I woke to the sheets twisted uncomfortably around my feet, a muffled bang having broken my peaceful slumber. I heard Harry hiss expletives and concluded that he’d stubbed his toe, listening to his moans and grumbles as he hobbled around the room. I lay still, silently, trying to conjure up the dream I’d been having. It was tucked away in an unreachable corner of my mind, inaccessible to me no matter how hard I tried to recall it. I had snippets – the bright lights of a hospital and a bed that smelled like disinfectant. Harry had been there, too. Grasping my hand desperately, whispering something urgent in my ear. I’d started screaming. And then I remembered nothing.
I felt a subdued sense of disappointment, but all at once thought that maybe it was for the best that I couldn’t bring my dream to mind. I had this imminent sense that it hadn’t been a pleasant one; perhaps I’d blocked it off from myself subconsciously. It had been a really awful one, actually, given the chilling feeling of sadness and horror that still lay fresh in my gut. I gulped, shaking the thoughts of my nightmare away. It was only a dream. No point in getting fussy over it.
I rolled over at a leisurely pace, my swollen 29 week bump completely hindering my movements these days. I had to sleep on my side with a pillow propped under my abdomen, and still I was woken every hour or so by the little devil tossing and turning inside me. I could have sworn I was giving birth to some sort of nocturnal creature, he was up that much at night. Kicking me brutally in the ribs with strong little legs. Though the aching pain of his movements were nothing compared to Harry’s unsympathetic nature. My mouth went dry as I thought about how he’d once cooed over my bump, how he’d massage my shoulders when I was unable to sleep. Nowadays he just grumbled in irritation when I rolled around, desperately trying to find comfort, moaning about how he had an early morning.
He’d changed so much these last couple of months. I didn’t like the new side of him – the Harry that was moody and irritable and quiet. He made me uneasy and insecure. He made me feel like he was having second thoughts.
I turned towards the window, my head swirling as I tried to remember what I had to do today, and then realised there was nothing. My agenda was free once again, and Harry was out of the house, doing signings of their new single. The fans had come out in huge numbers to see them while I watched from the sidelines on the odd day I got to tag along. Where Harry was usually given gifts of things like cuddly toys and foam swords and condoms and playboy magazines, he was now receiving generous donations of babygros and playschool toys and little hats. Some fans even went so far as to make their own – one girl had printed a tiny onesie with the 1D logo, and another gave him a t-shirt with ‘My daddy’s in a band’ plastered on it. He accepted them all with a smile and a warm thank you, and those were the moments when I hoped that my worries of him having doubts were all in my head before conspiring that he was simply acting up for the crowd. I wondered if it was all just a show, and if he wanted this baby at all. I worried he’d leave me alone. That he didn’t love me like he used to.
As I glanced towards the window my eyes bugged, an amused smile curling my lips upwards. I feasted my eyes on my perfect view. The silhouette of Harry’s naked form turned from me in the dim Winter morning light, his bare backside on display as he hid his body behind the curtain, peering out at the view below from around the side. Curls splayed like a halo around his head, his long legs pulled together, the sinewy muscles of his back and the bulk of his arms driving my imagination wild. I bit my lip against a giggle, watching silently as he stared out.
My hand closed noiselessly around my phone on the bedside table, my body raising with effort from the mattress. Hoisting myself up was difficulty nowadays. I raised the camera, smiling widely as the image of his pure perfection filled the small screen, tapping the screen when I was satisfied with it. The snapping shutter noise rang out loudly through the silence and Harry swivelled on his heel, eyes settling on me and crinkling in a confused, but humorous, grin.
“What are you doing?” he mumbled through a chuckle as he shuffled away from the window, letting the curtain fall across it. I giggled in response, pulling up my twitter app. “Just taking a snap for my wankbank,” I teased him, winking as I attached the photo to my tweet and tapped in a message. You just can’t beat a room with a view ;P.
He strolled back to the bed, my eyes averting him in embarrassment at how very naked he was. My cheeks coloured a little and he smirked as he slid beneath the covers, pushing me over the mattress. “You’re blushing, Miss Gold. It’s nothing you haven’t seen before.”
“Still,” I muttered embarrassedly, “No need to wave it about, you’ll put someone’s eye out.” He laughed at that, a light, hearty sound that somehow still had a deep manliness in it. It was like music to my ears, because it had been a while since I’d heard him sound so happy. It reminded me of how he used to be.
I let him pull my back flush against his chest, his chin digging into my shoulder through my pyjama top. His skin was warm, breath hot on my flesh. I leaned back against him and he peered at my phone screen, groaning and squeezing me as he registered the fact that I’d just distributed his nudes to the world. “Take that down, management will murder me.”
“It’s nothing. I’m just giving the fans something to swoon over,” I smiled back, enjoying how his lips felt on my neck. Enjoying everything about this moment; the warmth, the intimacy. Things we hadn’t had in so long. Replaced gradually by hard, wary looks and conflicted eyes, troubled glances. Meaningless kisses, his hollow touch and insincere words. Not himself, in any sense or method.
He wrapped his arms around my middle, hands clasped over my stomach and breathing deeply as he waited for a kick. He remained quiet and I sat awkwardly, hoping for some sort of conversation to arise, my heart dropping when the silence rode on and Harry sighed dejectedly against my back and let his forehead fall to my skin. Maybe he wasn’t in such great temper after all.
“Harry?” I whispered, treading carefully. He raised his head, eyes catching on the corner of mine. They were swimming with perturbed thoughts and his jaw was like stone. It made my blood run cold to see him this way. “Are you okay?”
“Fine,” he lied. “I love you.”
His words feigned such solidarity that his intentions fell through completely, and the shaky breath behind them peaked through. The basic insincerity of what he said occurred to me as he swallowed stiffly and glanced away guiltily to the wall, hands trailing absentminded patterns across my skin. I felt my gut wrench with sorrow, because I couldn’t believe a word he said these days.
“You’re not,” I replied stubbornly, shrugging out of his grip slightly, turning more to confront him. “You’re not fine, Harry.” He made no answer, not looking me in the eye as his face hardened. Long, numble fingers fidgeting nervously. “What’s wrong?” I urged gently, “You can tell me, Harry. I’ll listen.”
“Nothing’s wrong!” he pressed, voice raising to a shout as he glared at me, but there was no real anger there. Just distress and fear. And I knew desperately that to get by this, he’d have to tell me what was wrong, and at the same time I knew he never would. And I terrified suddenly that out whole lives might be like this – a cold lack of communication that never righted itself.
He pushed me out of his arms, storming clumsily into the bathroom to shut himself away from me. I heard the shower start up and knew he had an hour before he had to be gone, disappearing off to yet another fan event. And I’d stay here, out of sight and out of his mind. I didn’t want to go anyway. I didn’t have the energy to hold up a farce of unconditional love and adoration for each other in front of the whole world when he wouldn’t even speak to me to tell me what was on his mind. I felt like I was living a lie. My whole life felt like a lie.
My heart throbbed sorely in my chest and I wiped away a tear burning tear hastily, having no time for them nowadays. I was so fucking sick of crying. I curled into myself, holding my bump protectively as I buried my body beneath the sheets like the lonely remains of someone who’d had their life stolen out of them. The living dead.
Harry’s POV
I stared at my dull reflection, the bags under my eyes. They were there because of her. Because of her tossing and fucking turning all night long, waking me up, disturbing my sleep. It was her fault that I never slept. It wasn’t because my mind ran a mile a minute these days, a hundred thousand different thoughts fighting for my attention. And it most certainly was not because whenever I asked myself if I was happy here with her, if I was happy with our baby and with the life that was ahead of us, I couldn’t find a solid answer anymore.
I stepped into the shower, the cold ceramic unpleasant under my feet. I switched up the temperature, letting the water spill down, trickling over my chilly skin. I was exhausted and the heat worked the knots out of my back, relaxed me a little. I remembered how good it had once felt to have her touch me like that, massaging the stresses away. Now I could hardly bear it, because the look in her eyes made my stomach churn with guilt. Because her heart and soul went out to me while I sat unresponsive, questioning, afraid.
Her hands would work so softly, so hopefully, her lips meeting mine with such love that it made acid burn in my throat. I was such a fucking ungrateful, hateful prick because I couldn’t figure out why my heart didn’t smoulder with desire for her anymore. Why the sight of her round tummy made my guts wrench. Why everything suddenly tasted like regret.
It had started with Nick, really, that day when he’d told me sincerely to think through my options and ask myself if I really wanted to be trapped in this role for the rest of my life when I still had my youth ahead of me. Suddenly the seed of doubt had been planted in my mind and I didn’t know what to think anymore. His words rang in my ears too loudly, the affected my heart too readily. If I could question my yearning to stay with her so willingly, what did that say? Did it not prove that I wasn’t ready, that my heart didn’t really long for this as I’d previously thought?
I scrubbed furiously at my skin until it was red raw, seeing her beautiful smile in my mind as she snapped that picture. Her eyes still lit up with adoration when she gazed at me, her cheeks still turned pink. She was so in love with me, and I didn’t return it. I hated myself for it.
I thought about all the other times when I’d walked away from her. The night a few weeks ago when she wanted to have sex and I rolled over, hiding my reasons behind a mumbled excuse, telling her I was tired. I still found her extremely attractive, of course, but I couldn’t bear to feel how much she loved me when I was questioning my own feelings. I couldn’t watch the want burn in her eyes as I fucked her, hear her moan my name when I was fighting with myself like this on the inside.
I did love her. Of course I did, but it was a matter of how much. It was a matter of feeling like I was falling out of love – a feeling I despised. It was a matter of being so horribly scared of the future and - as bad as this sounded – scared of being trapped with her for the rest of my life, with a baby we hadn’t planned in an existence I hadn’t wanted. Of throwing away all the youth and opportunity I had. Of regretting my own flesh and blood.
I snapped the shower off and stepped out onto the cold floor once again, hair dripping water down my shoulders, running along my abdomen and down my V lines. I missed having Tamara touch me. It had been a while, to say the least. I did love her; I did think she was beautiful. And I did love the life inside of her. When I thought about it like that, I realised that maybe I would be fine. Maybe I was overthinking things and it was out of my control, or maybe it was meant to be. Who was I to question how our lives had turned out? Who was I to feel regret and to decide I didn’t want this? I sighed with the effort of it all, of all the insane queries floating unanswered inside my fucked up head. I was too easily influenced, too easily swayed and I built things up in my head into something they weren’t. I did love Tamara, and this was my life now – there was no point in getting all melodramatic about it. I’d just have to deal with it.
We were having a baby, I thought abruptly. It was a thought that still made my heart flutter.
I dried myself off quickly, clicking open the lock and stepping out into the hotel room, shame washing through the pit of my stomach as I saw Tam curled up beneath the duvet. I gulped back my remorse, slipping into some boxers and a pair of black jeans, pulling a white V neck t-shirt over my head and tossing out my wet hair before I padded towards her, the mattress sinking down as I perched on the edge.
“You awake?” I whispered, heart thrumming in my chest. I was speaking to the back of her blonde head ducked beneath the covers. She made a small hum in response and I petted her hair softly, trailing fingers through it gently. “I’m gonna go now soon.” She made no reply. My chest felt heavy with guilt. “I do love you, Tamara. Don’t take my bad moods to heart I’m just…” I paused, battling for the words, “mixed up, I suppose.”
She shuffled slightly beneath the sheets, rolling so her eyes peered out at me above the covers. Beautiful baby blue eyes that fluttered so innocently, sparkling in the dim light. “Mixed up about what?”
My mouth went dry, reluctant to admit my doubts. The fact that I was afraid I was falling out of love. “Just the future and what we’re gonna do when the baby arrives. I get a bit tied up in my thoughts, build these things up, but I am fine. I promise.”
“That’s nice to know.” Her eyes smiled. I still felt bad for not telling her.
“Anyway, have a good day,” I murmured with a small feigned smile.
“I’ve a bit of a headache,” she complained and I cooed over her, pressing a supple kiss to her forehead. “Feel better, baby,” I whispered, worrying pointlessly. What were my concerns going to do for her, really? But I did have a slight anxiety inside my heart, for the health of her and my baby. The two most important people in my world.
She nodded and let her eyes fluttered shut. Within moments, her breathing had evened out and I was sure she was asleep, so I laced up my converse and grabbed my stuff, glancing back once over my shoulder to the sleeping angel in her bed. My beautiful girl. At the end of the day, we’d be fine. As long we had each other.
That was what I told myself. Because I wanted to believe it.
Tamara’s POV
The next day brought a welcome improvement in Harry’s disposition; he was being sweet and attentive, if not a little distant. He kissed me firmly, held doors open as I got into his Range Rover, and made warm conversation while we drove. It was only the sense of his urgency behind his lips that tipped me off, the only hint to the unusual darkness that had come over him these past months, his sorry shadow. There was still dimness in his gaze, in his stretched smile that told me acutely that he was not all he appeared to be, that there were horrible uncertainties playing over inside his head right now. But he withheld his act, and I didn’t bother to ask after my reception yesterday. I hoped deeply it would blow over. That he still loved me like I did him.
The day was spent on my feet, which was growing ever more uncomfortable these days. My ankles were a little swollen, and I had to wobble everywhere my blatant bump weighing on my back which now ached constantly. It felt like months since I last saw my feet. But I was excited this morning; it was going to be a good day. We were house hunting, you see, in the most upmarket parts of town. Harry seemed ever-unfazed by the price tags associated with the six bed mansions which he insisted on browsing, despite my arguments that we would never need so much space.
“You deserve to live in luxury,” he pressed, lips pursed as he studied some leaflets the estate agent had, shuffling unorganizedly through the paperwork crumpled in his hands, “I want the best for the people I care about.”
“But you won’t be home that often,” I murmured, swallowing against a lump in my throat. We tottered down yet another driveway, having rejected once more a ‘Stylish’ detached house with a God awful maroon colour schemed kitchen and a lime green bathroom. “It’ll just be me and baby.”
He exhaled sharply, clenching his jaw at my words. “I’ll be home as much as I can be.”
His tone was strained, agitated. Fuck, he was so easily irritated these days. I was sick of walking on egg shells already. “I didn’t mean it like that, Harry,” I grumbled in frustration, “I know you’ll try to be around but the reality is you’re going to be off on tours and things while I wait behind. I don’t want to have to traipse around a huge house on my own.”
“Fine,” he snapped, “We’ll look for something smaller.”
I rolled my eyes at his overemotional attitude and opened my mouth to apologize, but he’d stalked ahead already. I clutched my stomach, hoping desperately that there were no paps hidden in the bushes. It would be quite a fuck up to all the planning of the management to portray us as young and perfectly in love if we were snapped biting each other’s heads off.
I strolled slowly behind as Harry huffed and puffed angrily ahead, catching up with a heaving breath at the door of the next property, which didn’t look like much on the outside but eluded excellence and prestige. I’d learned not to judge the houses by their exteriors – it often mismatched what lay beyond the front door.
“Harry tells me you’re interested in looking at some smaller houses?” the estate agent stated, and yet it sounded like a proposition. Everything he said made me feel like a reply would bind me to some sort of legal proceedings.
“Yeah,” I responded with a struggled smile, holding my bump with one arm and rubbing circles into my temple with two fingers of the other. I had a pounding headache today, once again. They kept coming and going recently, but when they were at their worst it felt like my head was splitting open. I fished in my satchel and plucked out my water, taking a long, aching gulp and hoping it was just a result of dehydration. Despite the fact that I’d guzzle at least a litre so far today.
“Well, here in front of us we have a four bedroom, plentiful living space but not too spacious…”
He babbled on and on, that silly man in the pressed, pinstriped suit that didn’t match his air of tedium. He clearly hated his job, the poor guy. I would too, trawling around showing people houses that you couldn’t even afford. I was beginning to get sick of it myself, and the house was actually for me. Harry and I had already spent three days last week searching Primrose Hill, Richmond, Teddington, Brent, Harrow…every upmarket London Bourough the agent had to offer, and now we were here – Kingston – hunting once again. It was only proving so difficult because every house that I liked, Harry had a problem with and visa versa. We simply couldn’t agree, and it was driving my mad. It was hurting my heart. How were we meant to live the rest of our lives together if we couldn’t even see eye to eye on a place to live?
“It includes a swimming pool and marble upstairs bathroom, wood panelling in the study and classic, ornate fireplace in the sitting room all for under seven million. Would you like a look inside?”
I grumbled a dismissal just as Harry nodded a firm yes, and we glared at each other immediately in impatience. His flurried green eyes bore into me, face livid as I shrugged, unfazed by his description of the place. “We don’t need all of that, Harry.”
He threw his arms in the air, puffing out a breath of anxious air. “What the fuck do you want from me, Tamara?!” The words bellowed from his mouth and I started, shocked by his outburst. I gazed at him incredulously, eyes wide in shock. He simply shut his mouth, seemingly surprised at himself and began running his fingers wildly through his tangled mess of curls. “Could you give us a minute, please?” he practically growled at an embarrassed looking Mr Pike who held his hands up and staggered away towards the flowered, brightly coloured garden of the house.
“Please don’t talk to me like that, Harry,” I uttered through gritted teeth and he glanced at me in annoyance, seemingly unhearing of my request.
“I’m trying my fucking best here, Tamara, and you’re not happy with any of these places, you just stand there and whine and complain. What do you want me to do? What are you fucking looking for?!”
He glared at me and I gulped defensively, straightening my throbbing back as my heart pumped with a bitter sting with each word he breathed. “We don’t need all that, Harry. The marble swimming pool, the big fancy chandeliers, the fucking diamond encrusted coffee tables…”
“I’m trying to do the best for you,” he insisted, staring down at me with fiery eyes, pink lips swollen. He was so angry, so wound up. Tight, like an elastic band ready to spring loose at any moment. Harry was going to crack one of these days. I could feel it on the horizon.
“But that’s not what’s best,” I pleaded, “I just want a nice place, Harry, somewhere cosy that we can call home. It doesn’t need to be three million square foot, it doesn’t need to have walls made of gold. I just want a home.” I raised my shoulders as I trailed off aimlessly, shaking my head. I wanted him to get it, that all we needed was each other. But maybe he thought differently, and that was why he insisted on a big house. Because each other wasn’t enough in his eyes?
He sighed heavily, scratching the back of his neck in discomfort. He summoned the agent back over, meeting him half way and talking over the leaflets and pages in heated murmurs. I spun away, remaining silent as they sorted their business out. My gut was wrenching in sorrow, but that was nothing new. I felt anxious and upset all the time lately particularly when Harry was around me. His bad moods made me uneasy.
We were soon setting off down the block in pursuit of yet another property that I was not too optimistic about, in Mr Pike’s words, a ‘four bedroom detached with a rustic feel’. It sounded cheesy to me, but Harry raised his eyebrows as he strode past me on our way from the drive of the last flop, and I got the impression that if I didn’t agree to a house soon he’d have some kind of breakdown.
As we stuck to the footpath, the agent pulling up the lead, followed by a distracted looking Harry whose friendly, loving morning had slowly disintegrated into his usual unresponsiveness. When he suddenly fell back and grasped my hand abruptly, pressing a light kiss to my cheek and flashing a heart winning smile, my inside warmed with hope and want, extremely pleased to feel appreciated and noticed again. All day I’d felt invisible, and now this. Maybe my message had sunk in at last – maybe he’d realised in his messy mind that I was right, and that no mansion could replace the need we had for each other.
But it was then that I noticed the photographer across the street, hiding himself weakly behind a low wall. And a knot formed stiffly in my stomach, and bile rose in my throat as it registered that he’d been putting on a show. That Harry had resorted to pretending he loved me for the media.
That hateful bastard, I thought bitterly with eyes that welled with tears. In these last two months, I’d never felt more lonely, more dejected. Our life had become a lie, hadn’t it?
We walked through the next property lazily, the agent droning on about its features and advantages, about the neighbourhood and schools in the vicinity. I wasn’t listening, my head miles away.
It was pretty, I could admit. The pine dining room with pink cushioned chairs and light peach walls, the glass doors that flooded light into the breezy sitting room, the white upholstery and glass coffe table airing the place yet more. The blinding white of the master bedroom, purer than freshly fallen snow. The white wooden dresser eluded elegance and classic glamour. I imagined myself perching in front of it, brushing my blonde waves out and applying red lipstick to liven up my features. The perfect image of a loving housewife; of a happy family, the mother who still emanated effortless bliss and beauty. How very fucking ironic it would all be.
When the estate agent, the wonderful Mr Pike, finally put the question to us I put on a smile, murmuring a few exhilarated words of contrived excitement, uncontainable enthusiasm leaking from my very pores as I gave Harry a slight nod before he signed the dotted line. I turned towards the window of the bedroom, gazing out at the expanse of fresh green lawn behind our new home. Maybe we’d put up some swings or something when he was a bit older, toddling about. I could get someone to put them up, I thought pathetically. Harry wouldn’t be here. He wouldn’t have time.
The man I loved turned to face me when he’d finished with the paperwork, but found my spot empty. I heard his heavy footfalls on the wooden landing as he searched me out, peering in quietly through the door to the smallest bedroom. I could feel his presence, smell his cologne wafting in the air mixed with his own skin. I was at the other side of the room, back to him as I watched the cars crawl past on the road below, past the red brick wall and black iron gates of our drive. My heart panging with hurt and confusion.
Where the future had once seemed like something I could face, I now saw a hazy mist of terrifying ambiguity. Fear filled me, it swallowed me up. He’d promised to be there for me, through thick and thin, as long as I kept his baby. Right now I was very seriously questioning that vow.
“You okay?” he asked quietly, his familiar husky voice lighting a candle in my heart. I croaked a weak ‘yes’ before he approached, converse scuffling on the dark wood. I was actually startled when his arms came around my waist from behind – a tender gesture that I wasn’t expecting. But his arms were still familiar. They felt warm, secure. Like home.
“This can be the nursery,” he whispered in my ear, his breath tickling my skin. Every part of me yearned for him, for his body and his touch. It felt horrible to realise how long it had been since I felt properly close to him. His lips touched the hinge of my jaw delicately.
And then his warmth was gone, body detached from mine. He stomped to the door and I ached to have him back, taking a shaky breath and one final look around before I followed him. My head was still pounding, and a sudden shooting pain blinded me, my head searing and feet stumbling as I lost my balance. The whole room was spinning, the world was turning. My back was flat against the wall, knees buckling as I struggled not to wobble, not to fall…
A warm, welcome arm caught me as I stumbled, Harry’s gaze boring into my with wild concern as I came round, the surroundings only beginning to settle back into place now when I was held still. I felt sick. God, I did not feel well…
“Tamara?!” he urged my frantically, “Tam, are you okay baby?”
“I’m fine,” I breathed, shaking my head as I found my feet again, fighting off his arms with extreme reluctance on his part. His green eyes diluted with worry, following my every move critically and one hand clutching my arm to steady me. “I just felt…dizzy, My head’s been sore again today.”
He gazed at me sceptically, brows knitted together. “You should get checked out, that can’t be normal. A dizzy spell like that. If you were on your own just now you would have fallen.”
“I’ve got a check up next week,” I assured him absentmindedly as I began to waddle towards the stairs, Harry quickly skipping into the lead. I hated him being so concerned. I didn’t need any of that, not from him when he would barely kiss me otherwise. “I’ll mention it then.”
He mumbled approval. There was a still silence in our new house. Home sweet fucking Home, I thought.
We paused at the bottom of the stairs and he made a remark on how beautiful the place was. I nodded silently, acknowledging the beautiful furniture of the finest qualities. Breathing deeply. The words sprang from my lips before I could stop them, my eyes stinging as I thought everything over and over again in my head desperately, searching for answers in places I’d already looked. “I love you, Harry.”
My voice was a low croak again, choking on the words that I wanted him so badly to return and mean them. “I love you too.”
Before I even had a chance to analyse the artificiality, to feel it in my pores, he sighed and spun me in his arms, crashing his supple lips to mine in a needy kiss that made my pulse race and splash in my veins, adrenaline giving me a falling feeling in my stomach. I missed this so horribly, the pain was so raw. The unrefined passion, the clenching need in his hands as they grasped wildly, hopelessly at my flesh, tangling fingers lustfully in my hair. His tongue raged furiously against my own, sloppily. Almost begging for a reaction - for this kiss to make amends. It made me feel faint, almost. My head was spinning again, this time with happiness.
He pulled away and we were both breathless, panting and lips swollen and pink. His eyes studied mine with flickering anxiety, fingers tucking a blonde wave behind my ear in a hurry, as if it was vital to his life and health. He smiled, but it didn’t touch his eyes. And then he turned away again and opened the door, holding it there for me. And the silence burned on.
I felt edgy. My throat dry, a firm thump coming from the baby inside me as I swallowed back my stinging tears, hand rising to the spot instinctually. Everything was not right. In fact, nothing was right at all.
The desperation in his lips reminded me of someone trying to give a dead man CPR. The movements strained and urgent and yet tired all at once. But willing, and fucking desperate. They want him to splutter and sit up and speak, they are trying their hardest but they know he’s gone. The spark isn’t going to flare up and relight, because it’s gone. It’s dead.
It was like Harry trying to ignite the love he’d once had for me inside him, the spark in his blood that longed for me and nobody else. It was futile. Pointless. In his eyes I could see it was gone, long dead and forgotten. When it registered in his own head that his efforts were useless, that was when the real pain would begin. Because once a man realises that no matter how hard he pumps a dead man’s heart, the guy is not coming back, he gets bored. He becomes hopeless. He leaves, finds something new on the horizon and tries to move on, and remembers the person he left behind. The one he couldn’t save.
The one he gave up on.