Secrets | Harry Styles

Chapter 54

After a month...

The taste of victory was bittersweet as I convinced Harry to let me back into the training sessions. The persistent flicker of determination within me refused to be extinguished, and though Harry argued vehemently, I stood my ground. The training grounds became my sanctuary, a place where I could regain a sense of control over my life.

"Amelia, this is too soon. You can't rush back into missions," Harry insisted, concern etched in his furrowed brow.

I crossed my arms, my resolve unwavering. "I need this, Harry. I need to prove to myself that I can still be an asset."

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I understand, but it's too risky. We can't afford any setbacks."

"I won't be a liability," I asserted, my tone firm. "I need to do this for my own sanity."

Harry eyed me for a moment before relenting. "Fine, but I'm setting strict limits. No missions for a long time, Amelia. We need to make sure you're truly ready."

I nodded, a hint of frustration bubbling beneath the surface. "I get it, Harry. But I need to do something more than boxing. I need to feel alive again."

The first training session was grueling. My muscles ached, protesting against the months of inactivity. Yet, with each punch, each kick, I felt a sense of release. The physical exertion became a cathartic outlet, a way to purge the darkness that lingered within.

Harry watched from the sidelines, his gaze a mix of worry and pride. "Take it easy, Amelia. We don't want any injuries."

I rolled my eyes, irritation simmering. "I know my limits, Harry."

As the days turned into weeks, I threw myself into the training regimen, pushing myself beyond what I thought was possible. Harry maintained a watchful eye, tempering my enthusiasm with caution. His concern, though well-intentioned, grated on my nerves. I wanted to prove that I could bounce back, that I wasn't fragile.

But frustration bubbled beneath the surface. No matter how hard I tried, it felt like I couldn't shake off the shadows that clung to me. My movements lacked the finesse they once possessed, and the realization gnawed at my pride.

One evening, after a particularly demanding training session, I found myself slamming my fists against a punching bag. Each strike was fueled by pent-up frustration, a desperate attempt to regain a semblance of control. Harry approached cautiously, sensing the storm brewing within me.

"Amelia, slow down. You're pushing yourself too hard," he cautioned.

I shot him a glare, my frustration spilling over. "I need this, Harry. I need to prove that I'm not broken."

His expression softened, understanding in his eyes. "You're not broken, Amelia. But you need time. Rushing back into things won't fix everything."

Anger flared within me, directed not only at Harry but at myself. "I can't just sit around, Harry. I need to be in the field, making a difference."

He sighed, reaching out to stop my relentless assault on the punching bag. "You are making a difference right here, Amelia. You're healing, and that's important."

The realization hit me like a punch to the gut. Healing. I had neglected that aspect in my relentless pursuit to prove myself. Harry was right; I needed time, but impatience gnawed at me. "I just feel so damn useless, Harry."

He gently placed a hand on my shoulder. "You're not useless, Amelia. You're strong, but healing takes time. Let yourself recover."

Tears welled up unexpectedly, a mix of frustration and vulnerability. "I hate feeling like this. I hate feeling weak."