Alora Jones; a shy, 20-year-old who has spent all of her life struggling with her weight. It doesn't help that the main cause of that is because of her parents. Growing up with constant negativity and hurtful words being thrown at her by the two tha...
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Alora
I felt a hand on my shoulder, gentle but insistent.
"Hey... happy birthday," Bella said softly.
I stirred, blinking against the early morning light filtering through our dorm window. She was crouched next to my bed, her hair pulled into a messy bun, a party hat perched crookedly on her head. In her hands was a little plate with a single cupcake, pink frosting and all.
"You're ridiculous," I murmured, trying to smile.
"Yep," she grinned. "And you love it."
I sat up slowly, the blanket slipping off my shoulders. For a moment, I just stared at the candle flickering quietly, waiting for me to blow it out.
She didn't say anything more. She didn't need to.
My birthdays at home were always loud, but never in the way I wished they were. Shouted reminders of how ungrateful I was. A day when I learned to lower my expectations. To stay small. To avoid making it worse.
I'd told her bits and pieces. Enough for her to understand that today wasn't just another day, it was something I had survived year after year.
Now, sitting in this unfamiliar dorm, far from that house, I felt something new.
Safe.
"Thanks," I whispered, my voice catching slightly. "Really."
She reached out and squeezed my hand. "You deserve to be celebrated. No matter what they made you believe. I'm going to make this the best birthday you've ever had.
I stared at the candle again. The room was still quiet, but not in a lonely way. In a peaceful way.
I took a breath, made a wish, not for something magical, but for something real. Then I blew out the candle.
It's been a month since I woke up in Harry's bed, confused, hungover, and wearing his shirt.
I still have the shirt.
I told myself I'd return it after I washed it, but somehow it ended up folded neatly in my drawer. I wear it on the nights when the memories feel too heavy, when my past knocks on the door of my chest and refuses to be ignored. It's oversized and soft, and it still smells a little like him, cedarwood and something faintly citrusy, and somehow, it makes me feel steady again.
A lot has changed in a month.
Harry didn't disappear like people usually do after things start to get real. He didn't pull away when I got quiet, or when I admitted I still don't always feel safe in my own skin. If anything, he got closer, gently, like the tide. Always showing up, always asking how I'm doing, and waiting for the answer.
We're not officially anything. I still flinch at labels. But he doesn't push. He just stays. And that means more than any title ever could.
The girls tease us, of course. Bella especially. She says I've been "suspiciously glowy" lately, and she's not wrong. I catch myself smiling for no reason sometimes, at work, while shelving books, or while brushing my teeth at night. There's this quiet warmth under my ribs these days. Not a fire, not a storm. Just warmth.
