harry styles imagines

gold rush: part three

There's no remedy for this type of heartbreak. It feels almost worse than the divorce. The love was fading at the time, and he was expecting the demise to come knocking on his door eventually. It still hit him like a ton of bricks, but his petty anger toward you softened the blow, even though his anger was simply a mask for his hurt.

Now, his current anger is nothing but desperation of just wanting to be loved by you.

Once his cries have subsided to occasional hiccups, he clumsily removes his phone from his pocket and unlocks it. He finds your contact, presses the call button, and then sets his phone on the floor. A long beep sounds before it goes straight to voicemail.

"No," Harry chokes out. "No, no, no. Please don't do this to me."

A robotic voice tells him to leave a message after the tone. He weakly inhales and picks up his phone, holding it against his ruptured heart.

"Baby." His voice thickly trembles and he's too shattered to notice the slip. "Please listen to me. I'm s-sorry for kissing you, okay? I didn't mean to. I wasn't thinking properly." He sniffles and palms his teary eyes like a kid. "Fuck, don't leave me. Why did you leave me? Just tell me where you are, and I'll f-fix this, I swear. Tell me you're safe and with our daughter. I love you."

He manages to press the button to end his message. His throat is raw, and he can barely breathe through his nose, the tears still falling down his neck. He's surprised no one has gone to check on him, but he supposes the seriousness with which he told everyone to leave him alone is the reasoning behind it.

Shakily standing, Harry regards his reflection in the mirror and feels another wave of nausea pass through him. He's seeing himself in double vision, the blotchy complexion of his cheeks and the swollen puffiness of his eyes staring straight back at him. There used to be a time when he looked this unrecognizable every day. When the divorce had been finalized, he vividly remembers being skin and bones with pale skin and lifeless eyes. The deep depression he succumbed to was one he thought he'd never come out of, but somehow, he did.

He did it for you. He did it for his daughter.

His phone suddenly dings and vibrates twice, making his heart leap out of his chest. He hastily checks the screen as it lights up with your text message.

I'm at home. I called the babysitter because I needed some time to myself.

He exhales a relieved breath and attempts to call you again. This time, you answer on the fourth ring.

"Harry, please stop."

He ignores you because he's not letting you go without putting up a fight. "Let me come over. Please. I have to fix this."

He's ashamed that he didn't have this mindset a year ago, but he hopes you can give him the benefit of the doubt. This is him trying.

"I want to be alone right now. Can you respect that?"

Harry feels dizzy. "My hand... I think I broke my hand."

"What?!" you exclaim.

"My hand hurts." He's clawing for any emotional reaction from you. "Is there gauze at the house?"

"Harry, what did you do? You broke your hand? How in the world did you do that?"

"Dunno," he mumbles. "I need help."

"Aren't there medics at the venue? Go get them."

He gulps and tilts his head back. "But I need you. Need you to fix it for me."

"No, I'm not... I- I can't just be around you after what happened."

"Okay," he says quietly, licking his chapped lips. He won't push someone he could lose again in an instant. "Okay, that's fine."