Random Harry Styles Short Stories || Completed!

7 Missed Calls || Part 2

"I just don't understand."

You were unreceptive.

"Why hasn't she woken up yet?"

It has been three weeks since your accident. The cuts have more-or-less healed on your body, and all that's left are faint scars. But other than that, you looked fine.

Absolutely fine to the point where it drove Harry crazy. After all, you looked as if you were just sleeping. As if you were just caught in a long, deep sleep that could be interrupted if he just willed it hard enough.

"Harry, you have to be patient. Don't rush her. She'll wake when she wakes."

"No, Gemma, you don't get it. She's supposed to have woken up by now. I know her. She's strong."

At this point in time, Harry had already informed himself of all the details pertaining to your accident. You were driving. Recklessly. It wasn't raining, contrary to popular belief. It was a perfectly clear day.

Which breaks Harry's heart even more, because it meant your bloody body was sprawled out in the middle of the highway to the world.

"Cut her some slack. She's trying her best right now."

"I know she is. But you just don't get it. She's not supposed to be fighting or trying her best, because she isn't supposed to be in an accident at all."

The world tour had stopped for you.

Of course, the fans were spiraling, as well as the tabloids. All the rumors forced Harry to betray that it was an internal family matter. #PrayForGemmaandAnne started trending on Twitter the next day.

Nobody even suspected anything about you.

"What do you mean?"

"It's all my fault, Gem. I told her that she could make it if she rushed it. It was m-me who s-said that s-she s-should–"

Harry had managed to keep up his appearances. It was easy to tweet. It was harder to be seen entering or leaving the hospital, or even leaving your room because there were prying eyes everywhere.

Everyone was dying to know who exactly was responsible for Harry Styles' sudden early retirement. The other half of the world was waiting for him. But it didn't mean anything to him.

Harry would've turned over all the wealth and stardom that he had gained over the last seven years for even a slight flicker of your eyelids.

Nobody was in your room when you woke up.

That you knew of, of course. Your head was tiled at a weird angle, and it made your neck impossibly stiff. It was in the movements that you made to readjust your position that you saw him.

Harry was scrunched over in a cold, metal chair in the corner of the room. His eyes were pressed shut as if he was sleeping, but the crease between his eyebrows and how his lips occasionally moved in an undecipherable way made you beg to differ.

"Harry," you whisper. Your throat was dry and your mouth was like sandpaper. He didn't hear you. You try to sit up, and it is your struggling that alerts him.

The first thing you notice are his eyes–his red-rimmed, dark-circled eyes that don't even look green anymore. The second thing you notice are his hands–his shaky, ring-less hands that he immediately cups your face with as he sprints over to kneel by your bedside.

"My angel," he murmurs, tears spilling down his cheeks. You frown at his sadness, trying to lift a hand to wipe away his tears. But all of a sudden, you are struck with an incredible amount of pain.