The Only Exception | W2S

THIRTY ONE.

"Rolled you one," he says, holding out a cigarette.

I take it, my fingers brushing against his, and I swallow against the tightness in my throat.

"Your lip looks better," I say, forcing myself to take in every detail of his face, as if trying to memorise him. As if, in the coming weeks, he won't be the very thing that undoes me.

Harry smirks. "Probably because a very smart woman forced me to press ice on it," he says with playful sarcasm, and despite the crushing weight in my chest, I smile.

But I don't reply. And he notices.

"No comeback?" he asks, pouting.

I feel like the worst person in the entire world.

"Sorry—just tired," I murmur. It's not exactly a lie, but it still feels wrong. Feels like I'm stalling.

Harry doesn't seem convinced, but he lets it slide. "Breakfast will help," he says. "I scoured the menu last night—there's so much to choose from. I was thinking we could share the—"

"Harry."

His name comes out softer than I mean it to, guilt forcing the words out before I can shove them back down.

He stops mid-sentence, turns to face me properly. And the moment he sees the look on my face, his smile vanishes.

His expression shifts into something unreadable—something wary. Like he already knows what I'm about to say.

My mouth feels dry. My stomach twists so violently I think I might actually be sick.

"...I'm going to assume we're not talking about breakfast anymore?" His voice is quieter now.

I shake my head, my grip tightening around the cigarette like it's my only tether to reality.

I could forgive myself for breaking my own heart - but breaking Harry's - the one person who showed me that it was possible to see the good things in life again - was unforgivable.

Selfish.

Selfish.

Selfish.

Selfish selfish selfish selfish selfish selfish selfish selfish selfish selfish selfish selfish selfish selfish selfish selfish selfish selfish selfish selfish selfish selfish selfish selfish selfish selfish sel-

"Holly?"

I can hear the uncertainty in his voice, the way it wavers just slightly—like he already knows what's coming, like he's bracing for it.

"This needs to end."

I force the words out, trying to make them sound strong, firm—unchangeable. Because I want him to understand. No, I need him to understand. This isn't a conversation. This isn't something he can argue me out of.

He blinks at me, brow creased, his whole body tense. "What are you talking about?"

I swallow hard. My throat feels raw, like I've been screaming for hours instead of holding this in for mere seconds.

"I can't be the person you deserve, Harry," I say, and even though I'd planned to be calm, my voice is already unsteady. "You deserve someone who doesn't need constant reassurance. Someone who doesn't come with all of this—" I gesture vaguely, as if that will somehow sum up all the ways I'm broken. "The need for privacy. The secrecy. The issues. The bad habits. The weight of all of it. I—I can't be that person for you."

The strength I was holding onto slips through my fingers like sand. My voice falters, turning into a croak, and I hate it—hate how obvious it is that I'm on the verge of breaking down.

But Harry doesn't react like I thought he would.

"Holly, we've been through this," he says, shaking his head, frustration creeping into his voice. "This is why we had the one-month trial, and sure, yeah, last night was a bump, but—"

"No, Harry." I cut him off, my voice sharper than before. "Don't you get it? Last night wasn't just a bump—it was—" I exhale shakily, the words clawing their way up my throat. "I felt like I was back in my own mind and body from last year. I felt it, Harry. Like no time had passed at all."

His expression shifts—his jaw tightens, his hands clench into fists. Not in anger, but in helplessness.

"I'm not over it," I whisper, my voice barely audible now. "And I don't think I ever will be."

"Holly—"

"And this is in no way your fault, but you have such a large following, such an enormous influence. Anything that happens between us would be under a microscope. Every misstep, every whisper, every rumour—it wouldn't just be ours to deal with. It would be everyone's. And I barely survived the aftermath of Matthew. I barely made it through." I look at him, willing him to understand. "I know I wouldn't survive it with—"

"With me?"

His voice is quiet. Hurt.

That's when it really hits me.

This—everything—it's too much. It hurts too much. And yet, the only person I want to comfort me right now is the man I'm in the process of walking away from.

"Holly." He exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair. "I'm not something you have to survive." His voice cracks slightly, but he pushes on. "I'm someone you get to live with, experience life with. I'm not—" He stops himself, shaking his head like he's trying to steady his own emotions. "Nothing bad is going to happen to you. Not with me. Not because of me."

His words go in one ear and out the other.

Because it doesn't matter how much I want to believe him. My mind is already made up.

I shake my head. "I can't, Harry."

He watches me, his expression shifting from disbelief to something softer, something I don't deserve.

"Holly—look, I don't want to argue with you. I won't." His voice is thick with emotion, but still gentle. "I'm hurt—you know that. But I'm also not going to force you to stay if it's making you feel like this. That's not the kind of person I want to be."

I nod, but it's weak. Pathetic. This is my fault. I know that. But knowing doesn't make it hurt any less.

His gaze lingers on me, as if he's trying to memorise every inch of my face before it changes, before everything shifts into something we can't come back from.

Then, softly, he says, "But I want you to know something." He swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing. "I'm not going to move on from you."

A sharp pain stabs through my chest, as if the air has been sucked out of my lungs.

"I'm still going to be your friend, in any and all capacities that you'll allow me to be." His lips twitch into a small, sad smile. "Because I care about you, Holly. So much. And that's not going away anytime soon."

Tears sting my eyes, my throat burning from the effort of keeping them down.

"I love you," I croak out. The words sound ruined, broken, like I'm handing them to him in pieces.

Then, quieter, like a confession:

"I'm sorry."