𝗘𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 𝗟𝗲𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗿𝘀 [ 𝚃𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸𝚖𝚊𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜 ] ❜

𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑠𝑒 𝐹𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑊𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑠

𝐼𝑛 𝑤ℎ𝑖𝑐ℎ - 𝑌/𝑁 ℎ𝑎𝑠 ℎ𝑖𝑡 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑟𝑜𝑐𝑘 𝑏𝑜𝑡𝑡𝑜𝑚, 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝐽𝑎𝑠𝑜𝑛 𝑖𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑝𝑖𝑐𝑘 𝑢𝑝 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑝𝑖𝑒𝑐𝑒𝑠

Inspired by: These Four Walls ~ Little Mix

Hey there everyone - Happy New Year!! Here's my little New Years gift to you all, as a thank you for all the support on this book over the past year. I've been a terrible inconsistent author I know, but this yesr has been so hectic and difficult in so many ways. This book, though, is my happy place. Writing about the Take That boys has offered me an escape from life and I hope to continue my writing into 2022. With that said, enjoy xx

p.s this one shot could be triggering if you suffer with depression so please read with caution, I know for a fact this is a reflection of my mental state this last month so writing it was very personal, I don't mean to offend anyone with the theme of this piece!

♡'･ᴗ･'♡♡'･ᴗ･'♡♡'･ᴗ･'♡

A bedroom, somewhere, 1994

I was lying inside my bedroom, shivering under the thin sheets despite the hot summer sun beaming outside the window. I had been under them for over a week now. It wasn't that I wanted to be stuck in here during such an uncharacteristically hot British summer, but I could no longer face getting out of bed.

The doctor suspected I had some form of depression, although I saw no reason for this. What did I have to feel so desperately sad about? I was raised by two wonderfully supportive parents in a fairly well off home, and now I lived with my boyfriend, Jason, who was a member of the one of the worlds biggest bands right now, Take That. He was sweet, kind and oh so caring and I loved him deeply.

So why was it I could barely get through a day anymore? Why was it every little thing made me cry? At this point, I hated myself for it, hated myself for laying here when there was so many people in the world really suffering, barely surviving, gripped by conflict or starvation or a terminal illness. They still marched on, yet I'm stuck in bed. I was weak and I despised myself for it.

My thoughts were interrupted by the creak of the door, but I felt no energy to move and see who it was. I could probably guess anyway, the only person who hadn't run a mile when they heard my condition, or told me just to be British and crack on. Who knows where I would be without Jason to take care of me through this time. Frankly, I could only sleep if he was here, and it was the sound of his voice that stopped me from crying. I just wish I could get better, because the longer it went on, the more of a burden I felt, especially as he had so many band commitments I know he'd rather be dealing with.

"Hey sweetheart." The familiar voice of Jason Orange whispered, kneeling beside me. He put his hand over my head and rubbed my cheek softly with his finger.

"How are you feeling?" He asked when I did not return his greeting. Once again, I just shrugged. I hadn't spoken a word in over a week now. The thought made me nauseous with nerves and uncertainty, as I wasn't sure how my voice would sound.  I wasn't sure if it would sound like me anymore. I also wasn't sure what I would say, even if I plucked up the courage. I wasn't okay. I wasn't anything anymore. Just a hollow shell of the girl that Jason met at one of his shows 3 years ago.

"You've been here for a week now baby girl. Don't you want to shower?" I shook my head lazily, wincing slightly as he ran a thumb gently along my bottom lip.