Clara’s P.O.V

I start the drive to my wedding—our wedding—eager to finally get into my wedding dress and vow to love Harry for the rest of my life. I don’t want anybody else in this world. No one could replace Harry. I get a text and look down.

To Clara:

Hey, u almost here? We have to be downstairs and ready to walk down the isle in like, a minute!

To Tyler:

Ya, I’m almost there. Stuck in traffic…Luv u

I hear a honk and decide that it’s just some asshole, only glancing up in time to see the truck hit my car. Everything goes black.

Harry’s P.O.V

Where is she? She should be here by now. I am about to call her, but then I get a call from another number. I don’t recognize it, but I answer it, of course. 

“Hello?”

“Hi, is this Harry Styles?” someone says on the other line.

“Yes, who’s calling?” I ask.

“This is the Stonehenge Medical Centre. Something’s happened to Clara. You should come. Now.”

I arrive a mere ten minutes later, absolutely petrified. I walk up to the front desk and sign in. “Hi, Harry,” a nurse smiles at me. I remember her from when my dad got sick once.

“Can I see her?” I ask immediately.

“Of course,” the nurse smiles. She leads me down what feels like a never-ending maze of halls. I just want to see Clara. “It’s bad, Harry,” she informs me. I nod and open the door, rushing inside. I find Clara unconscious, an IV attached to her arm, most likely filled with pain-killers.

“What happened?” I whisper, staring at the wounds that mask her body, which looks foreign and unfamiliar.

“It was a car accident. She has a lot of bruising and even more cuts and wounds that might scar. She also has five broken ribs, a broken leg, a collapsed lung, and a fractured wrist. When we found her, there were glass shards stuck all over her, and some might have to be surgically removed because they’ve sunk under the skin. It’s dangerous. We have her sedated, but…she’ll be in pain if she wakes up,” she tells me.

“Wait—if?” I gasp. “No, no, no. We were supposed to get married. Today. She was on her way to our wedding. She has to wake up.”

“We’re hopeful that she will, but there’s too much swelling in her brain, and we can’t tell for sure. We need to keep her heartbeat steady for now, and even that’s been hard,” the nurse, Julia, according to her name tag, explains.

I run my hand through my hair and pace the room. I can’t do this. Not again. I already lost her once. I can’t lose her again. Suddenly, the heartbeat monitor picks up and Clara’s body gasps for air, her body flailing all over the place as if she could capture the air with her body and shove it into her lungs. Julia curses and calls down the hall to a group of doctors. Somethings wrong. Like, seriously, seriously wrong. They run in with one of those heart restarter thingies that like, shock your heart to keep it going. 

“Clear!” one of the doctors shouts as another one comes down on Clara’s stomach and heart with the two metal palms. Of course, me being me, I have to make the metaphor. In a way, the machine is kind of like Clara. When she walked into my life, it was the shock that got my heart going again. She brought me back to the life of the living. Sure, I was kind of happy, and I was definitely happy to the public eye—it was my façade. But there was always something missing. Clara. Clara was the missing piece of the puzzle. She made my happy-go-lucky façade my real, true personality. Now, I don’t feel like I have to pretend to be anything but the person I am. The person who’s in love with the broken girl on the mend. The person who’s in love with Clara Katrina Higgens.

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