Broken Misery (H.Styles Fanfic)

Epilogue

Epilogue

*2 months later*

[Harry's POV]

"So, Harry," Isabel starts our session just like she does every single time I meet with her. She places the notepad on her lap, shakes the blue pen between her index finger and thumb, and she goes on. "How are you today?

When you meet with someone and ask how they're doing, you're usually expecting an answer such as, "Good, how are you?" But when Isabel asks, it goes beyond the simple greeting.

Sitting in an empty hotel room with a woman that has a pad holding over ninety percent of my life in it is quite intimidating, but I never thought I'd get along with her as much as I do. Isabel has helped me to understand my life and my feelings, how to cope with them and how to control my anger, and even though there's still a ten percent that I need to talk about with her, she never forces it out of me. She allows me to talk as much as I need, about anything and everything, and she just listens.

Sometimes her listening is annoying. Often have I cracked and screamed, hoping that she'd call me a wanker and judge me, but she always stays so calm and composed. And most of the time she doesn't even tell me what to do. She listens and waits until I come up with my own conclusions, some of them that I didn't even know I could come up with. I've surprised myself on more than one occasion, because deep down I knew things that I just had to dig deeper to figure out.

Today, however, I don't feel like talking. "I'm a bit tired, to be honest," I admit, brushing it off as if it doesn't matter.

She doesn't allow me to brush it off, and it's what I appreciate the most about her. "May I ask what has gotten you this tired? You seemed fine Saturday."

Sundays we have off. Our sessions go on for an hour or two every day or every other day, depending if we have things to do before the show or if we have a day off. However, Sundays are always off. She stays in the same hotels as us, sometimes attends our shows if she feels like it, and out of therapy she's a great forty-year-old woman who enjoys visiting places and going for fancy dinners.

She's not married and doesn't have kids, and every time we go in the city or for dinner, we try to find her someone to hook up with. "Hook ups are for boys your age," she says every time, but twice has she managed to get a date. The sad part is that since we don't stay in the same city for more than a night or two, the dates are pointless. But out of therapy she definitely doesn't look like a psychologist and it barely matters if she knows all of my fucking issues.

"Elena hasn't answered her phone since yesterday morning," I finally tell her after weighing the pros and cons in my head of keeping this information to myself. "I keep trying to call her and text her, but she's not answering and I'm a bit worried."

Isabel doesn't show any emotion. She tends to keep a poker face when I tell her about my feelings, just so she doesn't appear to be judging. I admire that about her. "And why are you worried, Harry?"

I fumble with my fingers in my lap before answering. I still have a bit of pink varnish on my fingers from when I painted Lux's toes two nights ago. That shit doesn't wash off easily and Lou forgot to inform me that, oops,, she forgot varnish remover. "Well, when I talked to her yesterday morning, I told her what you told me to."

"Which is?" she presses, but not stressfully.

"I told her that I was crazy."

For the first time, Isabel rolls her eyes at me and I suck my bottom lip into my mouth. "Harry, you did not tell her you were crazy. Tell me what you told her."

I might as well have, I inaudibly mumble to myself. "I told her that I was suing Caroline for abuse because of what she did to me." Elena was confused when I told her that, because she didn't know exactly who had abused me, and I kept the information until after I supplied her with the suing part of the story. I was pushing my speech as much as possible for later.