Error. [H.S.]

15.

Scotty.

In times of desperation, the doorstep of a familiar face would present me with comfort. Something about stumbling up the crackling set of stairs brought me reassurance that I still had a purpose, even when falling apart.

But that comfort isn't available right now. Hospital visiting hours evicted me long before I was ready to depart. Tiredness consumed Niall quickly, and rightfully so. Coping with the distance between us and the taunting ideation that claims everything happens for a reason was bullshit written in bold and underlined by my curse words.

I could feel myself spiraling through a tornado of grief from the moment Beck called me.

Denial mellowed out fairly quickly; seeing a flat lining heart monitor between the cracks of the neutral hospital curtains has a way of resuscitating you back into a reality driven state. The numbness doesn't sedate you long after the wound is reopened.

Anger washed over me as the receptionist wasted precious time - time that could've been the last breathing moments for an exchange of goodbyes. Had I not been so scared for the outcome, my anger would've been elevated by her ignorance and inconsiderate behavior, rather than suppressed by the shock.

Frustration still dwindled in my core, especially when visiting hours came to an end last night. The constant unknown has nudged me down a rabbit hole into an abundance of overthinking and what-if situations. The person with the key to free me out of my wonderland of thoughts is off on a journey all of his own, at least for a little longer.

So, as the stages of grief go, I gave myself some grace and allowed my anger to melt down into bargaining. I know grief doesn't always follow those stages in order, but grief consumed the later part of my childhood. It wrapped me up in a ribbon and glamorized my suffering for far too long. Since then, I've learned to take back the ribbon and knot my grief up in a small package with a note that says, return to sender.

Grief deserves no satisfaction from me, not again.

But god, it's sucks and the grief is winning.

Bargaining lead to me to a new doorstep this time around. As often put by psychologists, bargaining is a plead for false hope. Available in the form of prayers to a higher power or small alterations to daily life to revive some of the normalcy, bargaining was simply a mask to hide behind, and my favorite stage of grief.

Fake it 'til you make it. A phrase that has been uttered time and time again as a way to convince yourself to fabricate an imaginary scenario until it translates into reality. For me, that's exactly what bargaining was. Almost like a sip of tainted wine, it's a temporary solution to a bigger problem. Intoxicated by the high of becoming what you're not, a drunken embarrassment inevitably washes over you in the long run. That would be a problem for me to deal with later.

"Everything's gonna be fine, princess. Just breathe and everything else will fall into place." My salt water tears were taken away by Harry's gentle movements before I had the chance to rid of them myself.

"Life's not a puzzle, Harry, sometimes things never fall back into place." I counter his reassurance. As dramatic as it sounds, I've seen this film before. I've seen officers fall fatal to wounds that appeared to be only half as bad as Niall's. Optimism wasn't on my side tonight.

"Sometimes they find a new place to fit instead." He shrugs, hands traveling slow strokes up and down my shoulders. His hands brewed up a light friction, sending warmth to cascade through the fibers of the athletic fabric.

"I don't think you understand how puzzles work." I furrow my brows with the sudden urge to watch this man piece together a puzzle. "They're not manipulated that easily."