𝐈𝐍 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐍, ʰᵃʳʳʸ ˢᵗʸˡᵉˢ

• 𝟒𝟔 - 𝑠ℎ𝑖𝑡 𝑙𝑖𝑎𝑟

4 months later

the christmas lights were everywhere. streets were strung with them, shop windows glimmered with gold and silver, and even the hotel lobby had a massive, sparkling tree by the entrance. but no matter where i looked, i couldn't feel anything. not a single spark of joy, not even a flicker of warmth. it was like i was walking around wrapped in a thick fog, watching the world celebrate a season that felt impossibly far away.

i'd been with timothée for two months now. he wasn't bad—charming in his way, soft-spoken, and kind enough—but it was all fake. just another layer of the life i was pretending to live. we didn't even talk much outside of the scheduled appearances. every picture, every handhold, every laugh was choreographed.

it didn't help that it had been four months since the miscarriage, and the grief had dug its claws so deep into me i didn't even know who i was anymore. i'd lost more than a child that day. i'd lost a part of myself, and i couldn't seem to find it no matter how hard i tried.

it also didn't help that harry and ciara were still in their PR relationship. the charade was exhausting to watch, especially now. as if that wasn't enough, ciara had released two songs that were so obviously about me it was almost laughable—wildflower and taste.

taste was vile, layering risqué innuendos with revenge and betrayal. it alluded to her "allowing" cheating because harry would supposedly always have the taste of her on his lips. the media ate it up, dragging me through the mud as speculation ran wild. they painted me as some desperate, obsessed ex who couldn't let go, and it cut deeper than i wanted to admit.

wildflower wasn't any better. it was about comforting a girl after a difficult breakup and then romantically pursuing the very person the girl had broken up with. subtlety wasn't ciara's strong suit, and neither was class. i could barely stomach listening to it, let alone the press dissecting every lyric and turning it into a headline.

the worst part? she was winning. i could feel myself shrinking under the weight of it all, unable to fight back because harry's contract kept the truth locked away. and even though i knew it was all fake, the constant barrage made it harder to remember what was real.

i was sitting in the hotel room, staring at the wall as the muffled sounds of london's winter streets filtered through the windows. a pile of untouched christmas presents sat on the floor by the dresser. i'd bought them weeks ago, trying to be "normal" for everyone else, but i couldn't bring myself to wrap them.

my phone buzzed on the nightstand. i didn't even have to look to know who it was—it'd be harry or zayn. they were the only ones who checked in on me regularly now, the only ones who seemed to see through the cracks i'd been trying to plaster over.

this time it was zayn.

"you eaten today?"

i stared at the screen for a moment before typing back. "yeah." it was a lie. i couldn't remember the last proper meal i'd had.

almost immediately, he texted again. "you're a shit liar. i'm coming up."

a knock on the door startled me out of my haze, and a moment later, zayn walked in, carrying a paper bag from the café down the street. he didn't say anything, just dropped the bag on the table and sat down across from me, his dark eyes scanning my face.

"you look like shit," he said bluntly.

"thanks," i muttered, crossing my arms.

he sighed and leaned back in his chair. "amelie, you can't keep doing this to yourself."

"doing what?" i shot back, my voice sharper than i intended. "i'm fine."

"you're not fine," he said, his tone soft but firm. "you're drowning, and you won't let anyone help you."

i opened my mouth to argue, but the words caught in my throat. he was right. i was drowning. but what could he do about it? what could anyone do?

later that evening, harry showed up. i hadn't told him to come, but i wasn't surprised he was here. he always had a way of knowing when i was at my worst.

he sat down beside me on the couch, his presence steady and comforting. "zayn said you're having a rough day."

"zayn needs to mind his own business," i muttered, but my voice lacked the energy to sound convincing. harry just gave me that look—soft, understanding, but firm in its quiet insistence.

"it's okay to feel shit, you know," he said after a pause. "you don't have to pretend with me."

those words broke something in me. i'd been holding it all in for so long, convincing myself i had to carry this grief alone, that it wasn't fair to burden anyone else. but here he was, sitting next to me, as calm and steady as ever, offering to share the weight.

"it's not just me," i said finally, my voice cracking. "it's you too. we both lost—" my breath hitched, and i couldn't finish the sentence.

harry's hand found mine, his grip warm and grounding. "yeah, we did," he said softly. "but you don't have to feel guilty for how you're handling it. everyone grieves differently."

"you seem fine," i blurted out, my frustration spilling over. "you just go on like nothing's happened, and i can't even look at a christmas tree without wanting to fall apart."

he looked down, his jaw tightening. "you think i'm fine?" he asked quietly, his voice laced with something raw. "amélie, i wake up every day and think about what could've been. i just... i don't show it because i know you're hurting enough for the both of us."

that hit me like a punch to the chest. i'd been so wrapped up in my own pain, my own guilt, that i hadn't stopped to consider how much he was hiding for my sake.

"i'm sorry," i whispered, tears streaming down my face. "i'm so sorry, harry. it wasn't just my baby—it was ours, and i feel like i've failed you too."

harry shook his head, pulling me into his arms. "don't you dare think that," he murmured, his voice fierce but tender. "you didn't fail me, or anyone. you've been through hell, and you're still here. that's all that matters."

by the time harry left, i felt a tiny bit lighter, but the fog was still there. the grief didn't vanish just because someone held you—it clung to you, stubborn and suffocating.

my mum called later that night, and as soon as i heard her voice, the tears came rushing back.

"ma chérie," she said softly, her accent wrapping around the words like a hug. "what's wrong?"

"everything," i choked out. "i can't do this anymore, maman. i feel like i'm falling apart."

"you are stronger than you think," she said gently. "but you don't have to be strong alone. come home for christmas. let me take care of you, even if just for a little while."