TW; recollection of rape, sexual assault. these themes may be continuous throughout the story - please be aware, and do not read any further if these topics are triggering for you. i love you.
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He's staring. She can feel it - his eyes on her face as her own eyes remain low; on her lap, as she tries to scrape up some kind of idea of where to begin. His hand is itching to reach out to her - perhaps reassure some of her obvious worry away. But he's nervous, too. He has no idea what she's about to tell him, but he knows it's difficult - it's evident in the way her lips are pressed together and her eyebrows are furrowed, her fingers slightly shaky as she reaches to push a stray curl back and tuck it behind her ear.
She hadn't planned to tell him. She's aware she'd have to tell him eventually, if she wants things to move any further - since this is the one; the one thing stopping her from going forward.
"Soph.." She's surprised when he breaks the silence. Looking up from her lap, she allows their eyes to meet - his green irises burning into hers, as her lips purse slightly in reluctance. "You don't owe me anything.. we can just forget this whole thing, yeah? Start work on the project-"
"No, it's okay," she interrupts, voice dropping to a near-whisper, "I'm sorry. This is harder than I thought it'd be."
"Take your time," he says gently, forcing the second half of the sentence out with as little shaking as he can manage, "I-I don't know if it means anything, but I'm here. I'm right here with you, and it doesn't matter if you tell me now, or in ten minutes, or in an hour, or a week, or a month," he pauses, silencing his rambling, "you don't have to tell me at all, is what I'm trying to say."
Another moment or two passes, before Sophie takes a sharp inhale, exhaling deeply to follow. Her eyes drift from Harry for a mere second, before they fall back onto him, and she nods slowly to herself.
"It started at the end of my sophomore year in high school," she swallows, "I didn't have any friends - the high school I was going to just wasn't working out, and I moved to the local one. It was your stereotypical 'new kid' story - everyone just seemed to hate me, and I didn't fit in anywhere. I just liked to paint, and that was all."
Harry can't help but think of how much he relates to those very few sentences. Unable to put himself into a category; to confine himself to a societal box for so long, and having the piss taken out of him for it mercilessly. Photography was the only thing that made sense throughout his traumatic years of high school.
"I met Elijah on a Wednesday," her lip falls between her teeth, as if it's painful to continue, as she looks back at Harry. "I bumped into him in the library.. and I remember thinking it was so strange because I'd never seen him there before. And he was so cool, and collected, and it turned out he was there to find a book for homework, or something. We got talking, and I'd.." she trails off, taking a deep breath, "nobody had ever paid attention to me before like he did. I guess that's what made it so easy for him.."
Harry wants to interrupt - diligently, as he watches her eyes brim with tears - but he stays quiet. He's never seen her lack so much confidence; as vulnerable as she is in that moment, and all he wants to do is wind his arms around her and tell her not to continue if it'll hurt to.
"We'd been together for two months the first time he tried to force himself on me," Sophie begins, and Harry's eyebrows furrow, "we were just.. kissing. Innocently, because that was all I wanted. He kept trying to put his hand between my legs and even when I told him no.." she pauses, eyes darting sideways for a second, "he did it anyway. Just kept.. touching me.. when I was begging him not to, because I just wasn't ready."
Harry's lips part, "Sophie-"
"He got angry when I didn't.. you know," she whispers, not wanting to speak explicits in such a sense, "kept hitting the wall. Said it would take practice. And when I tried to tell him I didn't want practice, he told me that I did, because we loved each other." She laughs; a short, bitter, humourless laugh. "He told me I loved him, and so I did. How pathetic is that?"
"You're not pathetic," Harry says sadly, aware of what she's hinting at, "tell me you know that." He shuffles his chair closer to her.
"After that it became a regular thing," Sophie brushes off Harry's declaration, "he'd drag me to parties, drink, while trying to get me drunk too, and then drag me back home and touch me. I'd always cry, and I'd always beg him to stop, but he'd always just shush me and remind me that I was supposed to love him."
Sophie continues, "It went on like that for close to a year. And I let it. Because I had no clue how wrong it was - I knew that I hated it, and I knew I was in constant pain - but I knew no different. I thought that was how 'love' was supposed to be. And then, being a year older, he graduated."
"Is that when it ended?" Harry presses gently.
"Almost," Sophie's breath hitches in her throat, as she continues, "about a week after his graduation, he told me he wanted to see me. I went there, without hesitation, of course. We were in his room, and everything was normal for about half an hour, and then he-" she pauses, tears beginning to stream down her face.
"I'm here, angel," Harry's voice sounds, and without thinking his hand darts out to hold hers, "I'm right here with you." His thumb draws over her knuckle, attempting to calm her shaking demeanour. She looks down at their hands, a pained smile tugging on her lips before she forces the rest of the story out.
"He took my virginity that night," she whispers shakily, "there wasn't any kind of consent involved, he just-" she closes her eyes for a moment, "though I know now he'd been manipulating me the whole time, before that night he was always.. mockingly gentle, yet somehow so forceful at the same time. And this time there was no kind of diligence in the way he- not even the false kind. He just took what he wanted."
Harry's face falls further than he'd thought possible, as he watches the girl in front of him crumble into pieces. Her whole body is shaking, her lip is trembling, as his grip on her hand tightens in attempts to reassure her. He's certain she can't manage another word - and how could she? He wishes he'd known - instead of trying to selfishly pinpoint an issue between the two of them for weeks, he should've simply seen the bigger picture - that maybe Sophie isn't this naturally strong, divine figure of his own composition - but rather an incredibly strong woman, such divinity attained by the bravery of her own struggle; of her own recovery. She's stronger than he ever could've imagined, and he has no idea how to put that into words.
"I remember lying there," she tells him, her fingertips shaking against Harry's, "just feeling so helpless. My mind was screaming for me to push him away from me and call for help, but I couldn't. I just - let him take advantage of me. He kept telling me to stop crying, because we were in love, and that was that," she exhales, "everything was blank; numb. It's this feeling of being paralysed when all your mind is begging you to do is scream, and fight, but it doesn't work. I never heard from him again after that. I heard he was arrested six months ago for doing the same thing to someone else."
"Oh my god," Harry murmurs, winding his arms around Sophie's waist and pulling her into his chest. He hasn't a clue of what to say - all he can do is clutch her to him, desperate to shelter her from her own traumatic memories caused by a disgrace of a human being. "M'sorry - I'm so, so sorry he did that to you."
"I'm sorry I let him," she shakes her head, pulling back only to look at Harry, "I should-"
"No," Harry says firmly, before repeating himself, "no. Don't ever blame yourself for what that fucking bastard did to you. You aren't even remotely at fault, Sophie, never ever forget that. You're the strongest person I know, you have to believe that." She nods, although not entirely convinced - she's not sure she ever will be.
"And now we're here," she sniffs, "you and I. And when I tell you I regret pushing you away - I really, truly mean it. I told myself when I finally got away from him that I'd never let anybody make me love them ever again."
"I'd never make you do anything," Harry says, eyes widening.
"I know, you'd never," Sophie nods, "because you're not him, Harry. And I need to realise that. I just- I was scared.. I am scared."
"I don't want you to be scared with me," Harry's voice comes back, barely a whisper.
"I'm scared of what you're doing to me," Sophie whispers in return, "because I know that with Elijah it wasn't real. And when I'm with you," her hand lifts, only to gently cup the side of Harry's face and to allow the drag of the pad of her thumb across the smooth surface of his cheek, "it's the realest thing I've ever felt."
Harry's eyes close for a second, his cheek leaning involuntarily into Sophie's palm as her thumb continues to ghost over his skin. His eyes open, his voice barely audible, "I'd never hurt you," is all he can manage to push out. He's trying his best not to shake - this is the most intimate setting he's ever been in, with somebody who means the world to him.
"I want a do-over," she says, their eye contact not faltering in the slightest.
"Of what, exactly?" he asks.
"Before Christmas," she responds, her voice light, "I had two choices and I made the wrong one."
"Y-You-" Harry cuts himself off with his own shaking demeanour, as their faces are only inches apart. His knees are shaking with nerves, his lips near trembling as his eyes land on the vulnerable girl before him, her face stained with tears.
"I'm here," she whispers, eyes shifting down to land on Harry's lips, before shifting back to his own eyes, "I'm right here with you."
Harry's hands gently cup Sophie's face, as he leans in for the second time - and this time she doesn't pull back; his lips brushing over hers in an innocent, sweet near-connection. She can feel his breath fanning her parted lips, the scent of mint prominent as his mouth inches even closer. And then their lips connect - a soft, slow union in which comfort is provided in a way in which words couldn't dare to, his hand below her ear as his fingertips graze her hair. Sophie can swear she feels the beating of Harry's heart, as her own flutters inside her chest, her skin burning wherever his hands touch. It's slow; diligent; passionate; yet so pure - replacing the million and one words they'd both been aching to exchange since December, but had never found the courage to.
It's only half a minute before their lips separate, neither of the pair daring to open their eyes as a mere inch is created between them, and it's now his thumb trailing over her own cheek, as his eyes slowly open - full of pure adoration and admiration for the being in front of him.