who's stuck home from school with a stomach bug. Regardless, he's been absolutely refusing to say more than a couple of words to me since last night.

The pasta looks done, so I pour out the water and portion some into a bowl. Adding some marinara sauce, and grabbing a fork, I go into the living room and place it in front of Harry on the coffee table.

He just gives the meal a sad look, like a puppy who's just been reprimanded.

I take note of his outfit: he is still wearing his dress slacks. It looks less than comfortable.

"Do you want to borrow something to wear? I have sweatpants and stuff that would fit you," I offer.

"Your clothes?" he asks, looking me up and down. "No thanks, I'm good."

Not only does he reject my olive branch, he straight up burns it to a crisp. Rather than pick a fight, I just leave him alone.

I really hope he gets better soon, because honestly, I don't how much of him I can take.

***

Another day has come and gone. He has not gotten better with time. Much like he's burrowed deeper and deeper into a cocoon of blankets, he has fallen deeper and deeper into a pit of despair.

"Here is a towel in case you want to shower," I offer.

He turns his head to face me. His eyes have dark circles under them and he's starting to grow stubble. This is not the face of a celebrity.