harry.
"did you have fun at counseling, harry?"
"yeah."
mrs. styles raised her eyebrows. "you did? what did you do?"
"nothing."
"and that was fun?" she said skeptically.
he kicked the foot of the couch idly, eyes fixed on the hardwood floor. why so many questions? all the time.
everyone had questions, and they expected answers from him. but no one ever had any answers for him.
"harry styles, you answer when you're spoken to."
like, he could ask, why did gemma die? and no one would have an answer.
"harold edward styles."
harry got up. he didn't want to talk about hazel-grace with his mother. he didn't want to talk about her with anyone. she wasn't something he could talk about. she wasn't someone he understood, and he didn't think he would ever understand her. so how dare his mother think that she could understand, when she'd never even met his counselor.
"i'm going to my room," harry said, and did just that.
once he was inside, he lay on his bed and stared aimlessly at the ceiling. he usually though of gemma this time of day.
instead, he found himself thinking of hazel-grace's large eyes as she watched him play the guitar. he heard his own voice, rough and riddled with hidden emotion, as he sang the song he'd been forming in his heart for so long.
"don't let me,
don't let me,
don't let me go.
'cause i'm tired of feeling alone."
and suddenly harry was just that. he was so tired of feeling alone, and he couldn't breathe. there wasn't any oxygen in his room.
wildly, crazedly, he sprang off his bed and tore down the stairs, taking them two at a time. he threw on his coat, then flung the door open and dashed outside. just as the door was slamming shut, he heard, "harry, where on earth are you going? come back! it's going to rain!"
harry ignored her. he ran down the sidewalk and towards the clinic. his memory served him well: he remembered exactly where hazel-grace's house was, from his visit earlier that day.
reaching it, he stumbled up the doorstep. he hadn't noticed, but he was crying.
harry took a deep breath. was he ready for her to see him like this? so far, she'd seen him eating cupcakes and playing guitar. she hadn't seen this insane, torn-up side of him. he'd fought so hard to hide it, and suddenly he c o u l d n ' t.
a sob caught wretchedly in his throat, and he dropped his hand to his side.
i can't do it. i can't let her see me like this.
he turned to go, but just then the door opened. and she was standing there, dressed in a pair of shorts and a t-shirt, with her hair pulled back into a bun. "harry?" she gasped. "what are you doing here?" then, "you're crying!"
he was crying. of course he was crying. harry had never hated himself more than he did at that moment.
as if in agreement, thunder rumbled overhead.
"come in, harry. come inside, where it's dry," hazel-grace invited, as if it was the most normal thing in the world for her patients to show up in front of her house in the evening, and for her to just let them in.
coughing and gagging on his saltwater tears, harry shook his head. he ran his fingers down his face, feeling the rain drenching through his shirt and hair. "gemma," he whispered torturedly. "god, i miss her. no one at home understands. i- i really don't know what to do, and i just..."
"oh, harry."
without hesitation, she stepped out of the warmth and dryness of her own house. pretty soon they were both standing outside, rain buffeting them on all sides. lightning flashed, illuminating her face. her eyes glowed up at him. he caught his breath.
then she flung her arms around him. and she didn't let go.
and his heart still hurt and he was wet and miserable and cold...
but not alone.
