corporate affairs [Niall Horan AU]

T W E N T Y T H R E E

{(quick reminder in case you've forgotten: harry has just left elouise because he "needs to do something" & uncle steve is in the hospital) also, i need you guys's help! please read the a/n at the end!}

T W E N T Y T H R E E

The best personal assistants are organized. They come into their first interviews with three agendas (six on a rare occasion), a (new) pack of multi-colored pens, highlighters, a complete calendar, and a note pad. Basic, adequate personal assistants are even organized to a nearing OCD level.

The next trait the best personal assistants posses is their memory. They digest everything and store it into neatly filed slots in their brain and can whip out the information at any time their boss may need it. In order to be the best PA, however, the third trait is key: resourcivenness.

It's the trait I relied on most in my beginning months working at Horan Enterprises. I was always trying to think my way out of the problem, take risks, calculate, watch. It's that reason-combined with my organization and memorization-that I got the job.

Personal assistants are trained to leave their lives behind to become the hands, eyes, and brains of their bosses. They know when their boss is hungry, probably before their boss does. They know when to speak up, what facts to discuss, they know which partners they should speak to and which partners they should let their bosses take the lead with. Personal assistants just know, somehow, when to switch roles, when to takeover, when to back off, when to get an Americano and when to get a Mocha. It's intuition and a little bit of the mothering gene that keys them in on these facts.

Maybe it's the reason my Uncle's health becomes my obsession. His cancer (stage four, liver) gets me out of bed every morning. It makes me take a shower instead of lay in bed eating Ben & Jerry's. I spend most of my time inside his overly sterilized room rather than hiding under my duvet and turning into Real Life Post-Breakup Bridget Jones. It sobers me. On good days it replaces the pain of He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named with the pain of my Uncle's ever decreasing health. On bad days, it amplifies it by a hundredfold.

I wake up to the hazy sun, an old analog clock in the hospital room telling me it's a little after 6 am. Uncle Steve snores soundly, and I duck out of the room, unplugging my iPhone to call Harry. He's in London apparently, doing some Jesus mission to "help me", but all I feel is an emptiness around me constantly when I wake up and find myself alone in my bed or alone with Uncle Steve.

It's almost afternoon in London, I calculate in my head over the dial tone of my phone. Harry doesn't pick up so I just lock my phone and put it back in my pocket, turning the opposite direction from Uncle Steve's room because I'm not ready to go back.

I walk for a long time until I find myself on the roof, away from the clutch of somberness the hospital seems to provide. It's snowing-the first snow of the season, and I stick my tongue out to collect snowflakes, but they melt too quickly and I am reminded of time's uncanny way of reminding us that it's always there, lurking in the shadows until we have none left.

The walk back to my uncle's room is long and slow. I take my time, feeling selfish for cheating him out of the time we could be having together, but I don't like being around him. I don't like watching him get a little weaker every day, I don't like feeling helpless.

Zayn and Uncle Des are inside the room, speaking to the doctor. I pause outside the room, trying to collect myself and prepare myself for the day ahead. After a few deep breaths I push the wooden door open and step inside, feeling like an unstable bomb that could go off at any minute.

Zayn and Uncle Des turn to me, their expressions heavy. Uncle Steve is still asleep, his purple, veiny eyelids shut in content sleepiness. "Uh, Elouise, this is Dr. Leighton, he has some... news about the CT scans from yesterday."