Regal [h.s]

Chapter Forty One

"In a hospital bed, I remember you said, you were scared, and so was I"

♔ ♔ ♔

This chapter includes: mentions of miscarriage/blood and medical intervention.

Please just trust me <3

Amalia

I had never quite felt an emptiness like this, I had felt distraught and upset many times in my life, but nothing matched to this feeling.

I had suspected I was pregnant for at least two weeks now. I was too scared to take a test, I didn't want to see a negative result but I also didn't want to see a positive result. We had been through so much stress that I think a baby would be the last thing we needed.

I was at war with myself. The amount of times I typed out a text to Frankie, asking her to buy me a pregnancy test was too many times to count, but I've deleted them every time, the fear eating my alive.

So I pushed it to the back of my brain, I ignored all thoughts of it, which was incredibly hard considering I was hunched over the toilet most days. I should've paid more attention. I should've been more concerned when I first saw a little patch of blood in my underwear. I wanted to scream for Harry and beg him to help me. But I didn't want to upset him, I didn't want to break his heart.

I can acknowledge now that that was poor judgment from me. Because I've now completely annihilated his heart, and not only that- I had to go through it alone when I knew Harry would be at my side in an instant if only he knew.

It was selfish of me to keep such a thing from him. I'll live with the guilt forever. As well as the hurt of losing a child that should be safe inside of me. My body had failed me and a potential child. That was a sickening feeling itself.

"I'm so so sorry" I repeat over and over again, there's a deafening need to apologise to Harry for losing his child, a need to apologise for keeping this from him and fighting this alone. I should've known better, I should've seen the signs earlier. I should've gone to see a doctor at the first sight of blood.

"Stop saying that Mar" he whispers under his breath, he keeps a steady hand on my thigh and rubs a gentle circle over my skin every time I let out a sob or mutter over how sorry I am. "It's not your fault, I know that." His voice is so tired, strained.

But it is my fault. I'm the one to blame. I didn't get help when I should've done. The doctors might've been able to do something if I had gone to the hospital when I first saw the tiniest spot of blood.