The hallway was just as quiet as it always had been. The guy living at the other end of it was young, kept to himself, and lived alone as far as I could tell, generally staying out of sight. I dragged my suitcase behind me towards the door, clutching my purse to my shoulder. Harry had tried to take both when we'd gotten out of the car downstairs. I'd said no. In a weird way it felt... good to have something to hold onto.
Our door looked the same, pretty "Welcome!" sign and all. Mom had gotten it for us when we moved in—one of her many housewarming gifts. I didn't have the heart to tell her that no one beyond family or friends would likely see it. Not even the mailman. Because my husband was Harry Styles, and it was imperative that no one we didn't know would make it this far.
Harry stopped when he reached it, let his suitcase stand beside him, and the keys sounded the same sliding into the lock—a loud, jangling sound, a click, and then the twist of the door handle as Harry pushed it open, reaching for his suitcase and rolling it through behind him.
I followed.
The house looked the same. Harry placed the keys in the same bowl on the front table, walked down the same hallway, the same carpet muffling the sounds. The air was still, and the sun was streaming in through the window at the far end of the hall—the window in our bedroom.
Harry kicked off his shoes and headed straight for it, wheeling his suitcase behind him. And it was so familiar a sight—watching him move about the house—that I knew I should've been comforted.
Because everything was the same as it always had been.
But nothing was the same either.
I stood in the hallway a little longer, looking from Harry moving around in our bedroom, to the table beside me where we'd left some unopened mail, then back again. I didn't know what to do with myself. For the past three days, I couldn't figure out what to do with myself. How to—live again. As if that was so easy.
Because nothing was the same, even though everything surrounding me hadn't changed.
Everything except Harry.
He'd changed. Just like I had. And at the same time, not at all like I had.
We'd fallen asleep in each other's arms the other night in his mother's house, after I'd showered and held him while he cried. Without a word exchanged between us, he curled up against me, his head on my chest, his arms wrapped around my waist—my stomach. Where our baby no longer existed. It hadn't taken him long to fall asleep once he'd cried himself out. But I'd lain there, staring up at the ceiling, feeling the rise and fall of his breath against me, and I prayed.
Prayed like I'd never prayed before. To a higher power I wasn't sure even existed—because if there was something or someone up there, I couldn't understand why they'd want to take so much from me. Why my dad had to go, or my first baby, or now my—
Still, I'd prayed with everything I had. For the babies I'd lost, for the man I loved in my arms, and for myself. Because I didn't know how I'd get through this, but I knew I'd done it once before. And things had been better on the other end.
It was getting to that other end that would be the tricky part. That had been the tricky part.
So, even though my world had shattered and spun out into pieces, like glass falling to the floor to become shards sharp enough to draw blood, I prayed for the future. Our future. I prayed that one day soon, we'd be able to pick up those pieces, even if it hurt to do it. I prayed that Harry's pain would one day soon lose its edge. That he would heal. I knew that it would never go away completely—for either of us—but I prayed his sadness would lessen day by day, that at some point, he'd be able to think of this baby and feel that sadness, and not let it weigh him down for long. That he'd be able to look at whatever children we might have in the future and remember this first one with love in his heart.
And I prayed that I would be able to give that to him. Children. Several of them if that's what he wanted. But thinking about that—about myself, about my ability to carry a child to term—it only made me anxious. It only made tears spill from my eyes from fear. So, I took deep breaths and focused on him. On each soft breath against my chest. On the dull thumping of his heart against my body. On the silky strands of his hair between my fingers.
And I prayed—begged whatever that higher power was to get him through this. That I'd be able to love him through this, even if I was the reason for his pain.
I was always the reason for his pain, it seemed. And as I lay there holding him that night, all the ways I'd hurt him in the past came back to me, flooding through my mind.
I'd lain awake all night trying to shut them out, watching the darkness of night turn to murky gray, hazy blue, right before the sun peeked through the curtained window. And my eyes were burning with exhaustion, and my heart was heavier than it had been when we got back from the hospital—but Harry was still in my arms, barely having moved throughout the night. So, once more, I focused on him. Ran my fingers through his hair, traced a finger over his brow, gazed at the peace sleep had written all over him, and hoped he would stay asleep a good while longer.
But he woke sooner than I'd wanted him to, and it was cowardly of me, but I pretended to be asleep when I felt him stir, afraid to watch reality settle back into his open eyes, afraid for the way it would make me feel to see that pain again.
So, when he shifted out of my arms, so careful not to wake me, I'd truly fallen asleep not long later, the guilt and grief in my heart finally easing into nothing as I slipped into oblivion.
I'd slept for much of the day, until Anne had woken me up just after lunch.
Harry had gone out, she'd said. I still didn't know where he'd spent the rest of the day, and still didn't have the courage to ask.
In fact, we'd barely spoken for the past two days beyond what needed to be said.
"Let me take those", or "No, I've got it", or "Do you want a coffee?", or "I'm just gonna use the bathroom."
That didn't mean we didn't communicate in other ways, though. He'd grabbed my hand after we'd said goodbye to his family (after too many hugs from Anne to count and with the promise to call as soon as we landed), and he'd held it the entire car ride to Heathrow, where more of our "conversations" had taken place.
"Are you cold?", then "Do you want me to turn the air off?", then "No, that's okay. I'm fine.", then "Okay."
It was... "Strained" wasn't the word. It was careful. We were careful. Like... like we didn't know how to navigate each other's emotions and had mutually decided, without any meaningful words exchanged between us, that we wouldn't talk about those emotions.
And that was fine for the time being. The last thing I wanted to do was confront Harry and make him explain to me what he was feeling when he was still trying to process. When I was still trying to process. I wanted to give him as much time as he needed, and I needed more time myself.
Because the second-to-last thing I wanted was to confront any of it myself.
But... I would admit that despite his hand clasping mine whenever and wherever he could manage it, despite the strained attempts at smiles we shared with each other when we caught the other's eye, despite the quick kisses he would plant on my forehead, or that I would brush against his cheek when I could grab the chance...
I missed him.
He had been right beside me the whole way home, but I missed him. The way we were before we knew this sadness. The way we were before three days ago. The way his eyes had always been full of love, and the way they'd seemed to be full of even more light these last couple months, knowing that I carried his baby.
I missed that light. Missed the way it lit me up, too, when he looked at me.
I was still standing in the hallway of our apartment when he walked back out, and he didn't ask me if I was okay outright, just—
"Want me to take that in for you?"
That... My suitcase. In... the bedroom.
"Oh, uh—no. I've got it." I think I tried to smile. It felt like my mouth moved that way—or had at least made the attempt to lift at the corners. But I looked away from him as soon as it faltered, embarrassed by the way I couldn't even manage one for him.
I tightened my grip on the handle of my suitcase—I hadn't let go yet—and started moving past him, rolling it behind me.
He didn't say anything more, but I felt him linger for a few moments, aware of him watching me as I stopped at the foot of our bed, as I laid my suitcase down and crouched before it, needing to do something just so that I wouldn't have to meet his eye.
I looked up when he walked away, heading down the hallway with a hand rubbing the back of his neck. And I blew out a sigh. A frustrated, sad, angry—too-many-emotions-to-name kind of sigh.
Suitcase still half-zipped, forgotten on the floor, I sat on the cushioned bench at the end of our bed, and hung my head in my hands.
The last time I'd been in this room, I was still pregnant. Heat burned the backs of my eyes as I tried to shut that thought out of my mind. Now, I had Harry to worry about. I knew he was there for me. That if I needed him, he'd come racing into the room right now. What I didn't know is if he realized that I would do the same for him.
I hadn't necessarily expected the silence between us these last few days, but I understood it all the same. Where I was familiar with these emotions, familiar with this grief even though I hated having to feel it again—Harry wasn't. I knew this would take time—for both of us. And I didn't want to push him to talk or open up or examine his feelings before he was ready. I'd learned how important it was to feel whatever it is you're feeling, no matter how dark or scary things can get.
All I could do for him now was be here. And I was. Or I tried to be.
But the thing was, even though I wanted to give him space, it was also incredibly hard not to force him to talk to me. I wasn't used to Harry being the one who needed support. He was always so steady—the calm to my storm. The only person who seemed to settle me when I was raring to go into a complete tailspin.
And now... he was quiet. Quieter than I'd ever known him to be. He was pensive. He could barely look at me, and I could barely look at him.
And I hated it.
I couldn't take away his pain. I couldn't make this better—I knew that. Nothing could make this better. The only thing we could do was take things day by day. But... I couldn't let him close himself off. Not the way I did. I couldn't let him draw into himself.
Away from me.
I was on my feet before I could think about it, suitcase left behind, heading for the kitchen, where I could hear him moving around. He looked up when I walked in, closing the fridge behind him.
We studied each other for a moment. The eye contact lasting longer than it had in three days.
"You okay?" he asked, his voice soft, monotone.
No, but... I nodded, careful to keep eye contact. "You?"
And I saw it there. The same feeling—no, but... he nodded, too.
Talk to him, my mind screamed. Tell him it's all going to be okay.
But my baby... my hands went to my stomach of their own accord, rested where my baby had been only a few short days ago. Rested on all the spots where Harry had pressed kiss after kiss these last couple months. Rested where I'd been waiting and waiting for a small bump to appear.
I was empty. So, so empty.
Harry saw where my hands had gone and as his brow wrinkled, quickly looked away. Down to the floor.
My eyes burned.
I'd done this. It was—it was my fault he was feeling this way. This pain. And there was nothing I could do, nothing I could say that would make it better.
But something in me lurched toward him anyway. Something in me made me feel like I had to try.
"I—"
"I'm gonna go to the store," he said, his eyes moving along the floor, his hands moving from the counter to cross over his chest, and back down to his sides again. He sniffed once. "We don't have any food in the fridge."
I think I was stunned. I couldn't be sure.
Because in the next second, he was rounding the counter, staying far away from me. And I didn't have the nerve to stop him.
He paused in the great expanse of our living room, right before he reached the short hallway that would take him to the front door. "Want anything?" he asked, half-turned toward me, half-turned toward the hallway, green eyes flicking up towards mine before shooting back down to the floor.
"I, uh..." I could barely breathe. Barely think. "No." It was a whisper. A broken, fearful whisper.
And if Harry heard it, if he could tell how hard it was for me to even get that out, if he knew just how hard it was for me to look at him and feel his pain—
"Okay, I'll—" He turned. Walked away. Walked away from me. "I'll be back soon."
I stood there, listening to each of his muffled footsteps, hearing the jangle of keys clanking against the bowl on the table, the door opening, the door closing, and then—
Silence.
I stood there, waiting, half-certain that he'd walk back in. Half-terrified because I knew he wouldn't. And completely heartbroken because I knew there was nothing I could do.
A sob ripped its way out of my chest before I realized what was happening, and I sunk to the floor like a rock to the bottom of a shallow pond.
Empty. I was so empty.
And alone.
Harry left. It had never occurred to me that he might leave. Even after the other day, when I'd woken up to find him gone. But I wasn't alone, then. At least... at least I wasn't alone. And here I was in the quiet of our apartment, with the sun streaming in through the windows feeling like I'd fallen into a dark abyss. Like I'd spiraled inward into a pit of despair. And I mentally ran through that pit, running my hands over the walls in a frantic search for any light, any comfort, any warmth or happiness that might be left. But found nothing. So, I gathered my knees to my chest and held myself close, let myself cry on that floor. Waited and waited for the aching tightness in my chest, my gut, my heart, to release.
But my tears ran out before that happened.
And I pulled myself up to stand before that happened.
And I couldn't figure out what to do, what would help, so I found myself in the bathroom, running a bath, hoping the heat of the water surrounding me would loosen that tightness. Ease the ache.
I don't know how long I sat in it, waiting. Waiting for the tightness to ease. Waiting to feel like myself again. Waiting for Harry to return.
And thinking. I spent a lot of that time sitting in the bath thinking. Running through the miscarriage all over again, wondering still how I could've ignored the signs—written them off. Thinking of Anne, and the way she'd looked at me ever since. With a soft pity in her eyes. A blazing sadness. Sharp pain.
I thought about my family. How I'd need to tell them at some point. It had felt wrong to answer Mom's texts these last few days and not say anything. But I didn't want her to find out by text, and I knew that if I called her, I wouldn't be able to say the words. It had to be in person, but I was dreading it. Telling myself that now that I'd texted to say that we'd landed back home safely, I could give myself until at least tomorrow before I made my way over there. Let myself at least get a good night's sleep first.
I went over our time on the plane again. It would've been nice to be right beside each other, but first class seats on this particular plane had a lot of room between them. They were more like armchairs that reclined all the way back to become something like a bed. Of course, I appreciated the fact that we were seated in first class, and knew how lucky we were, but all I really wanted for those seven hours was to curl up against my husband. Feel his heart beat. Maybe then I would've fallen asleep. Maybe then he would've spoken to me at least once over the course of the journey home.
Instead, there was only distance between us. Distance and silence.
So, when we got here... it—it almost made sense that he left. Because the distance and silence... it was just easier.
Even if it killed me to know he didn't want to stay.
My fault. My fault, my fault, my fault. I tried to turn those thoughts off. Tried to remind myself that this was just a fact of life—for many women, not just me. That it wasn't caused by anything I had or hadn't done. Rationally, I knew that. Anne had repeated it to me over and over again these last few days, even though I didn't want to listen. Even though I knew she was right. But those two little words—that huge feeling of guilt—shot through me every so often, echoing in the cavernous spaces left behind after my baby's departure. Resounding in my head.
And Harry leaving... The fact that my own husband could barely look at me, could barely stand to be around me—that didn't help. But rationally, I knew this was how he had to deal with it. Only he knew what he needed, and far be it from me to beg him to stay.
Even if I never wanted him to leave me like that again.
The water was well and truly cold by the time I lifted myself out of the tub, tears still leaking silently from my eyes. And only the sound of water sloshing around me pierced through the silence of the house. I didn't know how long I'd been in here, but Harry still wasn't home, and the realization felt like another punch to the gut.
It hadn't been that long yet, I reminded myself. And we hadn't done a grocery shop for a good few days before we'd left for England. It could just be taking him a while.
After wrapping a towel around my body and twisting another one around my hair, I walked out of the bathroom without even casting a glance at the mirror. I'd barely stopped crying for three days. Barely slept in just as long. I didn't need to see the evidence of that puffed up around my eyes, reddening my nose, paling my cheeks. So, I dressed in our quiet bedroom, putting on the comfiest clothes I could find, and found myself sitting on the edge of the bed, facing the wall of windows, wondering what to do next.
One of the things I loved about this apartment were the huge windows. It was the first thing I noticed when Harry had shown me the space that first time—sunlight. There was sunlight everywhere when the days started to turn into evening. It spilled over every single surface in the house, the golden glow warming the air and my heart as the sun began its slow, but steady descent.
It washed over me now, warm and brilliant as ever as the sounds from the city down below continued on their endless loop. I closed my eyes, felt the bit of heat against my eyelids, looked into the reddish burn of it and waited. Waited for the comfort, waited for the warmth to leak into me and fill the empty places.
But it didn't. Perhaps couldn't. Because I was so empty, I wasn't sure even the sun could reach the deepest, darkest corners inside of me.
I had to get up. I had to do something. But nothing seemed appealing. Not watching T.V. Not reading a book. Not opening up my computer, not unpacking, not going outside. Not even sleeping.
Listless. I was empty and listless.
And scared.
I had to get up. I had to do something. I opened my eyes. Looked into the sunlight, tried to remember what it felt like to enjoy it, to feel the comfort from it, the sense of peace. But it felt like those memories were far away. Like they were left somewhere in my distant past, and accessing them gave me only a faint idea of what it had once been like—my life.
Get up, I told myself. Move. My body obeyed. I stood up in my empty bedroom. Stared for a second at the far end of it, where the television we rarely used sat on top of a beautiful antique chest my mom and I had found at an estate sale last year. My eyes ran over the polished wood, the black handles of each drawer, then to the leafy plant sitting on the floor beside it, wilted since we'd been gone for a while, yet still reaching just slightly for the sunlight.
Water it. I should water it.
My body moved. Headed right for the kitchen with its new purpose. And I tried to ignore the emptiness inside me. The emptiness of the house around me. I filled a big glass full of water and headed back to the bedroom, poured it into the plant. Some of the water dripped onto the hardwood floor.
Paper towels.
I was in the kitchen and back quickly, bending down to mop up the bit of spillage, and stood again, staring at the plant—as if it would perk up any second now.
That's when I noticed the coating of dust on the top of the antique chest where our T.V. sat. With fresh paper towels, I wiped it down, and there was a small bit of satisfaction I found in watching my hands move over it, watching the dust clear so that the wood beneath gleamed again.
So, I wiped down the screen of the T.V., too. Then looked for other surfaces to clean.
Before I knew it, I was full-on cleaning the house. Swiffering the wooden floors. Wiping down every surface I could find. I even pulled out the vacuum and made sure to run over all the area rugs. Then I moved into the kitchen, polishing the stainless steel appliances, wiping down the granite countertops, mopping the floor—I even opened up the fridge and cleaned all the shelves.
It didn't take away the emptiness, but it did make me forget about it for a little while.
I cleaned so long I didn't notice the passage of time, so when I heard the click of a lock in the silence, the open and shut of the front door, the jangle of keys clanging against the bowl, I was startled.
And scared. Dragged back to a reality I didn't want to face.
Suddenly, I could barely breathe again, and as I waited for him to round the corner, to find me cleaning the windows, I noticed there was no sunlight streaming into the room any longer.
It was dark outside.
Which meant he had been gone for hours.
I kept my eyes fixed on my hands, somehow kept them moving—spraying the glass with Windex, wiping it down with a rag.
The swish of plastic bags was what alerted me to his presence.
"What're you doing?"
His voice was still monotone. Still heavy and deep. Unease filled me to realize it should have been amusement coloring the words—he should've been amused to come home and find me on the step-stool, cleaning windows that didn't need cleaning.
And something sparked in my chest, something that wanted to shout at him for leaving me the way he had, for staying away so long. Hours. He'd told me he was going to the store, left me alone in this apartment after a day of traveling, after all that had happened, and he'd been gone for hours. Anger—that's what it was. I was angry.
But all that came out was a curt, "Cleaning."
I didn't even turn around to face him. And as I continued cleaning the window, going over the same spot once more now that he was behind me, I waited for him to explain. To apologize. To come over to me and touch my arm, and pull me down into his. Kiss me. Hug me so tight, he'd put me back together again, just by sheer force of will.
"Why?" he asked, his voice the same distance away.
And the way he said it... Bored, with a hint of judgment—abruptly, I felt like a pot about to boil over.
I cleaned the same window, the same spot, with much more force than necessary. "Because I feel like it."
And I hoped he could sense what I'd bitten back—the words I wanted to scream, but left unsaid.
Just like you felt like leaving me alone here all day.
Suddenly, though, I didn't feel like cleaning anymore. I stepped down from the stool, turned around to face him, and was even more annoyed that he seemed totally unaffected by what I'd said, by what he'd done, as he started unloading the groceries.
Heart pounding, anger quickly working into rage, I watched him. "Where were you."
He didn't even look at me, just turned toward the fridge—opened it. "I went for a walk."
I saw red—glanced at the time on the microwave through it. "For four hours?"
Harry let the fridge close behind him, glanced at the time, too, and for the first time all day, didn't look away immediately when he met my eye again. He braced his hands on the counter, and had the good sense to look a bit sheepish. "I—I didn't realize it had been that long."
Almost immediately, the anger started to subside, and I had no clue where it had come from to begin with. Still, Harry didn't say anything more to help it along.
He needed it—the time alone. The time away. Even if I hated knowing that he needed the time away from me. Even if it made me feel like I'd done something wrong—like this was all my fault. This was how he had to deal with it. This was how he had to process things. And I had to respect that, even if I didn't like it.
My defenses toppled as I came to that understanding, and I tried to ignore the way it hurt. But it was amazing the way my emotions rippled through me. The way I could go from feeling nothing while I was busy, to white hot anger in a matter of seconds when he got home, then to painful understanding a few words later.
It was exhausting to feel so much—to feel so little at the same time. To feel it all in fleeting bursts that left me spinning like a top, with no real direction to aim for, hoping only to somehow manage a full stop before I crashed.
Harry continued unpacking the bags, putting things away in cabinets, the fridge. I stood there and watched him, the Windex and dirty rag forgotten, but still clutched in my hands. It was like I no longer knew him. Like I didn't know how to speak to him. Like I had to get to know him all over again since the other day.
And from the way these past few days had gone, the silences we'd existed in, I wasn't sure he wanted me to.
The terror of that thought was what made me step forward. "What do you want to eat?"
I hadn't eaten anything of substance all day—just a bag of pretzels on the plane. My stomach roared in response, like it was waiting for me to notice its existence again.
Harry braced his hands on the counter, looking just as listless, just as empty as I'd been feeling all day. "Uh," he said with a sigh, followed by a slight shrug. "Dunno." He met my eye again, and my heart thumped painfully hard to see his blank expression. "What do you feel like?"
Emotionless. Monotone. No glimmer of amusement or hint of a smile or suggestion of happiness anywhere inside him.
And I was terrified by it. Desperate to find it, because surely, it couldn't be gone.
Surely, there was still happiness—light—somewhere inside him.
I didn't feel like cooking. After a full day of cleaning, of working hard to forget the emptiness inside of me, I was tired. And listless again, too.
Still, I tried to smile. For him. "I could always go for Chinese food."
Harry nodded. That was it. "Okay. Let's do that."
I nodded back, waiting for his grin in return, feeling my own pathetic attempt slip away.
"Will you call?" he asked, angling toward the hallway and hooking a thumb in that direction. "I'm gonna shower."
I nodded again and watched him start to head away—away from me.
"Harry," I started, my voice slightly frantic as I took a couple steps toward him.
He stopped, and there was pain etched into his brow when he looked at me. Which was better than no emotion at all.
My heart ached, and tears burned the backs of my eyes again. Breathlessly, desperately, I said, "We—you—should we... should we talk? About everything? I—I don't want it to be—"
That pain in his brow deepened before he hung his head, started shaking it, his hands going to his hips.
"Harry," I said, my voice a whisper now—a whisper I knew he heard in the silence. "I—I just—"
"I can't," he said, still shaking his head. A line of silver glimmered in his eyes, and he sniffed quickly. Ran a finger under his nose. Looked at me again. "Not yet. Okay?"
Not yet. He—he couldn't face it yet.
Which was good, because—neither could I.
"Okay," I whispered, feeling a hot tear roll down my cheek.
Anything for him. Anything.
Harry nodded his thanks, his hands going from his hips to rub his eyes as he sniffed again, quickly. And he walked over to me quickly, too. Took my wrist in his and pressed a quick kiss to my forehead before walking away again.
"I'm gonna shower," he said over his shoulder, his voice still thick with emotion, hurrying away like he couldn't get there fast enough.
I didn't answer. Only watched him disappear around the corner. Only waited for nothing as silence surrounded me and I found myself alone again.
But he was here. He was here and everything may have been different, but...
Warmth. It took me a moment to notice it, but... there was warmth coming from my hand. From that spot on my forehead. Where he touched me. Kissed me. It crawled up my arm, lingered on that spot between my brows, and reached somewhere deep inside until it became a small kernel—an ember.
A small bit of warmth to light the darkness, the emptiness inside.
And for him, for giving that little bit back to me, I would do whatever I could to keep it alive.
___
Author's Note:
THESE. EMOTIONS. THOUGH. My heart is in pieces for them tbh. I don't know why I'm doing this to myself. But I do, because their story is more important than my pain, I get it...
BUT I DON'T LIKE IT.
Please let me know what you make of this one guys! I need to commiserate with anyone and everyone who's willing bc I don't want to go through this alone. Also, I'm proud of this one. Like, really proud of it despite the feels it's brought up. Cause what writer doesn't love writing a good bit of TENSION. So, please comment, vote, message me, whatever! I can't wait to hear your thoughts!
That's it for me for now. I'm getting pretty good at keeping these short and sweet, if I do say so myself :) But before I go, obviously, THANK YOU for always being so amazing and supportive and encouraging. After reading and responding to the comments on the last few chapters, I'm impossibly MORE grateful to have such wonderful readers and friends <3
I hope you have the best two weeks ever! Lots and lots and lots of love. xx